Chapter Text
**SOAP**
Soap can’t find a job. He’s been looking at positions available near him, ones within tolerable walking distance, ones that allow him to sit for long periods of time. Despite seeing these positions and half heartedly applying, he is unemployed for the first time in almost two decades because of his “qualifications.” He was discharged in his mid-thirties due to his knee having almost no cartilage and almost complete hearing loss in his right ear. Separately, these things wouldn’t be enough to end his career, but together they make for a soldier who can’t sprint, has bouts of vertigo, and limited situational awareness in loud environments since he can’t differentiate sounds anymore. He tried the hearing aide at first, but he is (or was) a demolitions expert who can no longer run away from his own charges or handle the sound of them. So he sat down with his higher ups and had a “tough conversation” and was kindly, patronizingly, fired from what he thought would be his lifelong career. Whatever. Price was nice about it and offered help finding a job using his connections. Soap was too proud at first to take him up on it and too embarrassed now about his pride to reach back out. So he scrolls open positions and pretends he isn’t depressed at his lack of transferable skills or whatever. It’s only been two months since he was officially discharged, but he doesn’t know what to do with his time. He hated leave when he was employed. Now he has to talk himself into getting out of bed knowing that he’ll just sit on the couch until it’s a reasonable time to go to bed again. His time is aimless, which he has never dealt with well.
He wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD until he joined the military and then was promptly, and enthusiastically, medicated for it. That really only brought his natural jittery energy from a 20 to about a 13. For him it was a huge improvement, but for everyone else he still radiated restlessness, thoughts and feelings going faster than he could process. His mouth used to struggle to keep up with his mind, causing him to stutter and choke as a child. All the kids thought this meant he was intellectually disabled, but really he just couldn’t get his brain and body to work at the same speed. He knows how to manage it all now, knows how to focus, to be still when he needs to be. But his benefits will run out eventually, as will his money, and civilian pharmacies don’t have access to Adderall at the same level as the military. It’s been a struggle to get his prescription refilled.
He doesn’t feel like he’s at a 20 or 13 now though. He feels still, idle, useless. His knee bounces with anxiety, not excitement or restlessness to do the next thing. There is no next thing. Just endless, purposeless days stretching towards an unknown future. Maybe he’s depressed. He’s never been depressed before, he thinks. Maybe staying in bed until 2:00 pm is a bad thing when you’re not recovering from a mission. Maybe thinking your future is unknown when you’re 35 years old is a red flag when you’re not facing life or death situations on a regular basis. Maybe isolation is a problem when you feel there’s no alternative.
“Fuck it” Soap sighs and goes back to sleep.
It’s been three months since his discharge and Soap still doesn’t have a job and hasn’t contacted the VA about his benefits. He also hasn’t taken advantage of their programs, ignoring that there’s a whole infrastructure set up to support wayward former soldiers. He hasn’t left his apartment in four days because he needs his knee brace and a cane to walk and his hearing aid isn’t properly calibrated yet. The latter is a real excuse because it requires a professional to help him; the former is just stubborn pride on his part. At least his apartment building has an elevator, not that he uses it much. Gaz has called a few times between missions to check up on him and chat. Their usual joking camaraderie feels different now that their lives are so functionally different. Talking about missions takes on a note of reminiscing rather than banter and Soap can’t bring himself to work up the same enthusiasm he used to have when rehashing all that stuff.
That night Soap has a nightmare. It’s not one of his PTSD night terrors that have his neighbors giving him a wide berth the next day. Instead it’s him sitting in the offices of his superiors while they tell him all the ways in which he’s been a disappointment to their team. Each meeting is rendered in high definition as they systematically strip him of his accomplishments, framing them instead as either accidents or attributing them to someone else. They list all the ways in which Soap himself has harmed his teammates with his behavior: his incessant chatting and jokes that people found offensive or mean instead of charming or funny; him acting like a know it all for being a demolitions expert, making everyone around him feel small and useless; him showboating his physical agility and energy. The SAS would have tolerated his injuries, but with everything else he was doing they couldn’t keep him on. He was hurting morale, hurting the team, so they have to deal with the problem directly. He’s the problem, so he’s gone. He hears this over and over again from people he respects, people he thought of as mentors. All this time he thought he was a good person, a good soldier, good at his job but really he was just hurting everyone around him.
Soap wakes up at 3:30 pm with an anxious pit in his stomach and the complete certainty that he’s alone because he deserves to be. He prefers the night terrors where he’s being tortured by terrorists. At least then he knows who the bad guys are. The harm described in his dream is so mundane, so easily brushed off, except when it’s Every. Single. Day. Then it’s death by a thousand cuts. Then it’s meetings with superiors asking not to be on Soap’s team if it can be helped. It’s “oh he’s nice but he can get on my nerves sometimes,” it’s “he’s good at his job and okay to work with but…” It’s unverifiable. He’ll never know if it’s true or not, if it’s real or not. That wouldn’t have bothered him before, but now…how can he join another team knowing that it’s possible he’s the problem?
He knows he’s spiraling from a dream made up of his worst insecurities. He snaps his fingers next to his right ear, the sound indistinguishable from the fan that’s going in his room and the traffic outside. It’s 4:30 pm. He thinks about showering but he doesn’t have anywhere to go and his shower chair is always cold. He orders delivery and plays a game on his phone.
The London VA is a twenty minute taxi ride from his apartment. He had to wake up earl(ier than usual) to get there when they were open and fully staffed. They keep odd hours to accommodate the needs of the vets they serve, but they’re fully staffed during business hours. That’s also when most of their ongoing programming and services are held. Soap decided today was the day to go when his power was shut off due to lack of payment. He had the money, but he had been losing track of the days. He was used to a highly regimented schedule that was created and imposed on him by others. He didn’t have the skills to develop one on his own with nothing to structure it around. How do you create a highly regimented schedule when you have fuck all to do? So he didn’t realize it had been over a month since he paid his bills until his utilities were shut off. They must have tried to warn him, but he hasn’t checked his email since he was discharged. It’s a civilian email account that no one from his former life knows about or uses to contact him, so he hasn’t bothered to look at it. He forgot he used it to set up all his utility accounts. He should have set up autopay but it just didn’t occur to him at the time.
The London VA is a clean, military looking building in that it is blocky, neutral colored, and has few windows. He hobbles out of the taxi towards the main entrance, checking his surroundings slowly since he can’t hear cars or anyone coming up behind him. When he reaches the reception desk, the person staffing it is nice, but not too nice. Cheerful, but not overly so. Loud enough to be heard but not mumbling. He wonders if this person was trained on how to not startle or upset the vets or if they only hire front desk workers with this criteria.
“Hi, how can I help you today?” It’s a simple question with a complicated answer so Soap buffers for a second trying to get his racing thoughts to organize into a response.
“I’m not totally sure actually. I’ve never been here before.” It’s really the only response he can come up with that might move things along. He really has too many needs to itemize into a coherent response and dumping all that on this perfect-calibrated VA receptionist doesn’t seem fair.
“Well welcome! The easiest next step would be to talk to one of our staff to see what you’re looking for and to see if there’s anything we can do to help if you need it.” Soap blanches at the word “help” and starts to shake his head.
“I..I don’t need help.”
“Help as in navigating our services of course. There’s a lot we offer, more than I can or am qualified to list, really. It makes the most sense to work with folks individually to meet their needs, rather than handing out something generic that might not work for you.”
Oh. Well that makes sense. Soap feels silly for getting defensive when it’s literally this person’s job to help him. It’s a front desk, customer service job. One he’s never had of course, but has literally interacted with dozens of times.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean–” He just shakes his head.
“No worries! It looks like Mr. Riley is available now if you’d like to meet with him.”
The front desk person just waits expectantly for Soap to either go through with it or leave. Nothing in their face or body language is indicating which option they think Soap should take, which makes Soap a little more certain that they’ve been trained to handle spooked vets like this. It’s a little intense to so blatantly be given the option to make a choice with no wrong answer; no right answer either.
“Sure” is all he croaks out. The receptionist nods and leads Soap down a couple of nondescript hallways that he instinctively memorizes, not that he could make a run for it if he needed to. The receptionist has kept their pace slow enough that he can keep up without it feeling like he’s being catered to. They knock on Mr. Riley’s open door informing him that Soap would like to meet to talk about services, then gives Soap a friendly (but not overly so) smile and leaves. The man who must be this Mr. Riley stands up from his desk, smiling behind a black medical mask.
“Hi, come on in,” Mr. Riley says kindly while he circles around his desk and gestures to a couple of chairs against the wall facing the door. Soap slowly walks to the one closest to the exit and grunts as he lowers himself down. Mr. Riley is stepping out of the door, bending over to turn on a white noise machine when Soap stops him.
“Wait! Can you not turn that on? I have a hearing thing and too much noise will make it hard for me to hear you and then I’ll get distracted and not be able to focus on what you’re talking about or why I came in in the first place and that’ll be a waste of everyone’s time.” He’s kind of rambling. It’s the most he’s talked in a week and the most he’s talked about his accommodations to someone outside of the military. It leaves Soap panting a bit and his heart rate elevated. Mr. Riley stands straight and looks at Soap. Soap has to crane his neck a bit since he’s already sitting and the guy is well over six feet. He’s also broad enough that fitting through doors might sometimes be an issue. He’s in business casual which Soap thinks probably ages him up a bit. He looks like a guy in 50s but he’s probably 40 at most. In casual clothes he probably looks younger. He probably feels younger too. Soap starts bouncing his knee idly in contrast to Mr. Riley’s stillness.
“The white noise is in the hallway and not very loud once the door is closed. These meetings are confidential, so it’s for your privacy and protection.”
Soap starts to bristle, though he’s not sure why. Everything feels so formal in a way he’s not used to. It’s not military formality, but there’s a practice and regiment to it nonetheless. He knows people go through education and training in different fields, but it’s another thing to feel the impact of that training in real time.
At Soap’s silence, Mr. Riley continues. “Can I turn it on briefly and shut the door so you know what it sounds like? If it’s still a problem for you I’ll turn it off completely. I just wanted you to know its purpose and your rights so you can make an informed decision.”
He says all this calmly and with the same air that there are no right or wrong answers as the receptionist. Soap just nods and Mr. Riley turns the machine on and closes the door. The brief staticy whir of the machine is blocked out almost entirely by the heavy door. Mr. Riley doesn’t move to sit down though, waiting for Soap to say whether he can tolerate the noise or not.
“It’s alright. Like you said, the door shuts most of it out.” Mr. Riley just nods and sits down in the chair next to Soap but still facing him. Soap is about to open his mouth when Mr. Riley speaks first.
“Before you start I have a little spiel to give first. My name is Simon Riley, I’m a licensed clinical social worker and former lieutenant in the SAS. You can call me Simon or Mr. Riley or whatever feels most comfortable for you. As I mentioned, these meetings are confidential which means anything you say will not leave this room without your consent. The only exception to this is if you or someone else is in imminent harm. Do you understand?”
Soap is a little taken aback by the tone of Mr. Ri–Simon’s spiel as he called it. It’s a mix of formality and informality, a line he’s not totally used to experiencing since it doesn’t give him an indication of how he should act. Again, putting the choice entirely on Soap which is getting weird . He understands the last part though so he nods to indicate his understanding.
Simon asks if he has any questions about the limits of confidentiality and Soap shakes his head, which gives him a brief bout of vertigo. Soap finds a fixed point in the room over Simon’s shoulder and stares at it until the room rights itself.
“So what prompted you to come in today? I don’t believe Charlie even got your name.”
Simon’s tone is that nice-but-not-overly-so tone that Soap is now starting to think came from social work school and starts to feel like he’s being managed by everyone in this building. It doesn’t help that the aforementioned building is still moving of its own accord in front of his eyes. He knows Simon is looking at him, but the energy coming from the other man is quiet stillness, not impatience so Soap just keeps trying to find a fixed horizon.
“My name’s Sergeant John MacTavish, callsign Soap. You can call me whatever, sir.”
He says flatly. He doesn’t even care at this point. What he was called by other people had meaning in the military but seems to matter less in the civilian world. Or like weirdly seems to matter more? It feels very confusing because the rules don’t make sense and goalposts shift. There’s no structure, no limits, no–
“Do you have a preference?”
Simon’s question interrupts his spiral and Soap’s eyes snap to his, which makes his stomach lurch unpleasantly. The lighting in the office isn’t fluorescent, he notices, but it’s still bright. Simon’s posture is open and at ease. No fidgeting, no distracting movements. Stillness. Soap’s knee is still bouncing with his thoughts and his hand is clenched around his cane.
“Not really, sir. Everyone called me Soap on base. MacTavish if I was in trouble.” Soap chuckles ruefully at that. They called him John when he was fired.
“Okay, Soap.” Simon says this easily, no follow up questions. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
At Soap’s negative reply, Simon picks up a legal pad and pen but doesn’t write anything down. Just looks at Soap with that open posture and that fucking stillness. When Soap doesn’t say anything for a minute, Simon prompts again, asking why Soap came in. Soap finds the horizon again even though the vertigo has started to pass. He can’t look someone in the eye when he says all this, especially a former lieutenant. He hasn’t said all this to someone who doesn’t already know most or all of it.
“I was discharged three months ago due to some injuries. I was a demolitions expert which is part of how my hearing got all fucked up. Constant damage over time then some fucker fired a gun next to my ear and burst my eardrum. He was aiming for my head so I’m lucky I guess.”
Soap shrugs and notices Simon isn’t writing, just listening. The man hasn’t moved at all since he sat down. No adjustments, nothing. Soap thinks he was probably a sniper, a damn good one if he’s able to keep this still without moving even a finger. Soap can feel the energy building in him that he gets sometimes when he starts talking. Like a pressure cooker that needs to vent its steam. He knows he won’t be able to stop once he opens his mouth again and it really is inevitable that he will.
“That would have been fine on its own. They got me a hearing aid to help and it did, but I had to keep adjusting it to avoid any more damage to the eardrum, like around gunfire or explosions. Sudden bursts of noises caused pain and the damage in my ear started causing bouts of vertigo. They didn’t catch it initially and I didn’t tell anyone I was getting dizzy sometimes because who doesn’t, you know? But then I had an attack when I was sparring with Gaz and I just went down like my strings had been cut. I didn’t know which way was up and then Gaz, who was already trying to take me down, fell because he expected some resistance, you know? And we both went down right on my bad knee and dislocated it. When I was in medical they found out there’s also some damage to the vestibulocochlear nerve fucking with my proprioception. So here they got a demolitions expert who can’t be around explosions and a soldier who can’t sprint, doesn’t know which way is up, or which direction the enemy is coming from. I was given the choice to be promoted to officer and sit behind a desk like a numpty or leave but it’s not really a choice is it? I’m no good at fucking paperwork and I can’t be chasing recruits around or some shit anyway. So 18 years after I sign up I’m here with no fucking job and nothing to do and a bunch of nothing to show for it. My fucking power gets turned off because I don’t know what fucking day it is and there’s no reason to go fucking anywhere because what am I going to do when I get there? It’s hard enough walking around my flat with my fucked up knee. Am I going to, what? Sit in the park and feed the fucking birds? Fuck off with that.”
Soap’s breathing has been picking up during his rant and his heart rate is elevated. He hasn’t really laid it all out there like that before. He realizes that he’s pretty angry and tries to relax as much as possible. Simon doesn’t deserve his anger. It’s not his fault Soap is too broken to stay in the military, with his closest friends, doing what he loves most. When he looks over, Simon is finishing writing something down and looks up at Soap. The light catches on his eyelashes at that angle and Soap notices that they’re long and very light. Probably blonde like his hair. Simon’s eyes are also brown, which Soap must have noticed at some point but the light makes them look very brown like chocolate that has the right amount of sweetness to balance out the bitter.
“It sounds like you’ve been dealing with a lot all at once without much time or space to process all these changes. Medical discharges can feel abrupt no matter how much warning is given and adjusting to new life circumstances is hard under the best of circumstances. Which these are not.”
Soap scoffs at that and feels like he’s being managed again.
“Did they teach you that fucking response in social work school?”
“Yes.” Simon says simply, taking all the wind out of Soap’s righteous indignation sails. When Soap doesn’t say anything for a minute Simon speaks up.
“How would you like to move forward?”
That seems like a big question to Soap and one he can’t remotely wrap his head around right now. Simon must sense this because he quickly jumps back in.
“What I mean by that is that there seems to be a lot on your plate right now. Part of my job is to provide options, information, and resources to help you navigate some of what you have going on, either alone or with my support. One way to approach this would be to look at what is most immediate in need of addressing and working backwards from there. You mentioned your power was shut off?”
Soap is too taken aback by how expertly Simon just navigated them around Soap’s impending existential doom spiral and offered a way to structure the next part of the conversation. Clean, calm, efficient. Definitely a sniper. Turned social worker. Interesting.
“Uh…yeah. I didn’t realize I missed the deadline and I can’t be fucked to check my civilian email. No one needs to reach me that way.”
“Except the power company” Simon says drily.
Soap lets out a brief, shocked laugh and has to cough immediately after. Simon is smiling back at him, even though Soap can’t see his face. It makes Soap want to smile back but he also doesn’t really want to right now.
“Yeah except for those fuckers. I got it sorted though so it should be back on when I get home.”
“That’s good to hear. Do you need any support setting up reminders or autopay?”
Soap notices he says “support” instead of “help.” Given his reaction to the receptionist (Charlie?) when they offered help, Soap can appreciate the linguistic nuance Simon is navigating here.
“No, I think I got it. Thanks, uh, sir, for offering.”
Soap can’t really tell if Simon wants the respect due his rank or not. Soap sure as fuck didn’t care during his rant. He can’t get a read on whether he’s doing this right or not based on Simon’s reactions. Simon just nods in response and makes a quick note on his pad. Soap suddenly feels bad for yelling and snapping at this man, this stranger, who just offered to help him set up autopay for his power bill and has been sitting here with Soap for–shit–over an hour with calm, quiet, patience. Soap doesn’t think he’s ever had someone let a situation be entirely about him with no expectations of reciprocity and no judgment. That’s what this “no right or wrong” weird feeling Soap has been feeling since he came in must be. It’s fucking weird.
“Hey, listen. I’m sorry for yelling and snapping at you like that. I didn’t realize I would get so worked up about everything and then I felt like you were managing me and I got defensive and yeah. You didn’t deserve that.”
Simon tilts his head to the side slightly looking at Soap. He’s smiling again.
“What? You think you’re the first angry soldier I’ve had in my office?”
They both chuckle and Simon makes a wavey hand gesture.
“I appreciate the apology but you have nothing to apologize for. Your anger and whatever else you’re feeling right now is totally valid.”
For some fucking reason that makes Soap fucking blush.
“On the subject of feeling managed, I will say that to some extent you’re right. The staff here are trained, at various levels of course, on how to talk to and interact with veterans.”
Soap snaps his head up at that. What the fuck?
“Not because we think veterans need “special handling” or anything, but because it’s a specialized population that does best when approached with non judgment. Most people are not naturally nonjudgmental, so that requires some training. Sometimes that training looks and feels a certain way. You’re more perceptive than most though and were picking up on things that most people respond to on a subconscious level.”
Soap has never been called perceptive in his goddamn life. Most people don’t think he has half a brain, let alone enough awareness to use it. Probably because his social skills are so fucking bad. Soap can feel his eye go wide when Simon calls him perceptive and then–for fucks sake–he blushes again. Simon smiles in a way that makes his eyes crinkle a bit and Soap doesn’t really know what to say. He’s also pretty sure Simon caught his blush.
“We covered a lot of ground today. These first meetings can be rather draining. Moving forward, if that’s what you choose, we can focus more on one thing at a time if you want. We can also just chat, it’s really up to you.”
Soap feels that nonjudgmental energy coming from Simon again. He’s never been given so much choice in his life. How does he know if he’s getting it right?
“I’d uh…like that?”
It comes out like a question and feels like the dumbest fucking thing he’s said since this meeting started. It’s also true, which is pretty consistent with what he’s said today. Simon nods and gracefully stands up from his chair. For a guy as huge and as old as Simon is, you’d expect creaky knees or the dad groan, or something, but no. Simon is quiet, steady, and completely aware of his body. Soap feels a pang of grief for his proprioception. He had the best time on the obstacle course 7 years running. Simon must have said something because when Soap looks up, Simon is sitting in his chair again holding a planner.
“Sorry. I guess this took more out of me than I thought.”
“That’s okay Soap. I asked when you’d like to meet next.”
Simon is smiling and completely without judgment. Soap kind of wants to cry. So he deflects of course.
“I got nothing but time, sir.” Simon chuckles at that and flips to a page in his planner.
“Why don’t you come back in three days at 2:00? Does that work for you?” When Soap agrees, Simon makes a note in his planner and then on a business card and hands the card over to Soap.
“This is my card with my office number, email address, and a few other resources in case you need it. On the back is the day and time of our meeting, just in case you need a reminder.” When Soap meets Simon’s eyes he nods that he understands. “Great, one other thing. I have a homework assignment for you.”
Soap scoffs at that but perks up immediately.
“I’d like you to get a journal or planner or blank notebook. Whatever would work best for you. In that journal, I’d like you to list and then break down any tasks you need to accomplish between today and our next meeting. If you need to make food, write that down and then write down each of the component parts of that task. Everything from grocery shopping to dishes. If there’s anything you list that feels like a “big task” break that one down too, in the same way, down to its component parts. Try not to get overwhelmed by the number of tasks. You’re just listing what goes into making each of these things happen for you. Once you’re done, pick a place to start. If you get overwhelmed, pick the easiest and quickest thing first. If it helps, scratch out the task or put a checkmark next to it. Make sense?”
Soap thinks this sounds like utter fucking nonsense. It also kind of sounds like building a bomb. He knows how to build bombs better than anyone.
“Yeah okay.”
They’re both starting to stand up, one significantly more quiet and graceful than the other.
“Great. I’m really glad you came by today, Soap. It was really nice meeting you. I look forward to talking with you in a few days.”
Soap is mumbling out amiable noises when Simon opens the door. Right as they’re about to leave, a man appears around the corner and starts moving his hands rapidly.
“Oh shit, Roach. I didn’t realize the time.” Simon pulls out his phone and realizes the man hadn’t checked it once during their whole conversation. Fucking social work training. The man, Gary (Roach?), is waving his hands again and Soap realizes that he’s using BSL. When Soap lost his hearing in his ear, the military offered to provide BSL lessons for when he didn’t want to use his hearing aid or couldn’t use it for some reason. He said he’d think about it and never followed up.
Gary turns towards Soap and smiles warmly.
“Soap, this is Gary. He’s one of our other case managers. He heads our workforce and professional development program.” Gary starts to type on his phone and holds it out to Soap.
I’m also the captain of our paintball league even though his spooky fucker technically outranks me.
Soap sputters out a laugh and Simon rolls his eyes.
“Let me just grab my keys and we’ll head out. Soap, can I walk you out or do you want to stick around and take a look at the facility? It’s up to you.”
Simon and Gary wait patiently for Soap to decide, exuding non judgment that feels twice as itchy coming from two people at once.
“I’ll probably head out.”
Simon nods and turns around to grab his keys. Gary just smiles warmly for a second, then starts doing something on his phone. Soap is grateful not to be the center of any more social worker attention. Simon locks up his office and they all head towards the exit together. When they get out front, Soap calls a cab as Simon and Gary split off in a different direction talking animatedly to each other in silent calm assuredness