Work Text:
Seven days.
Seven whole days that this feeling has been eating at you.
It lingers just below your throat, taunting you, but never resolves itself. It feels like it could bubble up at any moment, but never does. You can feel the ghost of tears near the edge of your eyes, but they never gather, never fall.
You know it's been a while since you've had a good cry. It's never something you've been against. Being a soldier is beyond difficult and often leaves behind trauma that lingers long after the assignment has come to a close. Crying--among other things--is essential for emotional regulation.
For some reason though, no matter what you do, your tears never fall.
Things on base have finally calmed down enough to take the time to process the last few months. No urgent assignments lingering overhead, nothing but training duty for the immediate future. Not forever though, thankfully. Truth be told you've always had a love-hate relationship with instructional roles.
The stress that eats at you has slowly started to bleed it's way into your day-to-day.
You find yourself running a few extra laps, pushing for a PR every time you hit the gym. The meals in the mess hall taste more bland than usual. You're shorter with the recruits than you should be. Not by much, but enough to be noticed. And the worst thing,
You're retreating into yourself again.
You've always been skilled. Resilient, competent, observant, and dedicated. A solid fit for the 141.
After accepting Captain Price's request to join, it took a while for you to truly open up.
You partook in group activities in the rec room and weren't afraid to shoot the shit with everyone, but you kept everyone at arms length. It became glaringly obvious after a while.
Soap picked up on it first, ever the observant one. The way your smiles never met your eyes. The way you tensed up when anyone gave you a friendly clap on the shoulder. He's seen it before.
Ghost notices next. The bags under your eyes that would suddenly appear and stick around like gum on the bottom of a shoe for a week or two, before disappearing. Visits to the kitchen in the middle of the night, fixing up cups of mint or chamomile tea.
Gaz saw how the quiet could eat at you. The anxious habits you adopted. The way you would rub your thumb over the nail of your pointer finger. You'd scratch at the base of your scalp, trying to disguise it as rubbing the tension out of your neck. It was very obvious during meetings and debriefing. You'd fidget with your pen, adjusting the weight of it in your hand, and rub your thumb along the clip. It was a constant and repetitive motion indicative of self-soothing.
They all brought it to Price's attention after a few weeks. Everyone was concerned, and Price shared those concerns.
One honest-yet-stern talking to later and you started making honest attempts to connect. It started small, admitting to Gaz that you were tired when asked how you were. He smiled sympathetically and fixed you a cup of coffee. The coffee on base wasn't great, but it was tolerable. He made it the way you normally do, which caught you off guard. When you smiled that time, it reached your eyes.
When you woke up from a nightmare next, you sought out Ghost. As intimidating as he could be, he was a good listener, and was willing to offer support over tea on sleepless nights.
You went joined Price for a drink one night when you were feeling social, and you told him stories of your childhood and life experiences. In turn, he shared a few things about himself as well, and it turns out that he was a great conversationalist despite his occasionally gruff demeanor.
It was Soap, however, that you had failed to account for. He caught you off guard, always offering a terrible joke when you started to get lost in your own mind. He'd offer a grounding touch to your shoulder when you seemed like you were about to snap. It was never rough, but it was steady, gently guiding like the north star. When he saw you running off your feelings late into the afternoon, he joined you. Offered a smile and nod, but held his tongue. The silence was comfortable.
This time though, when Soap caught you running laps alone at an odd hour, he stood motionless at the edge of the track.
Only when you ran past him again did he speak.
"Been out here a while, aye? Take a break," he called out. His voice was friendly but held an edge of authority that led you to believe this was more than just a suggestion you could shrug off.
You stalled your pace, slowly coming to a stop, and made your way to him. He held out a waterbottle to you, still cold and dripping condensation. You nodded at him once, grateful, and took a drink, trying to steady your breath.
Once you finally did catch your breath proper, he eyed you, noting the state you were in.
"Don't do this again," his voice was soft, seemingly almost hurt. It caught you off guard. You open your mouth, possibly to protest, but before you can he cuts you off.
"No. Don't say yer fine. I have eyes, ye know. I can see the bags under yers. Ghost says ye haven't been sleeping much as of late. Ye been working yerself to the bone in the gym too. Don't..." he trailed off, before meeting your eyes "Don't shut me out again. Please. Talk to me."
Your eyes widened, and you stared at him, stunned. Tears threatened your eyes, but didn't quite reach. That feeling again. You rub at your throat softly.
"I-I'm-" you choke out, before clearing your throat. He watches you carefully, noting your behavior.
"I'm not alright and I don't know how to fix it," you reluctantly admit. He offers you a small smile and nods, seemingly a bit proud of you.
"That's okay. Ye don't have to fix it off the bat, admitting it is the first step," he moves toward you, gently placing his hand on your back between your shoulder blades. "C'mon now, let's get ye to yer room, we can talk more there." He offers.
You give him a small nod, gulping nervously. He gives you a reassuring look and starts to guide you back into the building.
On the way back to your room he pauses in the kitchen, setting a kettle to boil. While he waits he removes a mug from the cupboard, as well a few other things. A loose-leaf tea infuser, a small jar of honey, and a bag of fruit tea that you picked up last leave and kept hidden in the corner of a cupboard nobody ever uses. How he even knew it was there was beyond you.
Despite not drinking tea, he often prepares some for Ghost in the mornings. Ghost is always very particular, so Soap's had to adapt, learning to make a cup that meets his expectations.
He hands you the mug once it's done brewing, cleaning up behind himself, before continuing to herd you back to your room.
"Let's get moving," he tells you softly, guiding you by the small of your back. You wordlessly follow his gentle guidance, making your way back to your barracks.
Once there, Soap opens the door for you and you enter. He follows after, shutting the door behind him, not even stopping to ask permission. You don't mind though. 141 knows you can be stubborn and self isolating at times, but you trust them. With your life--and slowly but surely--with your carefully guarded heart as well.
You set your tea on the nightstand then sit on the edge of the bed undoing your shoes.
Soap takes a seat on the desk chair near your bed than does the same.
You sit back up and take your tea back in your hands. The fabric of your sweaty workout clothes clings to you in an uncomfortable way, making your skin crawl. You don't quite have the energy to change them right now though.
Once Soap settles in, he eyes you carefully. You don't meet his, keeping yours trained carefully at the mug in your hands.
"Nightmares?" He asks quietly.
You move your head in a so-so motion.
"More often than normal but not constant. Enough to mess up my sleep. And my nightmares aren't... typical. They'd be easier to deal with if they were I think," you finally look up to him, nervousness lacing your posture. He doesn't look angry, disappointed maybe? Your heart twists painfully. "They're kind of abstract, playing into certain fears or traumas in weird borderline indescribable scenarios. It's hard to settle back down after..."
Soap sighs and nods his head.
"I know what ye mean. It's hard to feel safe. But ye know ye can always find one of us..." he says, his eyes soft.
You take a sip of your tea to cover your nervous gulp.
"I never want to-"
"Don't worry about waking us up. Well, Price and Gaz may complain about losing beauty sleep, but we take care of our own. And that includes ye." He cuts you off before you can finish.
The tears that have been taunting you for the past week finally make their appearance. Your throat tightens and you nod, feeling your eyes start to mist. You don't even fully know why you're crying, but the lack of sleep has probably messed with your emotional regulation. You take a shaky sip of your tea before putting it down, afraid of spilling it.
Soap notices your tears and his eyes widen.
"Hey now, I'm sorry, no need to cry. I'm not mad at ye, right? We just care, and don't want ye to shut yerself away anymore," he said, slightly worried. You nod, your breathing becoming more choked, and it becomes harder to stay composed.
"You...." he looks around, just shy of panicked, before his eyes land on the box of tissues on your desk. He grabs them and makes his way over to you, sitting beside you on the bed.
"It's okay, ye can cry if ye need to. I won't judge ye, I promise," he voice is warm. He places a tentative hand on the small of your back. Casual but reassuring.
That's all that it takes for you.
You break down, sobbing hard. You curl into yourself slightly, and he watches, his heart aching at the sound of you. A loud sob tears from your throat, bordering on a pained scream.
"Can I hold ye?" He asks tentatively, and you nod, your head jerking roughly. He let's out a quiet humm and moves back onto the bed. Moving you carefully, he tucks you against his chest and you cling to his shirt tighter than a koala.
Another pained scream makes it's way from you, and you struggle to breath properly. Your breath is rough and shaky, nose too runny to properly work. You're torn between clinging harder and pushing him away to avoid messing up his shirt. He seems to sense your hesitation, because he holds you tighter and gently coos reassurances to you.
"I've got ye, I promise I've got ye. It's okay, don't worry about my shirt, get it out of your system lad," he gently moves one of his hands to run through your short hair. You sob for a while longer before you tire yourself out. The sound of his heartbeat is grounding in the wake of your breakdown, as well as the shapes he draws onto your back with his fingers. You sniffle and hug him tight, before pulling away.
"Yer alright, lad," he reassures and grabs the tissue box from nearby, holding it out to you. You open your mouth to thank him but you're still feeling caught in the aftershocks. You make an odd abrupt chuffing noise and hopes he understands. As you blow your nose you think you hear him chuckle slightly in disbelief. When your nose is as clear as it's gonna get, you ball up the used tissues and wrap them in a clean tissue, tossing them on the other side of the bed to be disposed of soon.
You pull back again to meet his gaze and realize you're sitting sideways in his lap. You don't mind however. Soap has always been affectionate to a degree, but never disrespectful of boundaries. He looks down at you, wiping a stray tear away with the pad of his thumb.
"Better?" He smiles warmly, and you nod in slight disbelief. You no longer feel like you're drowning in your emotions, you do, however feel a little embarrassed and even more tired.
Your brain feels fuzzy, and words seem to escape you. And suddenly, you can't remember just what to do. You let out a displeased noise. After taking mental inventory of your body you feel your workout clothes are still slightly damp. Your face still feels gross as well despite being dry.
Soap looks at you quizzically, noticing your discomfort. He wonders if you may be uncomfortable with your current position and wordlessly attempts to remove you from his lap and set you back on the bed. You whine more and cling to his shirt. He chuckles slightly again, intrigued by this new side of his squad mate that he's never seen before.
"Okay, okay, I hear ye, ye don't have to leave just yet," he rubs your back soothingly. Only then does he realize that your shirt is completely damp. He realizes you haven't had the chance to shower after your run.
"Yer clothes are still wet, ye may want to grab a shower too..." he tells you, voice cautious, not wanting to remove you from him before you're ready. You wriggle slightly in discomfort, but attempt to get up, feeling the need to remedy your dilemma as fast as possible. You make your way to your dresser on shaky legs, body heavy from exhaustion, both physical and emotional.
Soap stands, stretching. Ever the observer, he mentally notes the odd behavior and lack of verbal communication from you. He's never seen you like this before, but knows how rough things can be after a breakdown.
His mind drifts to something his therapist once mentioned offhandedly in an appointment years ago.
"There are many ways trauma and extreme stress can manifest. In some cases it's not uncommon for some individuals to involuntarily mentally regress. Strong emotional outbursts or tantrums can sometimes be a manifestation of this.-"
He took another look at you. You were standing in front of your closet, staring at it, seemingly overwhelmed and confused.
I think.. I think I can help.. Soap thinks, joining you by the closet.
"How about we pick out something comfortable, yeah?" He offers, his accent thick with just barely concealed nervousness.
You look at him, letting out a weird purring trill from the back of your throat and nodding. The noise sounded near inhuman, but somehow he understood the meaning behind it. It was oddly endearing in a way, even.
The suggest seemed to break your decision paralysis, and you pulled some comfortable grey pajama pants and a new-ish still soft hoodie from your closet. You look up at him, not quite knowing what to do next.
He picks up on this quick enough.
"Why don't ye go set your clothes out on the bed? I can start ye a shower," he suggests, slightly less nervous than before. You look up at him, eyes slightly wide, and you smile softly, scampering off to go lay your clothes out on the bed. He smiles after you, in disbelief. This evening has certainly not failed to catch him off guard. But helping someone who needs it, someone he cares about, is always something he's willing to do.
Soap makes his way into your attached bathroom and begins to start you a warm shower. While he waits for it to heat up, he locates a fresh towel and washcloth and sets it on the counter. When he's satisfied with the state of things, he smiles and stretches slightly, before heading back into the room to find you.
"Showers all good to go," he calls. You stand from your spot on the edge of the bed and make your way towards the bathroom. You stop in the threshold though, before returning to Soap where he sits, back in the chair at your desk. You wordlessly bump your forhead against his shoulder affectionately, and he makes a surprised noise.
"Yer welcome, lad," he says, his voice full of warmth. He ruffles your hair for a moment.
"Now get going, don't wanna use up too much hot water."
You nod, finally leaving to finish the task.
The shower helps a ton, washing the way the ick of dried sweat and tears. You feel much better after, if not quite exhausted. You dry yourself off with the towel Soap left for you, drying your hair too. You run a comb through the short length so it doesn't get too messy. When you're satisfied, you tie your towel around your waist. You walk back into the room and get dressed, not minding Soap's presence. He's always been respectful, and he knows about you being trans. He's never given you grief for it, and has always been respectful. If there's any people you trust, it's your squad.
After getting dressed you run the towel back into the bathroom, hanging it over shower rod so it dries fast. As you sit back on your bed, comfortable and feeling less weighed down, your exhaustion hits you full force. You lay back on the bed and whine slightly, mildly annoyed at the presence of the bright overhead lights.
Soap notices the way you lay back on the bed, the tiredness in your actions. He knows you need to get some rest more than anything right now.
"How about you get some sleep, lad?" He stands from his chair, standing near you by the bed. "You look tired."
You whine softly, annoyed at the prospect of having to sleep, but you know you need it. You reluctantly shift yourself, wiggling yourself under the blanket on the bed. Soap chuckles warmly at your behavior, and begins to tuck the blanket around you more. You melt slightly, feeling slightly embarrassed.
"It's okay, no need to be embarrassed. Just let me look after ye, get some sleep," he reassures. You swallow thickly and nod, getting comfortable. He smiles at you, bright and sunny.
"We can talk more tomorrow. But I'll stay with ye until ye fall asleep," he states, taking the chair from the desk and pulling it up beside the bed.
"Really? You'll stay?" You squeak softly.
"Of course, I don't mind." He ruffles your hair, happy to reassure you, then goes to turn off the lights. When he returns, he takes a seat in the chair.
You let your eyes fall, feeling safer with soap nearby. The gentle sound of his quiet breathing lulls you to sleep.
And if Soap falls asleep in the chair once he's certain you're asleep? That's nobody's business.