Chapter Text
It started on a normal Wednesday.
“-an’ I told her, ye can’t name yer kid “Robert, Tha’s outdated an’ kids will laugh. But she wasnae havin’ it. So my nephews name is Robert, of all things.”
Randy pulls him aside after that, shooting a glance to the others.
“Hey, John… Can you come here for a sec? I just want to talk.” He mumbles.
John grins, following him to the corner, thinking nothing of it. He probably has some gossip or something. He doubted himself for a second, mentally faltering. What if they hated his chatter and his talking? No. They would’ve said something earlier. He’s been here for a couple of years now.
“yeah, mate? Do ye need somethin’? Someone troublin’ ye?” he hums, ducking slightly to be eye level. The pale thing looked nervous, and he didn’t want to intimidate the guy.
“the guys and I’ve been talking and and… we don’t really like how you’ve been talking about stuff. Like- you know when you said you didn’t care about hockey? Arnold didn’t like that. His brother does hockey and he didn’t like that you said that” Randy mumbles quietly. Soap could feel the others watching.
“I know. I apologised. Even bought him a couple o’ pints at the pub the next Saturday”, John frowns, running a hand through his ‘hawk nervously, “he said it was fine.”
Arnold hums dismissively, brows creased, like he was scared John would yell at him. “well… he didn’t like it. An’ just then you said Robert was an outdated name and you wished your sister didn’t name her new son that, but Daniel has a second cousin called Robert”
So- John frowns. “I didnae know tha’ Randy, an’ I didn’t say I wish she didn’t name her boy tha’. Its an outdated name, is all. I’m worried about bullies, mate”
Soaps stomach sinks as Randy shakes his heady dismissively again, a pointed silence stretching.
“could you just… we don’t like all the chatter either. Just…tone it down a bit? Thanks.” Randy waits for a nod from the no longer bent down Soap before walking back to the others.
Soap stands there, world cracking, breaking, drifting. They hated him. His personality. His thoughts and opinions. This was the second time he’d been pulled aside to be told something like this. He could feel his hands shaking. He joined them, plastering a smile on his face. When the guys don’t even acknowledge him, too busy talking to each other, his smile drops. He sits just off to the side, like usual, excluded and lonely.
He sits there, breaking, silent, waiting to be acknowledged. He sits there as the clock ticks, as days on the calendar are crossed off with black pen. One, two, three, days. Three, two, one, the timer counts down to death. Feet drag and he goes through things robotically. But he was doing well. He was a good friend. He is a good friend, he sobs silently into his pillow at night. The lonely always master crying quietly, for lack of support, why make noise?
Soap tries to join the conversation now and then. With laughter or personal anecdotes, because personal anecdotes = connection… right? That’s how he’d learnt. That’s what he’d figured out. That’s what people did, from what he saw. Why did they not like his personal anecdotes? He waits to be acknowledged. Even just a “morning, John”, but nothing comes. He says “good morning first”, to no avail.
Days count. Soap wilts. The mirror reflects the truth. He looks away. Eventually he can’t hold back. Eight days and he loses will. Hollow. Maybe they wouldn’t miss him. Days pass. Anything sharp looks…enticing. And if he waterboards himself in the shower a few times as punishment, no one needed to know.
A laugh there, a personal anecdote there. Another laugh, an opinion. Another. Then chatting, happily. Social interaction was good, and he wasn’t including opinions, so they couldn’t be mad. That’s how it worked. He knew. He read it in a book once. One of those unsaid rules of society. Like ‘you can’t eat in front of someone unless they eat too’ and ‘it’s not appropriate to wear a hat inside because its disrespectful unless its for religion’.
“Tha’ reminds me of the time I met an Irish wolfhound when I was six! Was taller than me and I got a good fright. How big is your brothers?” John grins, eyes crinkling with joy. A captain was visiting today, one he’d known a long while ago. Captain John Price. He was currently at the bar with the others, nursing a gin and tonic. He was trying something new, but it really wasn’t all that.
The other men hum uncomfortably, before going back to their own conversations. Soap frowns in confusion. He’d waited his turn (even if it had taken twelve minutes) and used a personal anecdote, before asking a question about the other person so they didn’t think it he was making it about himself. He wilts and takes another sip. Fucking ew. One of the guys had recommended it, and he was starting to think it was on purpose or something.
Price watches silently, watching them over his pint. John was just trying to have friends, have comrades, but his unit were ignoring him. Interesting. He doesn’t interfere, wanting to see how John would handle it.
Soap doesn’t do anything.
He sits, and tolerates. They’d like him eventually.
…right?