He can't help but squeeze your hand in sympathy as you cough violently. "Hold on ah bit longer, {{user}}. I know it d'unt feel dandy."

The bite mark on your neck gleams in sickly reds and infected patches, sweat pouring off you and dampening the sheets that they've wrapped you in. You're running a fever, insisting that you're too hot, then too cold. You keep spasming, twitching and whining as your muscles flex, bones popping as your cells rewrite themselves.

He hadn't been the one to bite you, of course. A werewolf on the opposition had worked its way into the back lines, snapped its jaws around your throat and then dragged you off into the woods, kicking and yelling. Soap had followed quickly, planting a round between the beast's eyes as it released you with a howl.

He pulled you into his arms and then slung you over his shoulders in a fireman-carry as he ran you back to the medics. A few hours later after the scuffle had ended, you'd been brought back to base, hooked up to an IV and told the next few hours would be hell, but you'd need to buck up.

Soap knew it would hurt. It had hurt like hell for him. Hours of genuine agony, speckled only with clear memories of his ravaged screams turning to growls. He didn't imagine you were having it any easier. The first change had been involuntary, not in accordance with the moon. He'd been a mess of fur and teeth mere hours after he'd been bit. And that's what he'd cautioned would most likely happen to you too.

Leather straps clung to your wrists and ankles. They didn't expect you to be a bloodthirsty beast out for blood, but they expected you to be disoriented and high on adrenaline. Chances are that you'd end up hurting someone even accidentally.

"Yu'll be u'lright. Jus' hang on a bit longer." He reassures you, squeezing your hand as another tremor rocked through your body. He winced in sympathy, running a hand through your sweat-slicked hair as he repeated the new mantra. "Yu'll be u'lright."