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Soap grew up in the countryside. His parents were nothing more than a pair of hardworking people who found help in each other's presence and married out of convenience. That, and to shut up their own parents, who wanted their children to start a family of their own and inherit the lands they owned. His childhood home was a tiny house built from wood and dirt by his grand grandparents and kept upright by every generation that lived in it from then on. There wasn't enough space for him and his five siblings -- two older brothers, three younger sisters -- but they made do, huddling together on two double beds until his early teenage years when his older brothers left home. The house only had two rooms, the one occupied by the children and the one occupied by their parents. They did their homework at the long kitchen table, copying off of one another, the younger ones always asking the older to help.
When he talks of home, of taking care of the animals and driving his father's tractor before he even had set foot on a bike, Soap realizes people imagine a big farm, hectares of well-maintained soil that sprouted grains or corn all year long. In truth, the tiny house sat in the middle of a big plot of land that was well taken care of but not aesthetically pleasing in any way. There was an old metal wheelbarrow abandoned by the gate. He used to push his younger sisters around in it when they were children. Some apple trees hung their branches low on one side of the fence, and an old wooden swing still hung by a branch well into Soap's high-school years.
Tiny stables decorated the back of the garden, housing one or two cows and a handful of goats. Soap had to walk them out to the field every summer, watch them eat the rich expanse of grass at the outskirts of their village, and return home with them as the sun set. That's how he got into drawing. With nothing else to do out in the field and too lazy to pick up a proper book, he carried a sketchbook with him. He drew the lazy dip of hills on the horizon, the cows and goats from every angle he was looking at them. When he got braver, he would hang closer to other farmhands coming to the field with the same job and sketch their forms as they waited the day out in the field.
They weren't rich, but Soap never felt like they were poor. Not in his childhood, at least.
His happiest memory for a long while had been the Christmas when he turned six. Like any other child around, he had begged his parents for a dog. He was sure the canine companion would be a great addition to his day. He'd teach the dog to do tricks, and he'd train it to be obedient and only listen to him. He could make him chase his older brothers around when they annoyed him.
He - or rather all of the MacTavish siblings - received the dog that Christmas, when he was six. It was a raggedy small thing, with paws and head too big for its body and ears that never could stay properly upright, always floppy. "It will grow into a big mutt," his father used to say, "will hopefully guard the house and everything around it."
There weren't known thieves that any of the people in the village worried about, but any man wants to protect his family and land when it comes down to it.
The dog was an honorary MacTavish sibling. It went everywhere the children went, followed them to school and back, sat by their feet at the table, and played with them in the garden. The dog never learned tricks; no one was too patient and dedicated to teach it, not even Soap, who had been just a child and didn't know the determination needed to get a dog to obey.
The children grew up, and so did the dog. It really turned into a big, scary mutt. A big mutt that wasn't trained, though. He was used to play-fighting with the children and biting down on everything that got too close. The children, too, were used to the dull teeth of a puppy; they never thought about the moment the dog reached adulthood and his canines sharpened, never thought about how the animal didn't know the difference between playing and hurting.
In the end, it was Soap who got bitten. He doesn't remember much of the incident, just his mother finding him sitting on the grass, cradling his arm to his chest, sobbing. She shooed the dog away, and after that, it was kept on a chain in the far side of the garden by the stables, with the rest of the animals.
The dog always looked angry to Soap after that, a big, monstrous thing, fur unkept, always snarling, always ready to bite, eyes angry and teeth sharp.
He's been scared of dogs since that moment on. He fears even the ones that look adorable and innocent will turn around and bite at some point. He never trusts them.
He started not to trust his parents either, after that. They used to treat the dog as a part of the family. The mutt used to have a name; it ate the food the family ate and slept by their side in the house. Now, it only got scraps, and no one dared approach it. Soap has forgotten what its name used to be.
In a way, his parents didn't stop treating the dog as one of their children. In the sense that, when they turned their back on the canine, they turned their back on Soap, too.
He was getting older, was supposed to help more around the house and garden, look for a job, balance school and housework as his parents got older and couldn't shoulder the hardest burdens alone. They stopped saving him a plate of food at the dinner table if he came home late, usually held up with helping the neighbours in exchange for some money, so he learnt to live off scraps of food and scraps of attention. They dotted on the young girls, wanted them pretty and presentable to be able to find a nice boy in the village to marry. Soap started to forget his own name. Once his older brothers left, he was always "the boy", rarely ever John, and never again "Johnny" like when he was still little.
He ran away from home and enlisted at sixteen. He doubts he looked mature enough to the people assessing him, but something in his eyes must have convinced them, for he did not speak a word, only answered when he was asked. It must have been some raw determination in his gaze, or fear, or anger, the eyes of a mutt that had forgotten his own name and had lived off scraps for too long.
Like his childhood dog never did, he learnt to follow orders. There were a lot of people eager to teach him new tricks and even more eager to punish every step out of line. Soap learnt to obey. He made a home of the tight leash around his neck held by his commanders. He found some comfort in being useful, in being part of something. He wasn’t sure what that something was. It was never about protecting his country, for him, but something else. It was about belonging, about finding a family that would take a small, ratty dog and treat him like a part of a whole.
His old COs used to say he didn't know when to be serious, when to be silent, when to stop being himself. He thinks back to that dog a lot, the dog that thought it was playing when it sank its teeth into his arm.
Soap never got over the fear of dogs, but he sort of gets it now. They're scared, too. They can't tell the difference between the hand that feeds and the hand that hurts.
When it comes down to Graves and Shepherd, Soap thinks he wasn't any better. Surely, he trusted too blindly, let his guard down, forgot to look for the signs. When it was time to bite that very hand that held his leash, he hesitated, too hung up on old loyalties.
He’s drawing Graves when Gaz comes to sit down next to him. Soap instinctively angles his journal away from the other, not in the mood to be questioned. There are dog ears drawn floating somewhere above the sketch’s hair, like Soap was too scared to draw them attached, to give that man the same power over him as the dog that bit him once had. There’s a detached snout as well, opened as if to bite, while Graves’ own mouth is closed, the corner of his mouth pulled into that damn smirk. Soap should have known then what kind of man he was.
“What are you doing?” Gaz asks, not to pry, but to make conversation. He’s probably bored out of his mind. A lot of them are stuck on base, healing from everything that’s happened recently. They’re supposed to be relaxing somewhere closer to family and home, but their little group of misfits is more of a family for all of them than their blood relatives ever were. Soap won’t return to that damn village even when he’s dead, Ghost isn’t any better, and Soap is sure Gaz has mentioned family at some point, but he’s hanging around here to keep them company, it seems.
“Drawin’,” Soap answers, because he thought it was obvious. Still, he closes the journal and gives Gaz all of his attention, suddenly defensive.
“Dog with a bone,” Gaz mumbles, a playful comment if anything, not like he cares much about what actually is inside Soap’s journal. Still, Soap bristles.
Is it really that obvious? Is Soap’s suffering so clearly canine in nature? A dog without a bone, a mutt without a handler. He almost wants to snarl at Gaz, but stops before his lip actually curls up. He grunts instead, frowns, and runs a hand over his face. He should get himself together. He’s trained to keep his emotions in check better. He thought he learned not to bite the hand that feeds.
“Tav,” Gaz calls to him and Soap realizes he spent too much time being silent. He blinks and looks at Gaz again – when had he looked away?
“Yes, Ky?” His tone is neutral, not exactly guarded, but by the way Gaz looks at him, Soap realizes he still can’t keep his emotions out of his voice as much as he would like.
“We have a week off and you’re spending it stressing,” Gaz points out. He knows Soap too well. “Turn your big brain off for once.” Gaz lifts a finger and pokes at Soap’s forehead.
Soap pushes the offending finger away with his hand. Gaz scoffs and grabs Soap’s wrist, doesn’t let go, no matter how much Soap tries to half-heartedly shake him off. Then, Gaz’s free hand connects with his exposed side and pinches. Soap yelps and jumps so hard the journal slips from his lap and falls to the floor, open, but thankfully face down. Soap thinks about pushing him off the couch. He already has his knees perched up and his feet conveniently between them on the cushions.
But then Gaz lets go of his wrist and grabs around Soap’s chin with two fingers, pulling their faces closer together. The rest of Gaz’s fingers rest against the underside of his jaw and his throat. Soap is sure Gaz feels it along his knuckles when he swallows.
“There you are,” Gaz says, quiet, praising, something dangerous in his tone and the way he looks at Soap. But there’s also something playful in it, safe, relaxed. Soap doesn’t feel owned, just loved. He doesn’t have to worry when it comes to Gaz, because Gaz isn’t a threat, nor a handler. Gaz is just another dog. This hand doesn’t feed and doesn’t hurt; it just holds.
Soap smiles, a quiet kind of chuckle bubbling out of him. Gaz looks like he’s seeing his favorite sight in the world, and yet he still leans in to steal a kiss. Soap feels himself relax, lips parting, a soft exhale escaping him. Gaz kisses like he does it out of boredom, slow and soft and perfect.
When he pulls away, it’s just because he wants to look at Soap properly again. A lesser man would feel bashful, but Soap just drinks him in all the same. Gaz’s face lacks that usual hardened expression in moments like this. He’s so relaxed and undisturbed and he looks younger – or maybe these are the only moments he looks his age and not years older.
“Dog with a bone,” Gaz says again, but this time Soap doesn’t feel hurt. The words just sound amused, playful. That’s how they sounded the first time, too, Soap realizes. He was just too deep inside his head not to take it as an insult.
“Boner,” he corrects, accentuating the last syllable, a grin spreading across his face.
Gaz sticks his tongue out, frowns and shakes his head, the perfect image of a disgusted child. “You ruined it,” he declares and pushes Soap away lightly, his hand pressing over the lower side of Soap’s face when he tries to lean in for an apologetic kiss.
“No, you had your chance and you ruined-” Gaz states, but Soap licks the hand that’s over his mouth, managing to silence Gaz, who immediately pulls it away and has the audacity to brush it against Soap’s jeans to get rid of the spit. “Gross, John, I don’t know how anyone can love you,” he grumbles, with absolutely no actual anger in his voice.
Soap barks out a laugh and leans toward Gaz anyway, leans on him. Gaz simply lifts an arm so Soap can tuck himself against his side and deposits a kiss in his mohawk.
“I know someone who does, in fact, put up with my antics,” Soap mumbles. He just wants to hear Gaz chuckle and grumble with absolutely no mean intention about how he should shut up or fuck off, or something along the lines.
“Oh, shut up,” Gaz replies.
Yeah, Soap’s comfortable.