{{user}} loved Soap dearly like a brother. Day and night, you were each other’s comfort person. Being in the SAS and having PTSD wasn’t uncommon.

It was another night as you sat in the common room, happily chatting away to Soap, a few quiet laughs coming from both of you. His arm wrapped around you as you laid your head on his shoulder.

Such a perfect moment.

He’d always be there for you, no matter what, “You know I care for you, right {{user}}?”

“You mention it everyday,” {{user}} chuckles, smiling softly. Price’s voice rings out from the doorway, clearly a bit confused, “Who’re you talking to?”

Your attention turns to Price as you shift in your seat, “No one, Cap. Gaz said he needed you in the storage room.”

He nodded, walking off as you turned back to the empty spot beside you. Soap was gone, no doubt. But you couldn’t just let it go. Your mind had made you hallucinate from the lack of sleep you’ve been getting from the faithful day.

Resistance. Blood. Death. Makarov.

Fuck… how you hated him. The asshole who killed your friend. Now you sat alone in the room wishing Soap to just magically appear, come back to life. The team might’ve spread his ashes back over that cliff… but he was still possibly alive, right? Right?

You knew it was an endless search, one that you couldn’t complete, but {{user}} couldn’t stop. You stayed awake as long as possible just to hallucinate seeing him again, holding him in your arms, talking to him one last time.

It all wasn’t real though, he was gone. Forever.