Chapter Text
Anxiety is different for everyone.
Some people can’t interact socially without stuttering or stumbling through every other sentence, some get by just fine. Other people can’t do certain things without feeling like their heart is going to beat out of their chest.
For König it’s a little different. He doesn’t talk that much naturally, but he’s never been bad at it, though if he has to hold too long of a conversation he starts fucking up, slipping between languages and confusing people.
He’s confident enough to say (not out loud, never out loud) that he’s a fucking monster in the field. He’s one of the best at his job, he’s worked extremely hard to make it that way and he still works hard to keep it that way.
The thing about anxiety though, is that it presents itself in many different ways, so as König slaved away, carving out a place for himself in the military - refusing to let thoughts that used to keep him up at night get between him and his end goal - the anxiety took on another form.
Eating never used to be hard for him.
König isn’t a small man. Before he was signed over to the 141 he had a healthy appetite, eating enough to keep up with his physique wasn’t a hardship, he enjoyed food. Looking at a plate never felt like the moment something goes wrong on a mission.
Never felt wrong.
Even hiding away in his room, he can barely force a half portion of mashed potatoes down past the lump in his throat. For fucksake, even looking at what’s left on the plate makes him feel like his heart is trying to beat out of his chest.
He’s eating a worryingly little amount.
He’s barely been signed on two weeks so he doesn’t see any physical difference, though his performance is starting to slip. He feels languid most of the time which isn’t good at all, especially coupled with the recent bouts of fatigue.
He doesn’t know why this is happening, he’s a grown man though he feels like everything but as he stares up into unreadable blue eyes.
He doesn’t know when MacTavish got here or even how long he’s been standing there.
König let himself get lost in the comforting familiarity of taking apart and cleaning his rifle. Not even clocking the normally loud man’s presence until a steaming bowl is placed on the table in front of him.
“It’s broth.” König blinks up at him through his hood, confused. Is it for him? Why would he bring him soup? As far as MacTavish and the rest of the compound are aware, he eats in his room and has already had dinner. “New recipe, tell me what you think.”
Oh.
Oh .
That makes sense. He knows that the man likes to cook. König has spent an embarrassing amount of time watching him putter about the communal kitchen under the guise of catching up on mission reports.
Soap pulls up a chair and leans forward onto the table, resting his chin on his hand. “Go on then, just a bit.” His tone is deceptively light and König feels strangely trapped as he sets the cleaning rod to the side.
It’s late, not late enough for him to feel entirely comfortable with taking his hood off but just enough so that he’s fine with pulling it up to rest on the bridge of his nose.
Focusing on the bowl he avoids having to watch Soap’s reaction to the wicked scar painting the lower half of his face. He’s not embarrassed of it per say it’s just a little uncomfortable to have the result of a stupid mistake so plainly on display.
He’s distracted, almost enough to get the spoon up to his lips without realizing what he’s doing. The broth smells amazing and that's really all it is: broth, heavily flavored water, light and easy on the stomach.
He can do broth, his stomach has that telltale heavy feeling that always comes with eating nowadays but as he catches expectant blue eyes he finds that it doesn’t bother him as much as it normally does.
“Good,” Soap says, it doesn't sound like a question but König finds himself nodding all the same. It’s really good, light, and savory, though he can’t force himself to stomach anymore. It's one of his better dishes.
“Mn.” He slides the bowl over to Soap and pulls his hood back over his mouth.
Something vaguely resembling disappointment flashes in the man's eyes and König blinks in surprise, the sudden urge to reassure him of his culinary skills overwhelming.
“Good - It’s good. Savory.”
Soap just hums and pats him on the shoulder as he stands. “That’s more than I get out of Ghost, the bastard, he just grunts and I only know it’s good if he keeps eating it or not. Like a child that one is.”
And just like that, the man is gone, leaving König with a full bowl of broth and a table filled with scattered parts of his disassembled rifle. He doesn’t want the man to think he was lying - it’s good soup.
Pulling the bowl close he stares down at its contents. His stomach is growling, but being hungry was never the problem, he’s fucking ravenous, has been for the past two weeks. He really wants to finish this, it smells heavenly and he’s so hungry it hurts.
But as he brings the spoon back up to his lips his heart starts pounding in his ears, a sickening wave of nausea shooting up from his belly as the pleasant aroma reaches his nose. He’s able to force the spoonful down but he - he can’t - he can’t fucking -
“ Scheiße .” He stands abruptly, sending his chair clattering to the floor.
Storming out of the room he disregards his rifle and makes his way back to his room as fast as he can without running. His hands are shaking and it’s so annoying. What’s wrong with him - what’s so fucking hard about drinking broth that it has him so keyed up (vibrating out of his skin and ready to throw up).
Distracted, he slams into something hard, hard enough to have the resounding clank vibrate around in his helmet, making him a little dizzy. Surprisingly though, it brings him back down to earth - centers him, even as he’s sent stumbling back.
“ Wer hat hier eine verdammte Mauer errichtet? ” He grumbles, unlatching his helmet so he can rub his head. Stepping up to the wall he checks to make sure he didn’t put a dent in it before continuing on toward his room -
Only to have a fucking heart attack when his eyes catch on a shadow almost as big as he is down the hall. Ghost, he realizes - though it does nothing to calm his heart - is leaning against the wall, watching him.
He and Ghost have a weird relationship in the sense that they don’t have one at all. The man is a literal ghost around the compound. It seems like Soap is the only one to see him around consistently but considering the fact that they’re married he supposes that’s a given.
When he does happen to catch a glimpse of the man he’s always - always already looking back at him. His gaze is intense, dark blue eyes bore into his and every time König looks away first, this time is not an exception.
It seems like forever until he reaches his room but when he does sleep finds him quickly. When he wakes up that morning his rifle is sitting outside of his door, clean and fully assembled. He runs his fingers along the clean metal and glances down the hall.
No, it couldn’t be…could it?