This is an AU based off an image I found on Google Images of MacTavish, except he's missing both an arm and an eye. I wanted to write this as something that entertains the idea of him somehow surviving Blood Brothers in MW3 and what the fallout of all that would be. Obviously I don't own the image this is inspired by, and I won't be using it for the cover image because I haven't contacted the artist for permission to use it. It's on a website called Zerochan, for anyone who wishes to find it.
Hotel Lustig, Prague, 11th October 2016
Every hour, Soap checked his sniper rifle. A simple once over was all he needed to do, make sure nothing was jammed or anything. After about the fifth or sixth time he did this, Yuri started giving him funny looks. The Russian was often quiet, spoke very little around him, yet held an intense atmosphere around him. It made the former Captain miss having Ghost around; at least he was able to hold a conversation for more than two sentences. At least Ghost didn't make MacTavish uneasy.
He faked a friendly enough demeanor whenever Price or Nikolai were around, just to avoid conflict within their small group. They couldn't afford Nikolai being torn between anybody or Price becoming volatile. Soap's act dropped somewhat when they were alone though, just enough to clue Yuri in that they weren't friends by any means. He didn't care if Yuri saved his bloody life at this point. He was grateful at first, sure, that's just being a decent human being. There were small things about the man that made Soap uncomfortable around him. His silence, Nikolai's comment that he hated Makarov more than either him or Price... Maybe he was being paranoid, overthinking things, but this felt like another "enemy of my enemy" situation.
After he finished checking his weapon again, he sighed and looked down to the street. It was finally morning, Makarov should be here soon enough. "Which vehicle will he be in?" He wondered aloud.
"They constantly rotate for security," Yuri answered in his usual accented rasp. "We won't know until he steps out."
MacTavish glared at him from the corner of his eye. "You seem to know a lot about Makarov."
Before Yuri could provide a defense, Price said over the comms, "Alpha One, radio check, over."
"Bravo One, copy," MacTavish responded, an inkling of exhaustion leaking into his voice. They'd been in this position for a long time now. "We're dug in with line of sight."
"Right, Kamarov's our eyes and ears inside the hotel. Once he gives us the nod, we'll kick this off." This was all Price had to say for now. Almost a whole half hour passed before he came back on with a curt, "What do you see?"
"Bugger-all, mate. Looks like Makarov's late for his own funeral," Soap told him.
"Sit tight until we get a clean shot. Then you can put as many rounds on him as you like."
"It'll only take one." With the sound of helicopters and cars approaching, MacTavish checks his rifle once more and says, "It's almost time, Yuri. The meeting will be on the second floor."
They both took aim at the building, and that's when Soap slowly watched their plans come unraveled. When he spotted Makarov in the third vehicle, he saw the man turn his head and look directly their way a hint of a smirk on his lips. It sent a shiver down his spine as he tried to his hardest to rationalize it. There was no way he could see them from this distance. It was impossible. Next was Kamarov going dark. It should have been more than enough reason to decide that their plan had gone south, that they had to pull out of the mission and retreat. Again, Soap tried to rationalize it. The idiot could've just forgot to turn on his comm. It wouldn't be the first time. They didn't have time to think too hard about it, they had to proceed with the mission.
That was just how SAS did things. They don't abandon mission.
After Price got inside, that's when things really fell apart. He found Kamarov tied to a chair in the elevator, loaded with C4. He could see the light flashing on the explosives, and Price duck for cover. "Price! Get out of there!"
Then he heard Makarov talking on the comm, likely taken off of Kamarov. He didn't hear much of the first part, processed some of it as Russian. The building exploded as the terrorist continued, "Yuri, my friend. You never should have come here."
Soap dropped the sniper rifle, his hands shaking. "What the hell's he talking about?" Suddenly he heard the familiar beep of explosives in the room. His heart slammed painfully now. Without even thinking, he shouted at Yuri, grabbed him by the back of his coat and threw him out of the building. Just as he jumped after him, he felt the heat and shock wave hit his back and right side.
Everything that followed felt like slow motion. Soap squinted his eye as the flash and fire hit his face. Then he smacked the sloped roof and started to roll. All his training flashed through his mind, he tried to control his fall, reaching out his hands to find purchase. He practically bounced over Yuri and flew off the edge. In his free fall and subsequent panic, he threw his arm in front of him to absorb the impact as he crashed through some scaffolding. He felt a sharp stabbing in his elbow and forearm. When he finally hit the ground arm first, everything went black.
There was a lot of weight on him, weight and brutally agonizing pain in his right arm. He could hardly see. Distantly, he heard gunfire, Price screaming his callsign. Suddenly the debris was flipped off him and he attempted to move his arm and get up. His hand only twitched. That's when he saw it, the large pieces of wood and metal sticking into the torn and bloodied sleeve, the awkward angle his wrist was turned at. Hands grabbed at his back and turned him over, and he just barely caught sight of Price through what was clearly a narrowed field of view. He also was reminded of his arm as it connected with the ground elbow first, which clearly jarred something and made him give an agonized groan.
"Look at me! You're alright!" Price shouted, then he was well out of his field of view. "Yuri! Grab him, we have to move now!"
Soap flinched as he once again tried to move by himself. If nothing else, he was stunned. In a matter of moments though, his mangled arm was grabbed as Yuri hoisted him on his shoulder to pull him along, and it was the worst thing he felt next to being stabbed in the stomach. He just about blacked out from the pain alone. Had he been in a better frame of mind, he would have told Yuri to do the bloody fireman carry and make this far less painful on his part. Instead he had to deal with Yuri tripping over in his haste and his own uncooperative feet, causing them both to tumble over after 20 or so meters, and Price shouting to pick him up.
They escaped the gunfire by going inside a blown open building and ending up in an alleyway on the other side. Price barked, "Set him down." Yuri sat him in front of a dumpster. The second his arm was released, it flopped uselessly beside him.
Soap grit his teeth, finally finding his voice again, "Just patch me up. Get me back in this." As he was saying this though, Price passed Yuri his gun and asserted that they had to move. Unfortunately for Soap, Price grabbed his right arm to pull him up. Once it was slung over though, Price let it go and grabbed him by the side to free up his own hand to hold a pistol. Although the jostling did him no favors, it hurt less than being grabbed. "We need... Nikolai... get us out..."
Price started hauling ass, kicking a door in and just about dragging him into the building. It became very apparent to Soap now that he must've rolled his ankle in the initial escape, since he couldn't keep much weight on it without buckling. One bad step though caused Soap's arm to bounce off Price's shoulder and for his old Captain to lose his grip on him. Soap tumbled onto the ground and knocked over a few boxes, once again landing his bad arm in the process. This time though he managed to catch himself a little with his off hand. Price didn't miss a beat and picked him right back up with a sharp "C'mon, Soap! You can make it."
Yuri was sent on ahead while Price pulled Soap along behind him. As Soap started to find more and more clarity, he became all too aware that his vision was definitely wrong. He couldn't seem to see out of his right eye at all, so any depth perception was gone. They raced through a store, bullets flying all around them, then out into the street where there were just as much enemies out there waiting for them. Soap fished out his pistol off his thigh holster and clutched it in his off hand, determined to help however possible.
They were moving not even a minute later, zero time to wait around. It was another door kicked down and through another building. Soap stepped wrong on his sprained ankle again, causing him to buckle. This time, Price readjusted his grip in time and kept him up as they got out into the streets. Yuri was making short work of their attackers, leaving a relatively clear path for them to follow. In that moment, he spotted an enemy coming from their left. He quickly shot him down as they made their way down the street.
"Nice shot, son..." Price told him.
Soap couldn't see Price's face right now, it was out of his view. He just gave a withering smile and said under his breath, "I can still teach you a thing or two, old man." The moment was gone in an instant as cars full of enemies appeared. "There's more! On the street!"
"Cut through the building! Let's go!"
The situation seemed to keep degrading. "They just keep comin'," Soap growled as Price let him down. This time he propped himself against a display case to get the weight off his ankle and aimed down with his left hand to help cover Yuri while he cleared the way. As Price shouted for them to keep moving, Soap heard more enemies coming. At this rate, Price would exhaust himself on their way to safety and they'd all die.
Soap swallowed heavily, not sure whether this revelation or the physical pain was worse by now. "Just leave me, Price!"
This elicited a sneer from the older man as he grabbed Soap, slung him over his shoulder and kept going. "No! I'm getting you out of this!"
He couldn't argue with the man anymore, he simply focused on moving as fast as he could in spite of his limp. He wouldn't be the reason they died. He refused to be the reason. He felt his eyes burn as they hobbled across a courtyard, as they ducked behind a brick fence.
"We made it, Soap! Just hold on!" Price let him go and Soap ungracefully tripped and hit the ground knee first. Although that hurt, and Price paused to help him, Soap brushed him off and moved himself forward a little before settling down against the brick wall, leaned on his off hand, his right arm limply laying on his lap. He listened to the firefight happening around him, shaking now. They had to get out. This was too much. Suddenly he heard three words that made all his fears vanish, "It's the resistance!"
It wasn't even a minute later when a part of the local resistance grabbed hold of him, one looping his hands under his armpits and the other by the ankles, and carried him inside. Soap's head lulled a little as he took in the sight of the roof passing overhead. There were more resistance there, guarding the way and covering where they came. The two carrying him set him down on a table. Price entered his limited field of view, and that's when he noticed Price's ear piece was missing. It must've been knocked out way back in the first explosion. If that were the case, then that meant that he didn't... "Price... Yuri..."
"Not now, Soap. Just rest." Price immediately turned around and shouted, "Get a medic!"
Frustrated, Soap let his head fall back against the table. He closed his eyes and tried to gather the resolve to simply interrupt Price and shout it at him, something. This was fucking important and he wasn't about to let it go yet.
Price shook him though, which did zero favors for his arm. "C'mon, stay with me, son!"
"Price..." Soap reached up now, finding the collar to the older man's shirt. He grabbed it tightly and pulled him in close, it was a struggle to prop himself up enough to look him dead in the eye. In that instant, Price froze, he stopped trying to hush him, he simply took hold of Soap's hand on his shirt. "You need to know... Makarov. Knows. Yuri." His balance slipped and he hit the back of his head against the wood. His grip tightened on Price's shirt as he growled lowly.
Price looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Slowly, he mouthed these words over before shaking his head. "It doesn't matter right now, we've got to get you fixed up. You're gonna be alright."
At that moment, the resistance leader approached. "Price, you have to go! Now!"
Soap gave Price a hard stare as he took back his hand and sat up. "Nikolai's not too far from here. I'll live for now, let's go."
Gunfire then blasted every window open, and Price quickly slung Soap over his back and carried him out of the immediate fire. As they approached the door to the cellar, Price turned and shouted, "Yuri! Open it!"
Soap furrowed his brows, as Price had demonstrated at least three times today, he was perfectly capable of kicking this door in. Why did he suddenly need help now? Why not have Yuri cover the back as they went down? He didn't have to wait long for an answer, since the second Yuri opened the door, Price grabbed him with his free hand, spun him around, and cracked his fist into Yuri's jaw. The resulting blow sent the Russian tumbling down the full flight of steps in an almost cartoonish fashion. Price didn't even wait for him to hit the bottom before starting down after him, pulling back out his pistol. Soap hung on Price's back, gawking in silence as Yuri smacked against the cellar floor.
"Soap trusted you..." Price growled, setting Soap down on the last step. "I thought I could too." He cocked the pistol and pointed it directly into Yuri's bleeding face and yelled, "So why, in the bloody hell, does Makarov know you?!"
This was it, exactly what Soap had been avoiding for months. Here was the freak out he anticipated. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. Before he could try and calm Price down, Yuri started talking, his words fumbled as he jumped to explain himself. He told them how he was by Makarov's side for many years, too many years, how he worked along side the terrorist and watched him spiral out of control after Zakhaev's death. In the end, he betrayed Makarov by trying to prevent the airport massacre a few months ago, and was left for dead. That explained a lot...
"Price... we need to leave," Soap finally said after Yuri finished his little story.
"Okay, Yuri. You bought yourself some time..." Price grabbed Yuri by the collar and forced him up, though never lowered the gun from his head. "For now."
Yuri nodded with grim acceptance of this, and he was let go. Price holstered his pistol and picked up Soap again so they could leave. It was a long walk down the tunnels until they reached the other end, the cellar of another house. Outside, the streets were clear. Just a nondescript tan car resting on the curb. Waiting at the top of the steps was Nikolai, who didn't so much as bat an eye at the battered up state both Soap and Yuri were in.
That was how they escaped. Almost all of them.
When they reached their little safe house, they finally had a chance to have Soap looked at by their medic. Price couldn't have been more relieved, considering the sort of hell his old charge looked like he'd been through. The right side of Soap's face was caked in blood from his eye which had swelled shut pretty quickly, and his right arm was full of wood and metal splinters along with being very clearly broken in at least a couple places. Price stayed close by while the field doctor cut away the ribbons of fabric that were left of Soap's coat sleeve to get a better look at the injuries. Without the cloth, it was readily apparent that the forearm was broken in a few spots and the elbow was shattered. Even after the wood and metal was all removed, the limb was pretty much a mangled mess; Soap could barely twitch his thumb, much less move his hand. For now the arm was bandaged up to keep it from freely bleeding.
If it wasn't for the saline drip, Price doubted Soap would be in nearly as sable a condition as he was now, since he lost at least a couple pints of blood during their escape. Veins were definitely ruptured. The medic shook his head. "There's no way I can save this..."
"Can't you at least try?" Price questioned.
"With what I have on hand? We don't have any of the supplies to fix this," was the flat answer. "He needs an actual hospital, not a few stitches and a cast. If this gets infected then he's pretty much dead."
Price opened his mouth to argue further, but Soap cut him off. "Do what you can."
The medic nodded. "Captain Price, could you please leave while I deal with this?"
"Can he stay? Just in case I can't keep still?" Soap asked quietly. "We don't have anesthetics..."
This request made the medic sigh. Seemed he was coming to the realization that there was no way to reasonably argue with them. 'Bout time. "Fine. Price can stay if he wants to help, but that's his choice."
"I'll do it," Price agreed, zero question. "Just tell me what you need me to do."
So began perhaps the longest hour of Price's life. The limb was cleaned up, and the medic broke out the suture and needles. Soap couldn't be given anything yet to deal with pain since all it would take was some blood thinners to cause him to bleed out like a garden hose. Instead he got the next best thing, a belt to bite on and Price offered his hand for him to squeeze. He had to lay back, and his arm was set out so the field doctor could have access to it.
Fifty or so stitches later, the medic pulled off the bloodied gloves and washed his hands. "I'm going to have to push the bone back in place before I can splint it. Be ready." He readied himself at Soap's arm, posed to pop it back, and had Price hold him down. "On the count of three. One. Two." There was no three, the medic shoved the bone back in without warning before Soap could brace himself. This tore a pain filled scream from the younger coupled with the sound of the bone grinding back into place.
From there, the medic bandaged and splinted the arm, as well as made a makeshift sling from some straps to stabilize his elbow. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it would hold for now.
With a relieved sigh, the medic gathered up his equipment to put it away. "Price, you should go rest. Thank you for your help. I can finish up here."
Price gave a hollow nod, patted Soap on the shoulder, and walked out of the room. Outside, he shut the door and sunk down to the floor, staring down at his feet.
"Is he going to be alright?" Nikolai approached with a cup full of steaming dark liquid and passed it to Price. He couldn't be sure whether it was coffee or tea, since it lacked any sort of smell.
"His arm's a mess..." Price told him, taking a cautious sip of the drink. It was black tea, or at least it almost was. Nikolai never could quite grasp brew times. "And I think his eye may be damaged too. If he can avoid an infection, then he'll live at least."
"Knowing him, he'll be moving around within the week," Nikolai replied with a clear attempt at humor. Last time Soap had been in critical condition, it was also because of Price. But then, he pulled through and was up and walking a week later, though he was constantly popping the stitches in the process. "Men like him don't go down easily."
Price glowered at the cup of tea. "I know..." It took a lot of willpower to force himself to stand again, to go to the little computer left out and start planning their next move. He'd finish this. He owed Soap that much. "Nikolai, tell Yuri to get his gear together. I've got to make a call."
In the days following, there were two definite developments concerning Soap's condition. First, that his right eye was damaged enough that he had trouble seeing out of it. The medic was hopeful that with some careful surgery done by someone far more capable than he was could possibly correct this problem. Though there remained the possibility that it could be beyond saving. Until either became clear, it had to be covered in bandages to keep it protected like the arm. The other thing was that Soap managed to lose a decent amount of blood over the course of his ordeal, making it damn near impossible for him to stay focused longer than a few minutes at a time, or even conscious for much longer than an hour tops before he passed out again.
Price could only be thankful that nothing got infected. There would've been no hope after that point. After attempting to track down Makarov alone, after watching the Delta squad they'd worked with in the past get left behind, he was tired. Physically and emotionally tired. He wasn't sure just how much more he could stand. A little dark thought in the back of his head reminded him that Soap could be dead right now. He had to ignore that the man's life was put in the balance for at least the third time now, that he may very well just wish he was dead anyways. Once this was all over, he would do his best to be there for him. Price felt he owed him that much.
How many times did Soap save his skin? How many times did he drag him through hell and watched him come on top fighting the whole way through? It was his decisions that led to this...
While Price sat there at Soap's bedside, helped him nurse water when he was responsive enough or coax him to eat as regularly as he could convince him, he tried to focus on the positive. MacMillian was doing everything in his power to clear their names. They'd have to go through a trial, sure, but they had their story. They also had the fact that they just helped end the bloody war on their side. War crimes... well, they were wanted criminals, the rules stop applying. It was also doubtful that anyone would be aware of how Waraabe died or something like that anyways. It was Shepherd's murder they'd want answers for, and Price could only think of one key piece of evidence they had that may sway the decision: that little journal Soap kept.
Soap had taken it out of his pocket and started some sketch a couple days ago, but his left hand was untrained and shaky. In his frustration, he chucked the book at the end of the cot and no one dared to lay a finger on the little black book since. Price gave it one look, picked it up, and pulled the red band over the opposite cover to keep it shut. He wouldn't look through it, not now. He wouldn't take it either. It was Soap's decision whether he wanted to show it to anyone, and he almost never did. Price respected that, and set the book down on the end table beside the cot in case the younger ever decided he wanted to try again.
As Price settled back down in the metal folding chair, he heard two knocks on the door frame and looked to see Nikolai. "You've been sitting here a long time, my friend."
"Remember how you said he'd be up in a week? I don't think he's there yet." Price said, a hint of remorse in his tone.
"You know, I used to know someone in the Soviets. Tall, strong man by the name of Sasha. In Afghanistan, he almost didn't need a gun, could just wrestle anyone to the ground." Nikolai grabbed one folded chair left propped against the wall and flicked it open to seat himself. "One day though, a grenade took off his leg. He said, 'Nikolai, comrade, give me a crutch and an AK, I will finish this fight just to spite them.' Instead, I had him man my helicopter's mini gun."
Price gave his friend a strange look as he told this little story. "What's your point?"
"Soap reminds me a lot of him, and I think he'll be just as stubborn. Once he recovers enough, you'll see."
Soap woke up late at night, it was the first real bit of clarity he had in a while. Price had fallen asleep in a chair by his bedside with a blanket wrapped over his shoulders (probably by Nikolai, the mother hen). Soap looked over the IV line and carefully bit the tube to pull it off and set the end aside. Then, as quietly as he could, he slipped off the cot and stood up.
Light headedness and wavering vision made him have to wait much longer than he would have liked before he could move. Then, with one step, his knees buckled from weakness and he hit the ground with a thump. He held his breath for fear that Price heard it, but as seconds turned to minutes, he heard no change in the man's breathing. He was in the clear. Relieved, he stood back up and made his way to the door. Outside was the common room, with Nikolai sprawled across an old couch with a laptop rested on his stomach. Only the light from his plain text screensaver illuminated his face.
As far as familiarity goes, Soap knew the safe house decently enough. This was the same one in the Czech Republic that they stayed at before going into Prague. Since he knew the layout, he also knew where the bathroom was, as well as where he stashed his meager bag of belongings that he hauled from one place to the next. The bag was pushed under a cot. Of course there were also seven or so sleeping men in that room. Soap could only hope that the snoring would disguise his approach.
He crept up to the third cot to the left end and knelt down. Quietly, he patted underneath until his fingers found the rough material of the bag strap. Soap grinned at his minor victory and slid the bag out and picked through it for a clean change of clothes. They had removed his gear when they got here, took off his ruined coat after his arm was stitched and bandaged, cut off the destroyed sleeve of his shirt. Beyond that, they didn't do much of anything about his clothes, probably a mix of him not being helpful and them not wanting to remove the IV drip.
"...Soap...?"
The voice made him freeze. Although the person was well in his blind spot, MacTavish recognized Yuri's gruff voice. Soap slowly turned his head to see the Russian in question laying on the nearby cot. A whole mess of bandages wrapped around his abdomen. No one told him that the guy had been wounded. Still though, he couldn't have him wake everyone else up. Soap hushed him and quickly retreated with his clothes. The best he could hope for was that Yuri was too out of it to make sense of the situation, maybe not even remember it in the morning.
Soap shut the door with trained care and turned around to find himself face to face with Nikolai. Startled, Soap took a step back and smacked into the door. He cringed at the noise it made. So much for his stealthy approach. "Nikolai, what are you doing up?"
"I can ask you the same question," Nikolai deadpanned. His eyes went down to the shirt and pants draped over Soap's arm, then back up at him. "I heard you leave the other room. You shouldn't be out of bed."
"I'm fine," Soap insisted. Of course, his lack of a fuctioning arm made that claim harder to pass off. He slid away from the door and took a few weary steps towards the bathroom. "Really. Just let me clean myself up, then I'll go straight back to bed, okay?"
Nikolai couldn't look more skeptical, he stood there with his arms crossed and his I-really-don't-like-your-idea frown that Soap became very accustomed to. "I will be here, so just call if you need something."
Soap sighed with relief. "Thanks." He then hurried to the bathroom, a touch clumsy on his feet, but he managed not to trip or anything. Once inside, he dropped his clothes on the ground and removed the sling. With it gone, he worked on wrestling his shirt off with one arm. The only real struggle there was getting it up his torso, but once it was above his left elbow, he managed to flip it over his head and off his right arm. Soap paused to stare at the bandaged limp, there were angry red lines running up his arm and it hurt like crazy. Maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him, but he swore the pain felt a whole lot worse than what it probably was.
He feared what he'd be told when they got back to England and he got some real medical attention. If there wasn't anything they could do about his arm or his eye, then what sort of life did he even have to go back to? His dad and him had a falling out a few years ago, so the old man wasn't someone he could lean on. The little apartment he used to have probably got handed off to somebody else by now, since he hadn't been around to pay about two months worth of rent. The idea that the government didn't reclaim his assets when he became a wanted criminal was laughable. Here he was, a decorated soldier, now prospective homeless person. He may as well be dead.
Soap went to the sink and took in the sight of his very scruffy face in the mirror, his eye covered in bandages. The other eye was slightly red and glossy with forming tears...
Frustrated, he punched the sink and then hastily rubbed his eye. Crying wasn't allowed right now. He needed to focus on the task he set out to do. He picked up the cheap razor off the edge of the sink and did his best to mow down his beard with his off hand. This resulted a couple of tiny cuts, but he dismissed them and washed off the hair before putting the razor back. He then did his best to wash himself in the sink, after deciding that showering wouldn't be possible without taking off the bandages, which he couldn't bring himself to do.
Ten minutes later, he was relatively clean. So began the fight to get on his clean clothes. The pants were the hardest part for him, since he could only tug up one side at a time and they'd slip back down if he let go. It took some artful shimmying to get them on. Then there was the shirt. It was the only T shirt he had on had after the other got ripped to shreds in Afghanistan, as well as the only thing he could figured he could get on. He had to get his injured arm in first, then pull it over his head and slip his left arm in the other hole. After that, he put back on the sling, proud he managed to do this and keep his arm in the same position.
Soap left the bathroom with his dirty clothes in hand, only to find that not only was Nikolai waiting in the common room, but so was Price. On top of that, in the time that he took to fix himself up, one of the two made tea. It was three in the god damn morning and they were having tea...
The sound of the shutting door caused Price to look up. There was something akin to smile that found its way to his face. "It's good to see you up, son."
"See? Told you he wouldn't stay down long," Nikolai remarked, the earlier seriousness that he showed Soap was far from present now.
Soap looked from one to the other while he threw the very much destroyed shirt he had on previously in the trash bin. Two shirts too many he had to trash, as far as he was concerned. "You picked a weird time to have a brew."
"It's tea time somewhere." Price patted the seat nearby. "How about you sit down and have some."
As tempting as it was to go back to his cot and hide under the covers, lament over his injuries, Soap ended up sitting down with them. Price poured him a cup, which he didn't go to drink straight away. Instead he rubbed the mug's handle with his thumb and watched the other twos' hands, how Nikolai clasped his own cup with both and Price held his at the rim and kept his off hand free to move as he talked. It was something he didn't notice before.
"Right, Soap?"
The younger blinked, realizing both were staring at him now. He managed to space out through the whole exchange. "Sorry, could you run that by me again?"
"Concerning Yuri, do you think he's any sort of risk at this point," Price asked. "We just need to be sure that we're all on the same page."
"He explained himself. As long as he doesn't let his vendetta against Makarov get in the way, he's fine." It didn't mean Soap actually trusted Yuri, but he would owe him some benefit of doubt at least.
"Alright. Good. Then there shouldn't be any problems, Nikolai."
Nikolai looked visibly relieved. He took a generous sip of tea and shook his head. "I am glad to hear it."
Soap returned the smile, though it wasn't nearly as genuine as he wished it was. "So, got any plans once this all blows over?"
"I have some things arranged," Nikolai answered. "This will not be the last you have seen of me."
Price gave an indifferent shrug. "When I see Makarov finally dead, I'm leaving the service. Seems like a good enough note to end on."
"But what about after that?" Soap asked.
"Mm..." He rubbed at his beard. "Figure out what a man in his mid forties can still do with his life? How about you?"
Soap frowned. "I'm not sure..."
"Well if you ever need a place to shack up, I've got a spare bedroom," Price offered. "I don't want to find you begging by the motorway."
He definitely remembered the room. Once upon a four years ago, Price and his wife split up. Too many disputes. She took their kid and the car and was just gone. He was left with the house. Soap ended up helping pack his kid's stuff to send when Ex-Mrs. Price found a place to stay. After the separation, Price started spending a lot more time on base.
"Thanks, I might have to take you up on that offer."
Towards the end of October, the official treaty resolving the war was signed, and MacMillan collected them from their safe house. It was the first time in a short while since Soap had been on a helicopter, since Nikolai's were shot down one by one over the course of the war. The feeling brought on a whole new level of anxiety, especially as the troops who came to get them wouldn't stop staring at mess of bandages that hid his arm.
Price stayed close by, hanging towards his blind side. It'd taken about a week before their small group caught on to the fact that anyone aside from Price or Nikolai being to his immediate right tended to startle Soap half to death. It made sense, not only could he not see whoever was there, but he had to waste precious seconds turning his body to react if there was danger. The only sign that Price was there was his shoulder brushing against his. It was the smallest bit of physical contact, but it was just to make his being there a little less likely to spook him.
"Captain Price," one of the soldiers said, "Captain MacTavish. It's an honor."
The statement made Soap look him up and down. The man had an SAS patch. It took a second longer to recognize this person as Walcroft. "It's been a while."
Walcroft nodded. "Apparently. You look... different." He had to stop himself from directly commenting on the makeshift eye patch and the stump.
"Seeing as we're not being handcuffed or anything," Price inquired, "I take it you don't think we're much of a threat."
"Why should we? You may not know it, but we've had about a dozen operators from the 141 come out of hiding on their own and seek out the authorities just to explain what happened. Two of them, Aaron Hale and Justin Long, both claimed to witness General Shepherd execute a couple of your men."
Soap couldn't exactly make sense of his mixed feelings towards this. On one hand, Archer and Toad along with a few more of his men survived. However, they were witnesses to Ghost and Roach's murder... He couldn't even begin to imagine what it looked like, or how dignified a death they were given. "Did they provide any specifics?"
Walcroft gave a slow nod, and knitted his hands together on his lap. "Apparently one of them was hit by a mortar on the way to the evac site. The field commander dragged him to the General's pave low and he shot them both. After that..." There was a dark look in his eye. "... Afterwards, his men doused both of them in gasoline and lit them on fire. By the time either of the two could reach them, it was too late."
If only he could have done more back then. A single knife to the eye was too clean a death for Shepherd. "I see..."
Price patted his shoulder and responded with, "When Shepherd turned on us, our force was split up. Some of our men we had survived the initial betrayal, but we were sure that the other group was completely wiped out. It's good to hear that's not the case."
In that moment, Walcroft dispelled the gloom around him. "On the upside, you both have a strong case in your favor. From the sound of things, the Special Service Director's fighting to get the charges dropped."
"That's all we could hope for. Thank you, Walcroft."
Just as Walcroft predicted, the higher ups were doing just about everything in their power to get it over with as painlessly as possible, much to Price's relief. There was the small setback with the man who handed out the charges of treason, global terror, and "violent acts against the government" being deader than a door nail. An offense summary couldn't be give. More over, the severity of the charges meant they had to be tried by the Martial Court. Over the course of a week, it was court hearing after hearing. The matter was pretty controversial with them being a pair of the most wanted war criminals, so the press scrounged for any details they could get.
Right when they landed in England, Soap had his arse packed and shipped to the nearest hospital (not entirely of his own accord). There was a whole barrage of X-Rays that had to be taken, eye examinations, so on and so forth... About a couple days in though, Soap ended up with a fever as a result of infection which had set into both his eye and his arm. Price found himself spending almost all his time either in that court room, visiting the hospital, or crashed with Nikolai and Yuri in some tiny apartment that was really was only suited for a single person. He didn't have any time to go to his own house, or rather he forgot to in all the chaos. In a way, he almost envied Soap. At least his being hospitalized excused him from actually attending the court meetings. Price ended up having to speak on both their behalf, claiming that the younger Captain was acting under his command, just so they wouldn't try to drag his arse out of the hospital. It wasn't exactly a lie.
At the end of that very stressful week, the charges were dropped and the Special Forces Director, Major General MacMillan, issued a public statement on the matter. Price stayed to watch his small speech, and afterwards threw on his coat to leave. Today, the doctors would be discussing what they'd be doing with Soap in terms of treatment outside of their insane amount of antibiotics they had him on.
Before he could get far, his old CO caught up to him. "Oi, John, where are you going in such a hurry?"
It was enough to make Price stop and turn. He offered MacMillan a salute. "I'm going to see Soap in the hospital."
"Ah, I see. How's the lad doing?" As he asked this, MacMillan pulled on his own coat and stepped around him to reach for the door.
"Infection's made him completely blind in his right eye," Price told him. He felt a chill as he recalled Soap's reaction to the news; he simply shut down and stared blankly at the floor. "But they think that once he gets his strength back, they can maybe surgically repair it. There's also his arm... It's not looking too good, Mac."
With a nod, MacMillan let Price out first and stepped into the chilled November air behind him. "I hope the best for him. In the meantime, we're going to catch your man and bring him down."
"If you find him, give me a call. I got a score to settle with him."
"I'll do you one better. You can help us track him down. If anyone knows how he operates, it's you."
Price gave him a grin. "I'd be my pleasure." With that, he got to his car. "Thanks for everything."
MacMillan smiled, causing the small wrinkles around his eyes to deepen, and pulled Price into a hug. "I'm just glad to have you back, son. Now you take good care of your charge, he'll need it."
Price stood there, stunned at the warmth of the action and his words. Twenty years ago, he carried his Captain to safety. It wasn't the first time he stuck his neck out for the man, but it was the last time in the field. MacMillan did more to help him in return than he ever cared to admit. Now, it was Price's turn to watch after his own man who went through hell for him. It was his turn to be that supporting figure. He pushed back the prickling tears and returned his CO's hug. "I will."
And that's the beginning. I know this is super long and jumps all over the place, but the idea came and I just had to get it down. What I wanted to establish was what would have changed in the mission since Soap's injuries were different, but the chapter just kept getting longer and longer and I didn't find a stopping point until the end of the court case. Originally I was gonna have Soap's arm get amputated just after the mission, but for length reasons, I'm moving that to the next chapter and fortunately won't need to actually write it out this time. Oh well. I look forward to writing the next chapter!
