The Little Things

"Hold out your arm," you commanded.

Soap gave you a suspicious look. You'd been quietly working on a coloring book on the couch beside him for a while now, the scratch of the marker on paper the only sound besides an occasional chuckle before Soap showed you a meme.

"What are ya doin', lass?" he asked with an amused grin.

"Just let me see your arm," you said, giving him a pleading look.

He tried to give you a stern look and refuse. He really tried, but he could never say no to you. No, after the horrors of battle, you were what he came home to, his comfort and his safe place to land. You were his everything, and he'd never deny you anything, not if he could help it.

You'd been dating for two years, but the time you'd actually physically spent together had been drastically shortened by his deployments. You both treasured the time you could spend in each other's presence.

"Johnny," you teased, drawing out his name. You wanted his arm.

He rolled his eyes and held out his right arm, the one with the tattoo. Your face erupted into a bright smile as you got comfortable on the couch, moving his forearm to your lap.

You uncapped a blue marker and steadied your canvas with the other hand.

Soap raised an eyebrow.

"It's too plain," you said, gesturing to his tattoo. "Needs some color."

You waited until he gave you the slightest hint of a nod before you touched the tip of the marker to his skin, delicately brushing it over his arm.

He laid his phone aside, intent on watching you work. Soap was enjoying the attention you were focusing on him, and the brush of the markers was intensely relaxing.

As you carefully worked and chose different colors to best suit different areas of the tattoo, Soap couldn't help admiring you. Beautiful, kind, innocent. You were as untouched by war as someone dating a special forces soldier could be. You cared about him in a way few others did. Even on his worst days, you *wanted* to be there for him.

Too soon, you capped your last marker.

"What do you think?" you asked, a twinkle in your eyes.

At some point, he'd stopped watching you color and focused on your face instead, watching you bite your lip in concentration as you worked. Now he looked over your handiwork.

"Excellent work," he said with a grin.

"Should get it tattooed like that," you commented, trying to tease.

He didn't say what he was thinking: if he got it tattooed like that, you wouldn't be able to color it again when the ink washed off.

"My turn," Soap said, holding out a hand for your arm.

You looked at him, puzzled. He knew you didn't have any tattoos.

Soap grabbed the black marker and motioned for your arm.

"I'll sketch you something."

You gave him your arm quite happily, and he held your wrist lightly to keep his canvas still. You couldn't stop a shiver at the touch of the cold marker on your skin.

He started working immediately, painting his vision onto your arm. The attention he focused on you and the feeling of the marker was relaxing. He could draw on every square inch of you if he wanted to and you wouldn't mind.

You found your eyes wandering to his face. The way he held his jaw told you he was concentrating hard. His blue eyes never wavered from his work.

You loved him. He was your protector, your confidant, your partner-in-crime. You hated that he had to be away so much in such a dangerous line of work, but you were also immensely proud of his service. You wanted to support him through everything.

Your eyes flickered back down to what he was drawing. It was a wild violet.

One of the first times you'd spoken, you'd been crouched near the edge of the sidewalk. Soap had assumed you needed help. Why else would you be in such a position?

When he asked if you were okay, you looked up and smiled, assuring him you were fine. You'd blushed at his attention, having hoped to go unnoticed in the few moments your task would take.

"I just thought these violets were pretty, growing out of the sidewalk cracks like that," you'd said. "They're my favorite."

You were taking pictures of a beauty that few others would ever notice, and that was one of the things he loved about you. You found good everywhere.

Soap finished coloring in the petals.

"What do you think?"

"It's perfect," you whispered, in awe that he'd drawn something that lovely in mere minutes.

Soap smiled at you as you admired his masterpiece. You were radiant. You were everything good and wonderful and beautiful. He loved you.

"Will you marry me?"

It slipped out before he could stop it.

He wasn't prepared for a proposal. He would have planned a fancy dinner and taken you somewhere romantic. Instead, his proposal was accidental and spontaneous, born in a moment of pure love.

You froze and looked up at him, shocked. Had he really just proposed?

As you looked at him, his heart stopped. He couldn't breathe. *What if you said no?* Why had he let that slip?

"Johnny," you breathed, and he prepared himself for your gentle rejection.

"Yes."

It was his turn to be stunned. "Yes?"

"Yes," you confirmed, tears in your eyes. "A thousand times, yes."

He cupped your face and kissed you sweetly. Your hot tears slid over his thumb, but he didn't mind.

As you broke the kiss, you both started laughing in disbelief.

"Are we getting married?" Soap asked, gazing deep into your eyes.

"Yes," you said and smiled, running a hand through his mohawk. "Yes, we are."

He looked a little embarrassed then.

"What?"

"I dinnae have a ring for my fiancée."

You were about to assure him that you didn't mind. You could go ring shopping at any time. Still, you knew he just wanted this proposal to be perfect for you.

In a moment of inspiration, you grabbed a thin-tipped Sharpie and held it out to him, along with your left hand.

He quickly caught on.

"May I?"

You nodded. He took your hand and the marker and began his work. While he drew, he told you how much he loved you. Every reason that he adored you, he let himself say.

You wiped tears with your other hand, trying to keep steady for your fiancé.

Once he had designed a ring as special as you, he capped the marker. While he was still holding your hand, he brought it to his lips and kissed it.

"I love it, Johnny."

It was truly a work of art, an elegant design with a Celtic twist. You didn't say it then, but you wondered if you could get a jewelry-maker to craft you a ring following his design. The ring was perfect, and it was created out of the love you had for each other.

You kissed him.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

You were going to be his, his, his.

*You were his.*