Is it Raining? No, just tears.

Is It Raining?

Hello Everyone. Trigger Warning, this chapter contains panic attacks.

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Despite the urgency of missions, they rarely ever went as planned, and the collateral damage was often miscalculated beforehand. Lately it seemed the team couldn't catch a break, each task seemingly more difficult and draining than the last. There's only so much time before they head out again, and very little of that can be spent doing anything other than research and continuous training to keep skills polished. The rest of that time went to mundane tasks like hygiene and sleeping. It was grueling and stressful, for the entire team, some had found healthy coping methods like going to therapy or even just going and having a night out with friends. Those were the responsible decisions met by Gaz, Price, Laswell, and Alejandro when he was around to help or they were assisting him. Ghost would spend time with them or go off and have a night in doing who knows what. They all seemed a little more rested, or in Ghost's case a little less exhausted. Soap on the other hand had spent the majority of his nights in staring at a tablet with a bottle of whiskey cradled precariously in his lap.

It was just to unwind in the beginning, when he'd first been introduced to Ghost he was not aware of the shit storm that awaited him in Las Almas. War was ugly, battle sucked, this was just known facts, but the thing they don't tell you about is the toll it will eventually take.

That night when Soap and Ghost fought to get away from Graves, and ultimately ended up separated, he'd spent the entire ordeal mostly alone. Ghost had gone ahead of him, and while he can understand it was a decision to limit noticeability, it had left a bad taste in his mouth for some time. He kept these feelings and thoughts to himself, never hinting even once aside from some distracted sounding jokes made on the field. "Missing a knife?" Why hadn't Ghost left behind more assistance? Why hadn't he clued him in on what to look for? Sure, Ghost did have his back in the end, and supported him via ear. After they'd made it back he had meant to ask, and even brought it up in conversation and all he could gather was perhaps it was Ghost looking out for his own back too, he couldn't be solely responsible for his survival and also Soaps after all. Soap is a trained soldier, he can watch out for himself, and he did not need a babysitter. That being said, he is only human and can't hold off the insecurities all the time.

So enter the typical Saturday night. He's heading out of the meeting hall and into the brisk cool night. There was a chill, it's getting close to winter, but it's still at that point in the year that the daytime can be hot if you're moving around a lot. The night time sky was different from the eye sore florescent lights he was just under for hours. Retelling specific details in this line of work was very different from telling a story around the campfire, everything had to be just so, and match up with everyone else's stories. It was exhausting, no matter how necessary, to have these debriefings. To reflect on what has happened and to inform those who were not involved. It was like an incident report every time the missions were over. Soap was tired, the kind of tired one feels in their bones but does not reflect on their skin. Who could blame him for taking a few moments to take in the sounds around him. "Nuthin' but crickets" he said to no one really. No one else had filed out yet, stopping to engage in chatter or pick up copies for personal records. Soap had enough copies, had enough records. He had enough.

He wasn't sure when he started walking, or how long he had been walking for that matter. The street lamps outside their base were in the distance, he was kicking a rock in the opposite direction. He thought to himself this might be what burnout feels like, had he never experienced it before? High school maybe, training? He wasn't sure, and it didn't matter, he just knew that his spirits were down, and he wasn't sure why. The last mission all in all, bumps included, was a success. They'd gotten the intel they needed and prevented civilian losses. Failures were the hardest to handle by far, but the wins should have made up for it. Usually they did, and now all of a sudden it was like they didn't help enough. He didn't help enough.

Sure everyone had their mistakes on missions, some deadly, but his own hit him the hardest, especially while alone in the dark, damp night. When had it started to rain?

It hadn't.

The tears came without him knowing, without permission. They didn't head to his commands to stop. He felt himself palming at his eyes, thick globs of salty liquid running down his wrist. He couldn't hear anything, but everything was so loud. The dark was too dark but also too bright. Everything was overwhelming. He could hear the sharp edges of gravel beneath his boot treads. The rubber squeaking off the ground as he shifted to prevent himself from falling down on his knees, on his side, somewhere safe. He tried to blink away to confusion, count on his fingers, didn't the therapist say to do that? Count? Count what?

The world was swallowing him while also leaving him empty and cold. No one was around to help, he could swear he wasn't even on Earth anymore, was this a dream? Was he floating?

"Johnny?"

He wasn't floating, not really. There he was, he found himself, being carried towards the temporary bunks. "Lt?" He managed to rasp out. That's all he could say.

The crickets were back, and it wasn't ever raining. The sounds a zipper could be heard, and when his eyes could focus again, though rather dully, he saw Gaz closing up the flap to their pop up quarters. He shot Ghost a concerned look, who didn't seem to react in anyway. Soap noticed his eyes were on him, he wasn't sure what emotion was portrayed on his face.

"You alright, Soap?" Asked the man, deep voice sounding like it was coming from his chest, no not sounded, felt. He was able to feel his voice where he was being held, firmly against his chest, legs dangling uselessly , but not touching the ground.

Was he alright? He wasn't sure, he wasn't particularly good. "I think I'm fine, what happened?" Ghost didn't answer right away but went over to lay him in his cot, it was uncomfortable most nights but tonight it felt welcoming and safer than standing up. "We found you on the ground." Oh, so he did fall. "You looked like you were in a bad way so we brought you in here, you didn't answer us when we spoke to you." Ghost' words were weird to Soap, almost alien. "You were talking?"

Gas piped up, yanking his boot off of his foot. "Yeah, we were talking to you thinking you might have fallen in the mud, but you never answered. What was that all about?" Soap grimaced and shrugged a bit, sore from where he'd met contact with the gravel. He thought for a moment and realized Gaz might be giving him an out because as he recalled it wasn't raining. There was no mud. "Right, yeah, must be the mud. I'm just real tired. I'm gonna get some shut eye if it's all the same to you?"

"Right, we'll talk about it in the mornin', Johnny."

Crap.