Wait For Me || John "Soap" MacTavish x OC (Call Of Duty)

7. Who told you I don't want to be kissed, sergeant?

They set off in silence.

Their footsteps echoed heavily in the humid air that permeated the sidewalk and clung stubbornly to any exposed surface. The muffled echo bounced off the narrow walls of the old part of the city and into Johnny's chest.

"Soap, then. Unusual for a code name." Yael broke the silence, her large, elongated eyes searching for his beyond the curtain of her dark hair.

John's stomach tightened, an unfamiliar warmth treacherously wrapping itself around his lungs. It was strange to hear her say that name.

"Aye, aye. I cannae even mind how it came about, they gave it tae me when I was twenty and it just stuck with me ever since. I like it that way." He quickly covered up with a wink and a hoarse laugh caught in his chest.

It was true, but Soap belonged to other times, other spaces, it wasn't there with her at that moment.

"Me too." The girl smiled in a breath that turned into condensation and her cheeks just a little redder, with a sincerity that wrung his heart.

Johnny exerted all his self-control not to touch her or, alternatively, to violently hit something on the way. Instead, he reopened the floodgates of his damn loose tongue and started telling her anything that would distract him enough not to make him look like a beast in her eyes.

He talked to her about Ghost, Gaz, even Captain Price, absolutely trivial details, as if they should have interested her. He watched her laugh, but he felt like an idiot.

He kept talking until, finally, the doctor stopped in front of the white door of a small two-story building in faded red brick. So stereotypical that it could be among the first images of a search engine.

It was perhaps the third or fourth in a row of all the same houses, only a small evergreen hedge dividing the large bay window on the ground floor from the street.

"Come on." She invited him in a whisper, as her slender body flattened against the elongated and lacquered door, opening it wide to the warm and welcoming half-light.

He followed her, silently, into the narrow hallway typical of English houses like that, right in front of the stairs to the upper floor. 

After the damp and biting cold outside, the warmth relaxed Soap's stiff muscles a little. He felt comfortable enough to leave his jacket next to the girl's on the modern black metal wall hanger.

The sergeant almost snorted with laughter as he scanned the interior, as soon as Yael had turned on enough lights for them to navigate the rooms comfortably.

That semi-detached, naively decorated house didn't look like her at all. Despite her clear attempts to make it as neutral and minimalist as possible, there was still something familiar and puritanical about the structure.

Only the perfume seemed to be hers, vaguely floral without falling into the most obvious sweetness.

He followed her into the kitchen with its neutral colors and essential lines, sitting on one of the wrought iron stools at the central island.

"Shall we have a drink?"

The soft creaking of hinges on a modern glass cabinet interrupted his train of thought, drawing his blue eyes from the sporadic photographs, discreetly scattered in the open space of the living room, to the small, busy hands grabbing two glasses.

Johnny replied with a vague murmur of assent.

For a moment he watched her open one of the absurdly expensive bottles and pour the amber liquid. He tried again to capture in his memory that attentive gaze in her clear eyes, her full lips, her face with delicate features, her long hair tracing the sharp line of her shoulders.