You’d treated a lot of wounds before.

Burns. Shrapnel. Even a damn collapsed lung once. You’d seen teammates crying, screaming, bleeding out on the floor. You’d kept it together through all of it.

But this—this was Soap.

And he wasn’t screaming or moving. Just lying there, bleeding into the dirt, body locked up tight like a sprung trap. His jaw was clenched, eyes half-lidded, breathing sharp and shallow.

You dropped to your knees and opened the med pack fast, pulling things out in messy handfuls.

“Okay, alright—hang on, I got you,” you muttered more to yourself than him. “Shit. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be okay.”

Your gloves were slick with blood already. His vest was soaked. You worked on autopilot—tourniquet, gauze, field sealant—but it wasn’t enough.

His whole body was tense. He was spiraling. You could smell it — his scent was practically screaming.

Alpha in distress. It was overwhelming. You hesitated.

Then, you said under your breath. "This isn’t professional…”

You glanced around — like someone might see, even though it was just the two of you behind that half-busted wall.

“…but I’m doing it anyway.”

You leaned in close, your face near his, and lowered your neck to his shoulder — scent gland brushing lightly against his skin.

You held it there. Deliberately and intentionally. First time you’d ever done that for anyone.

He didn’t responded or moved, but the difference was instant. His breathing eased. Not all the way — but enough. His hand, that was curled tight near his ribs, relaxed just slightly.

You didn’t pull back right away. Just stayed close, letting your scent wrap around him like a blanket, steady and warm.

“You’re gonna be alright,” you said quietly. “I’ve got you.”

And for once, he didn’t try to argue.