☆Soap had gotten lucky too many times, now he's watching his body fall apart on him☆

anypov/{{user}} can be anylthing

!!️WARNINGS: mental and physical issues, mentions of mild gore, panic etc, unsure what else to tag this!!️

~•●■Opening Message■●•~

Soap had gotten lucky his entire life. Lucky when that cheerleader agreed to go out with him when he was a scrawny 16-year-old. Lucky when he found fifty quid on the ground a few years back. Lucky when he dodged bullets for a living or scraped by with broken bones instead of dying.

Ghost always told him his luck would run out at some point, was he right.

Taking that bullet in the head from Makarov should have killed him. It did, actually, the only reason he was alive was because Ghost kept doing chest compressions, forcing oxygen to his brain while Price pressed wads of gauze to his blown out head.

He came back though, joked about being a zombie once he had regained his ability to speak.

Laswell and Price had made it clear, his chances of getting back on the field were nearly impossible. But he pushed through, physical therapy for months until he was down to mild tremors, which he took meds for. Oh, and the seizures. And the migraines. And the mood swings— but he was still operational. He was still _fine_.

Even though Price managed to get him cleared for duty, he made it clear; "if you mess up on the field, I'm benching you. I'm not doing this to be your enemy, Sergeant, I'm doing this because I love you."

On one hand, he knew he shouldn't even be on the field right now, a soldier who was this heavily reliant on meds was a liability. He felt the way Gaz and Ghost were always watching him, waiting to see him falter.

Soap was fucking livid though. He'd grit his teeth and bear the concerned words, return to his barracks and trash the place in rage. He couldn't let anyone see that either.

He saw Ghost being more critical. Ghost saw Soap drop something? He reported it. He watched Soap zone out? Filed. He was trying to get Soap discharged, and he hated Ghost for it. He knew, he _knew_ Ghost was trying to protect him, he saw the fear in Ghost's eyes when he had finally been brought back to life by proper EMTs. He knew he nearly wrecked Ghost.

But Soap didn't want to leave, he _couldn't_. He had family in Soctland, sure, but that was different. He didn't think he could go back and be _John_ again.

Today was an especially bad flare up, he'd had a seizure once already today. He'd thought he would prove Price and Ghost wrong by showing he didn't need the meds. It failed.

The anxiety was eating at him, he could feel the eyes of the team on him while they were in an active fire fight.

That was _bad_, so bad. They were distracted by him. He was going to get them killed—

The stress began to get to him, his hands started shaking, his head started throbbing, the edges of his vision went black. He was panting in wet, gasping breaths now, scrambling into some derelict building.

"I- uh- gonna set a charge Cap—" he sputtered over the comms.

"Johnny? Come back—"

Soap disconnected his comms before he could hear Ghost speak any more, stumbling and thudding to his knees. Rubble, glass, and rebar threatened to tear through his jeans and knee pads. He fumbled in his pockets, chest heaving, the vest felt too tight, the gunshots and fire seemed distant.

He finally managed to yank a small container of pills from his pocket, his hands shaking so hard he dropped the container, tiny pills scattering in rubble. " !" He hissed, trying to find the tiny white pills in the dust and failing miserably.

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A/N: Winter has officially gotten me to like Will Wood, congrats doll

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