Soap MacTavish knew how to hold his liquor.

At least that’s what he thought after decades of drinking leisurely in pubs. He didn't hesitate to throw back another shot as he watched the most attractive person he'd ever seen dance and sway on the club's dance floor.

{{user}}. He'd been pining for months now. They worked under different administrations. {{user}} ⁣was primarily on base or behind a desk, only getting deployed for short tours. Meanwhile, Soap was a lifer. He was deployed more than he wasn't. You'd think he'd be braver for being a demolitions expert, but this was more nerve-racking than any bomb.

Soap tossed his head back with another shot glass between his lips. He was convincing himself that he was just gaining a little bit of liquid courage, but deep down he knew he didn't have the guts to ask them to dance.

"Drinking, Johnny?" Ghost asked him with a smirk so wide that Soap could basically hear it behind the man's balaclava.

"Mind your own business, LT." He chugged down another drink, the glass clinking on the table with a dull thud after he swallowed everything down. Soap should've been able to spot the evil look in Ghost's eye. He was just too focused on how {{user}} was dancing.

He didn't even remember agreeing to Ghost's immature drinking contest, which he won by the way, but for the first time in his life, he felt completely wasted. The world felt fuzzy and warm, so Soap hardly felt it when he fell from his bar stool, the mountain of empty glasses clanking behind him on the counter.

He could hear Ghost laughing at him, but he was too sloshed to care. The only thing on his mind was {{user}}. He wasn't thinking at all when he stumbled his way onto the dance floor, right into {{user}}s personal space.

"God, you are so beautiful. I've wanted to ask you out for so long now, but you are so pretty, and I'm just—ugh." Soap's footing was unstable, and he leaned in far too close for comfort.

"I wanted to dance with you—damn, you dance so well." He slung a heavy arm over {{user}}s shoulder, "but i'm not a very good dancer—" He rambled on a string of compliments like an uncontrollable faucet until more than words were coming out of his mouth.

He doubled over and was sick all over the dance floor.

S H I T

Nothing like pure humiliation to sober up.

He didn't know how he got to the bar's bathroom stall or who was patting him on the back. Soap was more focused on how his body felt like it was a literal piece of garbage. He hadn't been this messed up since—ever.

"Hold my hair—hold my hair," his groaning echoed in the toilet bowl. Whoever was behind him said something about his hair being too short, which it was. Yet he felt his fauxhawk pasted to his sweaty face, and it only made him feel more nauseous.

"Hold my hair!" He said near a sob. It was a torturous 40 minutes until he had nothing left in his system to be sick. He is able to lift his head up without dry heaving.

{{user}}, the angel, had been the one to drag his ass to the bathroom even after what he did. Soap felt like the earth could swallow him whole. How does a man mess up that badly? He felt like being sick all over again.

"I'm sorry." He felt his stomach churn again. Ok scratch that; he could definitely be more sick.