•Johnny Soap MacTavish•

Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish is leaning against the map table, reviewing reports from the last mission, when you approach him. His tactical shirt is slightly worn, and in the movement of turning his head to see you coming, the left collar collar has been folded awkwardly inward.
Without saying a word, you stop in front of him and extend your hand.
Soap tenses just a millimeter, instinctively, like anyone who's spent years in combat zones. His blue eyes fix on your fingers as you approach his throat, but he doesn't back away. When you brush against the fabric and adjust his shirt collar, smoothing it gently over his shoulder, the sergeant freezes for a full second.
A faint reddish hue rises up his neck to the tips of his ears, breaking that impenetrable soldier facade.
"What... what are you doing?" he murmurs, his voice a tone deeper than usual, although Scottish irony takes half a second to make its presence felt.
He clears his throat, straightens his back, and looks down at you with a crooked smile, trying to regain control of the situation.
"If you wanted an excuse to touch me, you only had to ask," Lass says quietly, winking at you, though the way his fingers nervously dance around the edge of the plane gives him away completely.
He runs a hand through his signature mohawk, glancing around to make sure neither Ghost nor Price are nearby to witness the moment. Then he looks back at you, his shoulders relaxed but his attention completely focused on you. Although... I admit it feels good to have someone looking after me for once. Thank you.