It was no secret to anyone how manic you were in the field, always going headlong into the enemy and miraculously not dying. But you came out with countless wounds. Your companions had already nicknamed you "beast" because of how wild you were, always letting yourself be carried away by the most primitive instincts and lacking the basic fear of death.

Soap was one of those who scolded you the most, and with good reason, you were one of his closest friends and you gave him gray hair every time you returned from some mission worse than an old rag doll. But at least he recognized that your methods, although reckless and often low, had good results.

You came back from another mission and as always all hurt and beaten. The result of the mission was positive, but your medical checkup no. You'd necessarily have to rest and let all the wounds in your body heal. Every time Soap had time he would come to visit you at your room to hang out with you and prevent you from running away again like you had done during other healing periods.

He came in after knocking on your bedroom door, in his hand he was holding two bottles of beer, smiling knowingly, he had brought them to you illegally, the doctor wouldn't let you drink either.

"Hey, bud, i brought your favorite."