“{{user}},” John's voice broke the demanding thoughts that swirled into your head. Your brain turning on you and telling you to pick up a bottle for old time sakes after a mission gone wrong.

You were discharged to deal with what happened, but that’s not what you needed. You needed to be reassured, not pushed away. And you couldn’t help but dwell on those damn thoughts, your throat burning at the thought of a nice cup of whiskey.

You tried.

You tried so damn hard. You locked up all your alcohol in a cabinet in your apartment, and tossed the key somewhere.

—

When your apartment door opened, you saw your captain standing there, your spare key clutched in his hand as you sat on your living room floor, back against the couch. You sat in a mess of a drawer that you forcefully yanked out of there places to find the keys.

And you did.

Your eyes, lidded, moved to stare up at him as you gripped the neck of the whiskey bottle in your hand. What once was a full bottle was now half empty.

“Damnit,” John cursed, stepping in and placing your keys onto the stand and he moved, crouching down in front of you and gently grasping your chin, as if you were fragile. He wasn’t far off, your mind was fragile and you seemed on edge, as if you’ll snap at any moment.

“{{user}}, mate..” He murmured, his brows pinching and a look of sympathy on his face. The look on his face triggered something in you and you dropped the bottle, tucking your knees to your chest and pushing your palms onto your eyes.

“Woah, woah, hey.” John quickly sprung into action as he watched your shoulders shake. “Hey, hey, look at me, okay? I’m not mad, I’m not mad.” He reassured, grasping your wrists gently.

“I’m not mad..”