Soap was no stranger to anxiety. Despite his bolstering exterior, he was often riddled with doubts—of himself, of the future, of others—but he was reliable Soap! Had to put on brave face for Ma, and now for Price. Besides, the military wouldn’t let him be on meds and operate machine guns, so pretending he was fine was fine.
In any case, he had gotten quite good at regulating his own anxiety, and hiding it from others. He turned it into antsy-ness others interpreted as rowdiness. Sooner having them guess he had ADHD, not anxiety. Hell, for all he knew, he had both.
His bouncing leg in briefings? He’s deathly afraid the team will get hurt, or he’ll have another close call. (Don’t think about Makarov.) He’s ready to get out there!
Looking around the mess hall? Canvasing for threats. Searching for Ghost!
Heavy breathing after an op? Staving off a panic attack. Boy that was a lot of exercise!
So yeah, he’s tried it all: naming things from all your senses, doing math, box breathing. He’s a verifiable expert! Who needs a therapist when you have social media mental health hacks?
But man in this moment was he glad he had them. Glad he had been through every moment of anxiety and every failed attempt to calm himself, because here you were at the start of a panic attack right in front of him.
You were newer to the team, having joined within the last year. You got close to the rest of the team fast, it was hard not to when they scraped death often and basically lived together 24/7. Sure you had your fair share of worry for your teammates: close calls on ops, minor injuries, the sort of things you would expect in this line of work. But never had the Task Force been separated completely. You knew it would happen eventually, but when Price and Ghost got sent on a duo op, you couldn’t help the sinking in your stomach that they would have no back up except for themselves.
Sure enough, their scheduled return date came and went with no sign of them. Laswell wasn’t concerned, citing that it was minorly expected given the remote location of their drop and the expected snow fall. They could very well be held up in a safe house waiting for the storm to pass.
But you also knew how fast these things went south. You knew the terrorist cell they were getting information on, and how they treated their prisoners. You knew that you could be sitting there, thinking they were warm by a fireplace, when really they were being tortured.
It was the not knowing that really got to you.
You honestly thought you were more adjusted than this—I mean come on, what would John or Simon say if they saw you this out-of-sorts over them. They’d say they aren’t worth the trouble. And, for the record, they’d be wrong.
You just couldn’t help it after you had a nightmare about them bloodied and beaten, crying your name for help, and you couldn’t go to them. It was 3am and it sent you spiraling. You didn’t really know how you ended up outside of Soap’s door, but you were barely able to see through the tears and you had already knocked before you could consider that he was very much asleep and you shouldn’t disturb him.
But then he was opening the door, and his confused and sleepy face quickly turned into one of concern before he was pulling you inside and shutting the door behind you both. Guiding you to sit on his ruffled bed and whispering, “Bonnie?” in such a sweet voice. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about being a nuisance anymore.
The breaths wouldn’t stop coming and neither would the tears, and you just kept thinking about Simon and John and how it would be too late if you didn’t get them now. Ignoring the fact that their capture was entirely made up in your head.
“I-I,” you try to start through the gasps, but it’s hard to speak, and soon the words are just replaced by sobs.
“Hen,” Johnny coos, getting onto his knees in front of you and putting his hands on yours, “you’ve got to calm doon.”
Normally someone telling you to calm down would send you even further into a tizzy, it’s notably not the thing to say to someone who isn’t calm. But the way it rolled on his tongue and how gentle he was being with you, made you want to listen.
You tried to take a deeper breath, it stuttered, but worked.
“Good, lass.” His hands moved up to hold your biceps and give a little squeeze. The pressure was comforting. “Breathe, darlin’.”
He took a deep breath, clearing trying to get you to mimic him. You tried your best.
“In ‘n out.” You following his inhales and exhales. “There we are, nice ‘n easy.” Eventually your breathing starts to slow.
“Nicely done, sweet’art.” He uses his thumb to wipe your tears, “D’ya wan’ta talk about it?”
You hesitate, now that you’re calmer, reality has returned. You realize you’ve barged into your fellow sergeants bedroom in the middle of the night, crying about a fake scenario involving your very capable COs.
He grazes your chin with his forefinger and thumb before pulling back and moving to stand, “‘s alrigh’, hen. Dinnae need ta talk about it.”
Somehow, the thought of losing his touch is the scarier concept in this moment.
“Had a nightmare,” you say softly, barely there at all.
“Mm,” a deep hum of a reply. He comes to sit beside you on the bed. “‘ve had me fair share.”
“I’m worried about them.” You eventually offer.
He sighs before saying, “Wish I could tell ya that goes away,” he scooches back to recline against the wall, “but every time we go out there I’m afraid. Especially when I’m not with them.”
You lean back against the wall too, your shoulders touching. “So what do you do?”
“Distract meself,” he offers. “Throw meself into the work, or do random shite to pass the time.”
You startle suddenly, realizing once more that you’ve totally invaded his space and disrupted his sleep, all to complain about how you’re worried for people that he has known for longer than you.
“Sorry, I should go,” you begin to frantically collect yourself, “I totally just barged in here and expected you to deal with my shit when you are already dealing with your own-“
“Nay, hen, settle down. ‘S alright.” He grabs your shoulder and pulls you back into him.
You both keep talking, first about Price and Ghost, but then it changes to random unimportant topics like Sheppard’s new horrible mustache, or how the meatloaf from the mess was getting marginally better. He was right, distracting yourself was making you feel better. Eventually your speech starts to slow, and you both start to tilt to the side as you approach an unavoidable level of sleepiness.
That’s how John and Simon find you when they return in the morning—not actually taken hostage, just stuck in a storm—leaning into one another, huddled in Soap’s small bed. If they noticed the tear tracks on your face when they woke you up, they didn’t say anything. They were just glad you had each other, and you were glad they were okay.
