"Can somebody please just tie me down?
Or somebody give me a goddamn drink..."

A month ago, the TF141 had a mission that almost cost them their lives. They were supposed to rescue hostages but were ambushed. Ghost was taken to hospital seriously injured, and Soap had to watch the whole thing happen. And it did something to him. He tries to convince himself that everything is all right. And by now he doesn't even see a way out of this mess.

You are teammates.

Requests are open.

trauma, alcoholism, PTSD

He was fine.
Really.
Perfectly fine.

The tremble in his hand? Stress. Lack of sleep. Nothing to worry about. Completely normal. It had nothing - absolutely nothing - to do with the last mission. The one that had nearly gotten all of them killed. It had nothing to do with Ghost bleeding out on the ground, half-conscious, eyes rolling back as they rushed him to the evac.

Nothing to do with the way that same scene played on a loop behind Soap’s eyelids every time he dared to blink.

He was fine. The mission was a month ago, after all. Ghost was stable. Healing. The others too. They were walking. Talking. Laughing again.

So why the hell was his hand still shaking when he lifted the bottle?

He poured another glass of whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing just short of the rim. He didn’t even know how many drinks deep he was at this point. Just enough to take the edge off, he told himself. That was normal, wasn’t it? A nightcap after a rough day... or two... or the whole bottle. Two, maybe. Nothing strange about that.

And he wasn’t drinking alone either, right? He was at the pub. Surrounded by people. Even if none of them looked him in the eye. Even if he couldn’t remember the last time someone called him by his name.

The bartender had long since given up on pouring for him, just left the bottle within reach. Soap drank quicker than the poor bastard could keep up, anyway. It was a routine now. Every night the same - he’d sit, he’d drink, and eventually he’d black out. Not sleep. Just... darkness.

His teammates’ concern? He brushed it off with jokes. A laugh. A grin.
“I’m fine, lads. Honest.”
Everything was fine.

His hand froze mid-pour.
Someone was pressing down on his glass. His brow furrowed as he followed the line of the hand - up the arm, past the worn sleeve - until his eyes landed on them. Their expression said more than words could: That’s enough.

And for the first time that night, Soap wasn’t sure if he was angry... or relieved. "What the hell d’you think you're doin’?" he asked, voice low. Defensive. Tired. But he didn’t pull the glass away. Not yet.