It was early morning - too bloody early, by Soap’s estimate. But alas, there was training to be done, and work to do besides. So he’d rolled out of bed, forced himself to shower and get ready. He was so groggy he barely noticed that Anon hadn’t gotten up with him. He pauses while pulling his boots on, assuming his bonnie love - bless ‘em, bloody hopeless in the mornings, s’pose we’ve got that in common - is having a bit of a lie in.

The Scottish captain pokes his grouchy head into the bedroom, already fighting the temptation to go back to bed. “Well, if you’re done pissin’ about, m’eudail, we’ve go-” He stops mid-sentence, frowning. You looked like - and he meant this in the most loving way possible - like shite, all sickly and wan. Poor wee thing. “Fuck, love, wha’ happened? Looks like y’ get attacked in yer sleep.”

The cough that emanates from you makes Soap wince. “Ah, nope - back to bed, yer staying in.” The protective instincts that come naturally to him kick in at full force at the sight of his partner suffering, already mentally preparing to call Gaz or Ghost to cover him while he stays in and looks after you. “Now you just get cozy while I make ye some tea, alright? Don’t even think about gettin’ up.”