Endure
Part [1/5]

There's ringing silence; Makarov pausing to wipe a young man's arterial spray from the side of his face.

Bodies lie strewn across the floor; blood soaking through lilac carpets, congealing on swathes of linoleum. Minutes earlier and there'd been yelling, and crying, and begging for mercy - cowering figures cut down by hails of lead and men without moral codes. Joseph Allen had been one of them; bile rising in his throat, even though he'd dulled himself to the world with drugs and alcohol and wicked, poisonous lies of patriotism and loyalty.

They'd sent him into the wolf's den. Ordered him to do anything he was asked to conceal himself, to stop a war, and yet... he knows, now, without a shadow of a doubt, that he's just helped orchestrate one.

"Joseph Allen," the Mad Dog says quietly, pulling out a handkerchief to clean the red from his fingertips. White cloth starts to stain as the Russian steps closer, odd eyes flicking up to meet the defeated gaze of the American. "It is a pity that it had to end this way."

The sound of boots squelching in puddles of piss, and shit, and blood, is the only warning he gets as the Inner Circle soldiers start to turn on him. Cold expressions, predatory smiles. Allen doesn't dare fight back as his arms are dragged behind his back in a vice-like grip; his weapon, empty and useless, having already dropped to the floor. A shuddering breath gives away his fear; so strong that it oozes out from behind the sluggish beat of his heart. He starts to tremble; knees wobbling, chest feeling tight. At twenty-one years old, he's been granted the power to see his future.

And there's nothing there.

"You were so easy to manipulate, hm?" Makarov tucks the handkerchief back into the pocket of his suit, unhurried, casual, before slowly un-holstering his M9. The gun glints menacingly under flickering lights; the Russian giving Allen plenty of time to see it, as he clicks off the safety. "Shepherd knew how far you would go. He is a clever man. Perhaps I will thank him. You were such a fun toy to fuck with, no?"

Sweat and an understated cologne assault his nose; Makarov so close now that he can feel the heat radiating off the other man. Allen is a shaking mess; teeth sinking into his lip as a last, defiant act. He'd given them so much already, and he'd be damned if he gave them anything more.

"Look at me, Allen," the Russian's calloused palm cups his chin, forcibly tilting his head up. Allen flinches at the touch, but can't stop it from happening; blood turning ice cold in his veins as he's met with Makarov's smirk. The sudden jab of metal in his gut forces an involuntary whimper from his lips; terror blowing his pupils. His end is not going to quick. "Breathe."

A second; suspended in time.

The gun shifts higher.

BOOM!

Allen wakes up screaming.

It's hoarse; broken - the brutal noise mercilessly ripping itself out of an already ravaged throat. Pain lances through his neck; eyes stinging at the sharp sensation, but the American doesn't stop; doesn't think to, because it's been such a long time since stopping pain has been a choice. Such a long time that he often forgets it's not a part of him; that it should never be a part of him.

A glass shatters; knocked off the bedside table by violent thrashing, its shards scattering across aging floorboards. He's tangled in his sheets; trapped, the linen damp with sweat. If he stops to think for half a second, he'll figure it out; he'll get himself free, but with each ragged breath, Allen can feel the bullet tearing into him.

Ripping through skin, and ligaments. Breaking bones. Copper and salt flood into his mouth; choking him, because as much as he swallows, he can't swallow it all. He's on his back, on the floor, with a shadow looming over him; head wedged at an angle, looking up at the ceiling. He can't turn it and he can't breathe.

He can't breathe.

"Shite!"

The light turns on; scrubbing away the darkness that's blinding him. Footsteps reach his ears; loud and hurried enough that they thump right through the din he's making. Hands reach out to him; grasping at the covers.

"Soap!" A voice barks sharply. "Don't you bloody well dare!"

Allen doesn't register the arms as friendly; barely with it as he lunges, driven by self-preservation. The attack never lands; a second figure appearing just in time to pull the first back. There's a grunt; stumbling bodies. Swearing in voices that brush against his memories; trying to pull him back.

"He's going to hurt himself, Old Man," somebody says, echoing concern.

"I'd rather he get a knock on his head than you pop your bloody stitches," comes the flat response; tone brooking no argument. "Stay there."

"Price-"

"Leave it."

"Like I'm a fucking dog, aye?"

Still writhing on the bed; mattress creaking under his weight, Allen rips and wrenches, using brute force to free the right side of his torso. Panic holds onto him; chest heaving as he gasps for air; whites of his eyes showing a he tries to adjust to the sudden brightness. With a rasping groan, he manages to get enough purchase with his right arm to push his body upright, adrenaline rather than his muscle supporting the weight.

"Joseph, lad," the words lack the edge they'd had several seconds before; the shorter, stockier man making his way back across the room. Price. "You need to breathe-"

The Captain, with his palms upturned and expression uncharacteristically gentle, vanishes - replaced by a slighter, dark-haired Russian. Immaculate suit ruined; flecks of flesh and blood carving out a new design.

Allen feels his fist connect with warmth; inhuman snarl drowning out the surprised grunt. It takes a lot from him; trying to hit the bastard where it hurts, and he overbalances. For a good few seconds he teeters on the edge of the bed; broken glass awaiting him like razor rocks at the bottom of a cliff. The threat is lost on him; everything is lost on him.

And then Price slams into him like a professional quarterback.

It's rough - the force tossing Allen back against his pillows like a rag-doll; the weight of the SAS Captain securing him there like a pinned insect. Even fresh and fighting fit out of basic, Allen wouldn't have stood a chance against twenty-five years of experience, and right now, with his BMI still falling short of healthy, it's a pipe dream.

But that doesn't make him stop struggling. Makarov had only been the beginning; the months after he'd been left to die on the airport floor, markedly worse than the bullet wound the Russian had inflicted on him. It'd been the FSB that had fished him out of there; a small group of hard men, saving his life for the sole purpose of making him suffer far more in what Allen had eventually learned was a Government black site. When the guards had restrained him there... the memories only have to flicker for a heartbeat, before Allen's face starts to crumple.

The first choked sob makes Price wince; analytical blue gaze softening.

"Soap," Price turns his head, chin grazing his shoulder; his hands preoccupied. "Get the Ativan."

"Christ, you'd think we were the stuff of nightmares..." Soap pushes himself away from the wall Price had bailed him up against, cupping his healing wound through a two-sizes-too-big sweatshirt. Worry darkening his features; the sounds of distress from a veritable kid leaving cracks in his composure, the former 141 Captain collects a syringe from Allen's dresser; ripping its packaging before drawing a dose out of the vial. "Hold him still."

"He's as bloody still as he's going to get."

It's not hard to see the strain - several veins starting to stand out rather prominently on Price's temple. More adept at playing the jack-booted thug with thick sods that deserved it; his own sordid past in a place similar to the hell hole the Loyalists had found Allen, the poor bugger warbling at him pressing a nerve. Soap bumps his OC as he moves to stand next to him. "You're doing fine, Old Man."

Price grunts again. "Just stick him, eh?"

Allen is huffing like he's run a ten mile race; every third breath hitched and shuddering. He's flushed; terrified, and as Soap reaches down to do as Price ordered, he seizes - one last ditch effort to get away, his legs kicking out. Price growls through clenched teeth.

"Now, Soap!"

Pressing a hand down on Allen's chest; feeling the rigid lines and tension, Soap leans over him quickly, searching for a quick and painless spot to administer the drug. The younger man bucks beneath him; jolting both men; the motion sending a spark of white hot pain lancing through Soap's side. "Easy, mate, easy. We're going to help you, aye," he's crooning, a little breathlessly, trying not to grit his teeth. "Sshh."

Not daring to faff about any longer, he slides the needle into Allen's bicep; thumb pressing down the plunger. Ativan was more effective when injected directly into a vein, but it still worked either way.

"You'll be alright, lad," it takes a few minutes for the lorazepam to work; the first sign that it'd hit Allen's bloodstream coming when he unintentionally relaxes in Price's grip. "There we go," Price mutters after he's sure it's not feigned reaction; finally letting up; letting Allen go. "Up you come."

Both Soap and Price move to help the American sit. Allen sways as he does; eyes glassy, head lolling to the side. The rest of him follows as he leans too far; the American caught unwittingly against Price's shoulder as his forehead bumps into it; Price catching him out of reflex.

"Mac always said I'd turn into a sodding wet nurse," Price says; sounding gruff, but not pushing Allen away; his hand coming to rest on the younger man's hair.

Soap cocks an eyebrow, but doesn't slip into light-hearted teasing; unwilling to intrude on the moment. "There's worse things to be, Old Man."

"Hm."

A month ago, Kamarov had led Price and Soap through a winding, cement building hidden beneath the arid desert and blustering heat of Afghanistan. Left behind from the Soviet-Afghan war in the 80s, the underground stronghold promised a safe hiding place; a place where Soap, still barely able to stand after the hatchet job Shepherd had done to him weeks before, could heal under the Loyalists' watchful eye while Price slipped in and out; hunting prey that was well beyond the hovels and mud hut villages dotted around the landscape.

Five weeks after they'd made a small, quiet corner their own among the fifty odd Russian soldiers - some formally trained, and others not - Kamarov had returned to them with a surprise. One that had left the Loyalist leader's eye black; his lip split; and an unfaltering somber look on his face.

Joseph Allen.

Soap hadn't been able to find the words as a couple of Kamarov's men had pulled the twenty-two year old through the doors; utterly wild, despite his arms looking like twigs in the grip of two burly Loyalists. Price had taken one glance at the poor chewed up bastard and promptly asked if Kamarov was trying to do them. Because there was nothing but a cornered animal in that bundle of rags, ready to lash out at the first thing that moved. Kamarov had made a remark about leaving the next Western soldier he found in the same black site he'd found them in, before staunchly striding out of the room with promises to send a medic - when they could spare one.

For three days after, Price and Soap took it in turns, watching Allen. Both of them wary; both of them unwilling to let their guard down, despite the young man gravitating to a corner and staying there. One day into it, Soap had cautiously gone to sit with the American; rumbling nonsense as he'd gotten close, his need to help the lad letting him compartmentalize the guilt; the pain. The nausea every time he look at the matted hair and grimy face, well aware that it was a toxic combination of his own naivety and Shepherd's cruelty that had thrown Joseph Allen to the wolves in the first place.

If he could turn back time, he would.

For all of them.

It was on the fourth day, when Soap had carefully settled in next to the kid; placing a ceramic bowl of cereal down between them as an offering, that their slightly rabid third wheel had shuffled a little closer. Grey eyes full of recognition for his old Captain, Allen had picked up the spoon with disjointed fingers, making a decision that Soap would not have begrudged of him, if it had been any different.

He was going to trust.

Just a little bit, for a little while.

And if that little bit worked out, maybe he'd try for a little longer.

Until the meter slowly filled back up again.

Soap had been willing to live with that; still was willing, as Price finally followed him out of Allen's room thirty minutes after Soap himself had left; a stumbling, half-asleep Ranger on his heels.

Setting a bowl of porridge down on an old, plastic table Price had brought back from one of his many trips; Soap gently claps Allen on the shoulder as he comes in to collect his breakfast, winking as he catches the young man eyeing him from beneath half-lowered lids, always cautious.

"Morning, mate."

There's a long moment; Allen twitching slightly as Price steps away to switch on the kettle; leaving him exposed. The meter they'd been working on together had apparently backslid, though Soap is reassured it isn't too far as Allen reaches up to rub the back of his neck; hoarse voice still a few octaves lower than normal.

"... Morning."

In the background water starts to boil; Price turning to lean on the counter, his arms crossed, expression schooled into passivity as his eyes flicked to the table. "Put honey on that, lad. If you get any bloody thinner, you'll blow away in the wind."

Allen blinks slowly, not quite sure what to think; glancing at Soap. With a faintly amused grin twisting his lips, Soap picks up the bottle of honey Nikolai had brought them on his last fly over, handing it to Allen. "We wouldn't want that, now, would we?"

Confusion gives way to a look Soap would have called wholly unconvinced; Joseph Allen taking the sticky offering like it was a dirty rag. Allen didn't have the courage to refuse either of them just yet; a fact Soap felt torn about, but ultimately let lie - believing that Price, if not himself, knew best.

"... Thanks."

Neither of Price or Soap take offense to the lack of sincerity; both preferring this Allen to the one that'd woken up screaming. Kid couldn't help it, Soap knew - but unhappiness over a condiment was preferable to the cruel breakdown of a young man who'd experienced more horror in the past year than most did in a lifetime. That was for bloody sure.

What on earth they were going to do with Allen when Soap was fit for duty was an issue he didn't have an answer to; their hunt for Makarov no doubt a waking nightmare for the American. Before Kamarov had brought Allen in from the cold, Price had been chomping at the bit to leave; to chase Makarov down and slot the bastard in short order. Those aspirations had cooled off since; Soap now unsure of where they stood.

As Price turns back to making tea, Soap decides that he'll have to follow up on that; dark gaze falling on Allen with a certain sort of protectiveness; the lad idly stirring his oats. Soap would need to trust whoever they left him with.

Absolutely.

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! I wanted to write a little something before 2017 ended, and came up with a small H/C fic where Allen survives. This story was unplanned and born straight out of a drabble, so it's not quite as polished as the usual and it's not going to be, as I need to focus on other things, but hopefully someone can enjoy it :).

I hope you all have a happy, healthy 2018.

PS: To anyone who might be interested, there is a writing event with prizes being hosted for the Call of Duty fandom at [ www (dotty) fuckyeahcodocs (dotty) tumblr (dotty) com/tagged/codathon2k18 ]. Remove the (dotty) and replace with a fullstop. It runs until the 15th of February and anyone is welcome to join!