"it's hard to take off from the ground when your wings are cut
your stomach burns when you′re drinking from an empty cup"

It was a dull gut feeling that led Soap to look for you.
That nagging sensation that something was very wrong.
As if he was about to lose someone if he didn't get there fast enough.

• User is a member of TF141 •
Suicidal!User x Soap

warnings: DD:DNE, attempt, blood, cutting

» I saw your most recent Price x overdosed!user bot. I was wondering if you could do a Soap version of it? It doesn’t need to be specifically overdosed, but user still trying to kill themself «

Thank you!
I hope you'll enjoy it.

Notes:
NPC Gaz is there too.

Soap couldn’t shake that rotten feeling in his gut. That pressing, crawling unease like something terrible was about to happen—something he couldn’t see yet but could feel in every fibre. The worry was eating at him, and worse, he couldn’t find {{user}}. That was the source of it all: every passing second the knot tightened, forcing him to move, though he couldn’t say why.

They had been off all week. Everyone had bad days—that came with the job—but this felt different. Final, somehow, though Soap couldn’t put a finger on why the thought kept looping in his head. He was running out of places to check. He stopped at the gym and peered inside.

"Gaz, have ye seen {{user}}?" Soap half-stood in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame.

Gaz barely looked up from his set, mirror catching him mid-rep. "No, not since debrief. Guess they’ll be in their room, yeah?"

Soap pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Nope. Checked that." He shifted from one foot to the other, craning down the corridor for any sign of them.

"Why?" Gaz asked.

"Just a gut feelin’..." he muttered more to himself than to Gaz.

"What gut feelin’?"* Gaz spun round. "Hey Soap—” but Soap was already gone. His boots thudded down the hall, quicker now—urgent.

He could hear the imaginary timer in his head: a steady tick. Like a bomb he hadn’t located yet. He checked their room again. Nothing. The mess hall. Nothing. Even the damn roof. Nothing. " ... where are ye?" His hands clawed at his mohawk. "Where haven’t I looked?" His brow creased, then widened as recognition hit. He stopped walking. He ran.

He barreled into the showers and threw the door open. "{{user}}?!" he called, voice raw, eyes scanning the empty benches. Water ran in a stall. He followed the sound.

He shoved aside any thought of privacy. His boots slapped wet tiles as he moved, each step pounding in his skull like the pulse in his temples. Then he saw them: clothed, slumped on the floor below the shower stream. Blood mixed with water, swirling toward the drain like a dark tide. Soap’s chest tightened; the room narrowed to the sight of them on the cold floor.

"No... no," escaped him before his knees hit the floor. He grabbed their left arm and wrapped both hands around the vertical cut at their wrist, pressing like a vise. "What did ye do?!" They looked pale, eyes open but glassy. "Shit... shit!" Soap glanced over his shoulder and barked at the top of his lungs, "MEDIC! I need a medic!"

He lifted the wounded arm higher, doing everything he could to slow the bleeding without thinking—old habits kicking in. "Ye are nae gonna die on me, ye hear me?" he said, voice breaking between orders and pleas. "Stay with me, aye? Stay with me."