Judas
Chapter One

A/N: This story is a direct prequel to Sleeping Dogs. It follows the events leading up to the start of that particular story. Like Sleeping Dogs, Judas heavily references the work Caught In The System by SassySatsuma (with her permission, of course) and includes characters and ships from that story.

This work was started for the COD-A-THON 2K18 event, hosted by FUCKYEAHCODOCs on Tumblr.

The last time he'd seen his OC, Price was bleeding out in the Karkonosze Mountains.

Makarov had known they were coming; Ultranationalists lying in wait when the joint 141 and SFOD-D team turned up to kick in the Mad Dog's door. Soap had barely registered Price's roar of 'Ambush!' as the first bullets started flying - men in Russian styled camouflage pouring out of the woodwork like cockroaches. It was a shitfest from the beginning; their exfil ten mikes out by the time someone got into cover long enough to radio it in. Soap had heard Command's response crackle through his comm., gut twisting into knots, combat discipline keeping his rifle trained on the enemy.

The rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire had cracked in the air, the acrid smell of gunpowder searing his nose. For every Russian they put in the ground, another rose up to take his place. They were being overrun in short order – the lot of them on the fast track to meeting their maker.

Then the RPG had hit.

Blinding white light, and pain. The next thing Soap knew, he was in the back of a V-22 Osprey. A medic was leaning over him, hands hooking up IVs and examining his wounds. Words of protest had erupted from Soap's lips out of reflex, garbled and loud. His ears had been ringing; his head pounding like he'd just buggered his liver in the Edinburgh Pub Crawl. But instead of soured whisky, the taste of blood was awash in his mouth. He'd tried to sit, briefly catching a blurred glimpse outside the aircraft.

…Price?

It had taken Ghost and the SFOD-D lads to hold him back as his OC was swallowed by a cloud of dust - the Old Man's fate sealed by the cold finality of the Osprey's door closing. There was nothing they could do with lead peppering the tiltrotor so forcefully that natural light had begun filtering into the cabin through circular holes.

The loss of his Captain had hit him hard. Shite, had it hit him hard. Vices that Soap had kept at bay for years through strength of will and the weight of the rosary around his neck, slipping back into his life. Smoking, drinking, shagging to relieve pent up emotions he could normally work through in a gym session. It was hard to cope. Because he knew, without a doubt, that Price falling as he held the line was indirectly his fault. That his OC had sacrificed himself to give them time, and that an unconscious soldier on the battlefield would have been the most time-consuming of them all.

Forgiveness has not been something Soap has dared give himself yet.

Though as his boots hit the deck of the USS Barack Obama, his body no longer suspended in mid-air by the SPIE rig that'd just pulled their arses out of the fire, Soap isn't necessarily sure what kind of forgiveness he needs to hold out on himself for now. Because Price?

He's standing right here.

Alive.

'Bravo Six, you're clear to disengage,' Soap grunts as his headset comes to life, barely able to hear the pilot's tinny voice over the Pave Low's downdraft. The howling wind was snapping at his skin like a volatile Chihuahua, angling for blood. 'Let us know when we can step off.'

'Copy that, Six-Four. Hold one.'

With the thrum of rotor wings overhead, Soap briefly tears his conflicted gaze away from his OC, reaching up to unhook himself from the D-Ring that connected him to the SPIE rig. In an instant, the tension in his back falls away; the harness that'd been playing tug-of-war with his body and the lurching helicopter above, going slack. Soap does a quick safety check of his gear, ensuring he's squared away before moving to help the Old Man.

It's almost surreal – seeing his most painful memory, reborn as flesh and blood.

Like God is fucking with him.

'Price,' it goes unheard - snatched away in the din. Soap crosses the distance between them, feet thudding against the helipad. Too fixated on his task to notice, Price fumbles with his clip, bruised, disjointed fingers not quite able to thread the needle.

Not daring to ask, Soap simply interjects himself – hands quick, deft, as they grasp the buckle and detach Price from the D-Ring.

Blue, slightly bloodshot eyes meet his own.

The adrenaline has run its course, now that they're out of the veritable frying pan. Soap is suddenly aware of far more than the tunnel vision that had driven his arse through a collapsing Gulag with nary a second thought. Beneath the relief, the happiness, at seeing his old friend, is a hesitance. An undercurrent of guilt. Price is undoubtedly there, his scarred face schooled into neutrality.

But what was the cost?

Soap is already starting to tally it up.

Splashes of colour flutter around them, Navy personnel appearing on the tarmac in their maritime ACUs. Casting a sharp glance across the growing crowd, Soap catches sight of Worm and Roach; the latter being helped to a stretcher, his legs not quite working. There's a clump of brown hair on his head matted by blood, streaks of it dribbling down his forehead. Worm is in a similar state, singed pants causing a fair bit of pain with each movement. Both men had managed to free themselves, and Soap swallows his concern, pushing on.

'Six-Four, the precious cargo's delivered,' touching his headset, Soap tilts his head to look up at the Pave Low still casting a shadow across the aircraft carrier's superstructure. 'You're greenlit to wave off, mate.'

'Cheers, MacTavish.'

Engines whined; the Pave Low suddenly banking to the right, lop-sided as it headed back out across the ocean. They'd come in from the cold as soon as their LZ was clear. Soap takes a deep breathe, grateful to be out of the violent hurricane that'd insisted on deafening him.

'All grown up, eh, Soap?'

The Old Man cocks an eyebrow, hoarse voice lilting slightly in amusement as Soap glances back at him.

'Wouldn't you know it,' a grin tugs at Soap's lips, his hand flicking out to clap his OC on the shoulder. 'Come on, aye? I'll show you where to clean up, before Bones turns you into a bloody pincushion...'

The infirmary is quiet, compared to the organised chaos taking over the ship. Lara sighs in relief as she slips into the room, face flushed with exertion. The second her exfil helicopter had touched down, she'd set off running, knowing that she needed to prep for the casualties their mission had claimed. Still dressed in the hybrid wetsuit and kit they'd assaulted the oil rig in, the fabric clinging to her skin damp with sweat and sea spray, she runs her hands through her hair, trying to remember the logistics of the USS Barack Obama's foreign medical wing.

Gary was one of the wounded. Knocked on his arse by a slab of falling concrete. Lara subconsciously clenches her hands at the thought, wincing at the sudden burning in her scalp. She needs to not think about that. Not right now. She can worry when he's in front of her, and actually able to do something about the damage. MacTavish had said he was alright, anyway. On the radio. He'd said Gary was fine.

John wouldn't lie to her.

The trust for her Captain outweighs the butterflies in her stomach, and Lara lets out a breath, anxiety turning into determination. Most of the boys passing through these doors would have a mixture of internal and external injuries, so she'd need fluids, IV lines, haemostatic dressings, bandages, gauze, suture kits, medical tape and water for cleaning wounds. The mental list grows as she circles the sickbay, checking trolleys and cabinets. Not familiar with her surroundings, she'd prefer to have everything she needs at one workstation.

Lara has a stockpile of nicked equipment cradled in her arms when she picks up the sound of hurried footsteps, gaze swinging towards the door. It opens as she drops the packaged tools onto her table, though her heart is quick to thump back into a normal rhythm when she catches sight of the US Army Medical Corps insignia on more than one arm, and the comfortingly familiar skull mask that follows them in.

The 141's lieutenant cuts an intimidating figure, several of the medical personnel scuttling out of his way as he steps inside, heading in Lara's direction.

'So this is where you buggered off to?' Ghost says, dark eyes giving her a quick once over. The trademark glasses he usually wore were sitting atop his head, nestled in his short, slightly disheveled, brown hair. 'You know the squaddies have this handled, Bones.'

Lara can't help but roll her eyes. 'I did tell you where I was going, sir.' He'd been right next to her on the Little Bird, his shoulder brushing against her the entire time they were airborne. If he hadn't heard her when she'd leaned over and all but yelled in his ear what she was about to do, then there really wasn't much else she could have done. 'Besides, it's Gary...'

And while she wouldn't dare say it out loud, there was absolutely no way in hell that she'd let anyone else look at him. Ghost knew that.

'... How many bloody times have I told you not to call me that?'

The words are rough, Ghost sounding annoyed. Almost insulted, even, if Lara ignores the boundaries she'd put in place and listens, reading him in the way they both knew that only she could. Ghost... Riley, had let her get close, had started to see her as more than the... fling they'd both started, months ago, drunk and falling into bed with an explosive kind of chemistry. Lara had seen him as handsome back then, despite the fact that he was a right wanker, and he'd been interested in her for the same reasons. It'd worked; it'd been fun. And then it'd become something more.

Sometimes she wonders if it was the right thing to do, ending things the way she had.

Right now she feels guilty, well aware that he hates his rank being used against him when there wasn't a need for it. Especially from her. '…Sorry, Riley.' A soft smile lights up her features; an apology. She gets a grunt for her trouble – Riley looking away as he reaches up, the tips of his fingers teasing at the edges of his mask, pulling it away from his face. She sees stubble, frown lines – a four centimetre gash on his cheekbone, caked with dry blood. Lara feels her eyes widen. 'What – Riley! What on earth's that?'

"What's – Bones?!' Riley's confused glance turns into an affronted scowl, though he remains obediently still as Lara cups his face, running a gentle thumb over his scratch. They'd been together in the Gulag, watching the control room while MacTavish had led the search for 627. She couldn't for the life of her remember where he might have gotten hurt, her investigation becoming more insistent as he rumbles at her, trying to explain. 'Christ… it was a piece of shrapnel. I think I'll liv- Oi, Lara…'

It's mostly superficial, and she stops. 'I can clean it and put in some gel to reduce scarring…'

'No,' Riley wrests himself from her grip, carefully angling his head out of her reach. It looks like he can't decide whether he's annoyed or amused. 'Save that bollocks for Sanderson. We got word after you bolted that Six Four was coming in.'

'Did they say if Gary's condition had changed? How's Jordan?'

'Same as before. Jordan's buggered with burns on his legs – the explosion caught him as they were lifted out. Gary's still mumbling incoherent shit, but that's standard for him, eh? I'm not worried – they've survived worse.'

Except he is worried – his jaw tightening, knuckles turning white. Lara's always known the big, bad, bastard lieutenant had a heart – he just never wore it on his sleeve.

'They'll be fine,' Lara echoes, in spite of her own concern; in spite of her training, which said promises were the first and worst way to cock-up. She'll make sure her boys are alright, because that was her job, and they were bloody well family. 'Did you want to stay…?'

It takes longer than it should for Riley to answer. 'I have to debrief Shepherd.'

Lara frowns. 'Why can't John…?'

'MacTavish needs some time,' Riley says, grimacing, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck in a show of discomfort. There's animosity in his words, but it's tempered, his respect for the 141's Captain not letting him hold too much of a grudge. 'So as usual, I'm the poor sod that gets fucked.'

Frustration on his behalf hits – Lara knowing that it would probably be kinder to walk barefoot across a bed of flaming coal, than to stand in front of the three star general and his blonde right-hand, making excuses both could see through. But she also knows why John would have asked – her heart both aching, and happy, that her friend had found his old Captain alive. '… Price?'

The question is rhetorical, but Riley doesn't seem to notice. 'Yes,' the anger underpinning his tone is a bit of a surprise – Lara giving him a curious look as she straightens her workstation up, one eye watching the door for her patients. When Riley finally glances at her, he's entirely serious – expression uncharacteristically sour, even for him. 'Watch yourself with that one, eh? He's part of the Old Breed. The kind of bastard who thinks there's one way to do things, and that's the way it should be done. He's a right cunt.' Riley pauses. 'And he won't like you.'

'Well, thanks…'

'You're a woman,' Riley shrugs. 'They had a certain place in his time, and being a medic in the 141 wasn't it, Bones.'

Lara tries not to be offended; aware that Riley is trying to be well-meaning, even if it's grating a little on her ego. In a way, he's right – she's sure he is, because she's met plenty of blokes in the Paras, at Sandhurst, that fit Riley's description of Price to a 'T'. But she still wants to prove something – her pride refusing to let her believe she's already lost.

'Not so long ago, someone else thought like that, too,' Lara nudges him pointedly with her elbow, smiling to ease the harshness of bringing up a truth that he has told her more than once that he regrets. 'But I became your friend. Maybe I just need to use that same charm, eh?'

For a few seconds, Riley looks horrified. 'Bones, the way we became friends…'

Lara has to think for second, not quite getting it. Then it hits home – a blush rising on her cheeks, as she smacks him in the abdomen, both hating and loving how her palm rebounds off hardened muscles. 'That was so not what I meant.'

'I'm just saying that you might not get as far as you think…'

'God…' Lara groans, not entirely sure how they'd managed to crawl down this deep, dark rabbit hole, where her shoving her jiggly bits into the face of Captain John Price – a veritable legend of the SAS – for brownie points was even remotely a thing. She keeps her voice low, not wanting one of the doctors milling about to think too hard on their conversation. 'I would never do that, Riley. You are such a bloody wanker sometimes.'

Riley isn't phased, rumbling in a soft, arrogant drawl: 'You did it for me.'

'That's because you're special, you tit.'

The trademark smirk she gets in response almost makes the clusterfuck of their conversation worth it. At least for a minute.

And then the two blood-soaked men she'd been waiting for come rolling through the door – bringing the stress and worry she'd momentarily forgot careening back with them.

The razor glides across his cheek. Price grimaces at the high-pitched whine emitting from the device in his hand, angling his chin higher to get a straighter cut.

'I've got orders to get you in front of Shepherd as soon as possible, mate,' Soap had told him, the Captain stripes emblazoned on his shoulder matching the weary look on his face. MacMillan had once said that this job ages you. Price hadn't believed him until he was in it. 'But I figure after that shite we just went through, you probably want a minute to decompress, aye? There's a hot shower through there,' the lad had pointed to a door, on the side of the narrow hallway they'd been walking down, boots squeaking on linoleum. 'You've got fifteen minutes.'

'I don't remember you being this much of a mother hen, Soap.'

'… Times change, Old Man.'

It's been a long time since he's had the privileged of trimming his beard with more than a dull blade, and he has to admit that it's bloody well needed – the harrowed bastard staring out of the mirror, even managing to unsettle him. Sunken eyes track his movements, dry lips pressing into a taut line. Price jerks involuntarily as a steady vibration reverberates up through the rust bucket's floor, the ship's engines suddenly revving to full throttle, the unguided clippers nicking his skin. He grunts at the unexpected sting.

Bugger…

The small cabin goes quiet; his thumb stabbing at the power button. Seconds later and the rather expensive device is dropped next to the sink with a deft clatter, Price reaching up to scrub a hand over the lower half of his face. There's a sticky patch on his jaw, fingers coming away red, and he gives up - resolutely deciding that will have to do.

Soap had given him a deadline. A quick glance at his wrist reminds him that he doesn't have a watch, and Price harrumphs in tempered annoyance before grasping the hem of his shirt, dragging it above his head. The lure of warm water and a place to wash away the day's grime without an audience is too good to ignore. His clothes hit the tiles with little finesse, bare feet kicking them into a rumpled pile. If he takes longer than he's meant to, it's just another cross the 141's new Captain MacTavish will have to bear.

The lad was hardly going to belt down the door like one of the Gulag's jackbooted guards, anyway, and after three years of living like there was a steel rod rammed up his arse, Price finally feels himself start to relax. Tension melting away as the first few droplets hit his skin.

He's missed this.

It's not every day that Riley makes a habit out of willingly bending himself over the General's desk for a solid reaming, but in the past few months, it's certainly become a lot more bloody common. The rank of Captain had been new to MacTavish – his best mate taking a fair bit of time to feel out the new role. Price had left behind a big pair of sodding shoes to fill after the Karkonosze Mountains, and MacTavish, for all his natural leadership talent, simply hadn't had the same steely bollocks to keep their ambitious master and commander in check that his mentor had. In the years that'd followed, the 141 had been ridden hard, pushed farther. Paraded around the world as show ponies while Shepherd sought to stick his finger in every honey pot he could find.

MacTavish had worked himself to the bone, doing his best to keep the lads from bearing the brunt of bureaucracy. That had led to more than one night with the 141's Captain slumped at his desk, nursing a glass of whisky, looking utterly burnt out. Riley had joined him on a couple of occasions to commiserate, often with harsh advice for MacTavish to stop being the martyr, and a long-suffering roll of his eyes when he was inevitably ignored.

Somewhere between then an now, though, that had changed. Riley thinks it might have started with the death of Jimmy - the man Lara had been brought in to replace. Like most of the ops the 141 took on, it'd been quick, it'd been dangerous, and very quickly after they'd deployed, it'd gone straight to hell. MacTavish had thought they'd moved too fast - had wanted to double down on the Intel, and Shepherd hadn't batted an eye.

'Your job isn't to push papers, MacTavish. It's to get results. The 141 is a tool to drive the change we want to see in this war. They're the nail, and we're the hammer, son. If they hit us, we just need to hit them harder. Dismissed.'

From there, every cock-up that could have been avoided, every casualty that the General seemed to think stained their impeccable record, pushed a button to the point of cracking. MacTavish had begun to rewrite his own rule book, adding a chapter about toeing the line.

The first day MacTavish had stood in the briefing room and crossed his arms, deciding to take issue with their marching orders, Riley had grinned, savagely, thinking things were about to get fun.

And he hadn't been wrong.

But bloody hell, did it kick his arse.

Because causing ripples in the chain of command? If MacTavish was struggling before with the General's expectations of the Task Force, then he was outright drowning after putting himself in the man's sights. Shepherd had decided to test the Captain's resolve, and Riley hadn't dared watch it break.

So he'd stepped in, where he could - far more used to taking a hit than MacTavish was. The arrogant smirk he was known for twisting his lips every time he was forced to eat a shit sandwich. It was a small price to pay - is a small price, for his brother - and, huffing an irritated sigh, Riley straightens up; squaring his shoulders and smoothing his uniform, before calmly pushing his way into General Shepherd's makeshift office.

It's a video conferencing room in the depths of the ship. There's a handful of leather swivel chairs encircling a round, wooden table - the furniture bolted to the floor. The walls are blank save for a large, Panasonic television screen - wires snaking up the blank canvas to give it power. Riley takes it in at a glance, dark eyes sliding past the minor details, before they come to a sudden stop.

Fuck's sake…

Captain Rose 'Artemis' Dawkins is perched on the table-top, legs crossed and manicured hands delicately carding through a briefing report. As always, her navy blazer is pressed neatly; her pencil skirt immaculate as it clings to her body, cutting just below the knee. To everyone who hadn't met her, the sultry blue eyes and pretty face befitting of a Victoria Secret model could have launched a thousand ships.

For the 141, it was more like a thousand shits.

'Lieutenant Riley,' Dawkins purrs, her sharp gaze decidedly cool despite the saccharine smile painted on her features. Riley all but feels his bollocks try to crawl back into his stomach. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'

That prim and proper accent always bloody grates. 'I'm not here for you, Dawkins,' Riley says, nose curling in anger. She might have fucked his brains out all those weeks ago, but the privilege of shagging her against a mattress wasn't enough to make up for her personality. The woman had used him, and while Riley wasn't usually one to give a shit about why his one-night stands were looking for a quick lay, Rose hadn't just taken him for a joy ride. No – the bitch had used it against him. At first the subtle jabs didn't mean much, but the thing was… Riley hadn't been in the pub she'd found him in looking for a good time. He'd been in that pub to drown his sodding sorrow – a fight with Lara, a break-up, despite them never being official, having hit him far harder that it had any right to. And Rose had zeroed in on that weakness, dropping hints here and there, trying to rattle Lara's trust in him. '…Not unless you've got Shepherd hiding behind those tiny tits of yours.'

The words are accompanied by a sneer. Riley is never going forgive her; not for toying with one of the few good things he has.

A soft, mocking laugh. 'The General is attending to matters far more important than you, Lieutenant. I believe it was a meeting with the US naval commander directing this fleet,' Dawkins snaps the manila folder closed, letting it rest in her lap. Her head tilts as she casually leans backwards, palms balancing her on the table, blonde hair falling about her shoulders. Normally it was pulled into a tight bun. 'As per his personal request, I will be stepping in to coordinate the 141's debrief, though if you are unable to focus on more than my chest... perhaps it would be best if I asked him to send somebody else, hm?'

Artemis was one of Shadow Company's most talented intelligence officers, but her carefully structured mask drops in that moment - Dawkin's unable to resist a smirk.

'Don't flatter yourself, eh? I've already played with your fun bags, and there wasn't much to see,' it's a low blow, and he's lying through his teeth, but Riley knows he doesn't stand a chance in outwitting her. She plays mind games, while he wins fights with his fists. He's at a disadvantage. 'You couldn't pay me to go again, but I hear that little pitbull you picked up a while back is still following you around, Dawkins. Maybe if you ask him nice, he'll give them a tweak.'

He's playing with fire. The man he's talking about is thick, but loyal. A hard hitter with a mean streak that rivalled Riley's own. Whether or not Dawkins had actually turned the bastard into her booty call was a rumour that was still debated in quiet whispers behind closed doors. Nobody wanted to risk pissing off either of the two; Dawkins and her pet about as ruthless as each other. Nobody except Riley, that is.

And as the seconds tick by; Dawkin's staring at him, unblinking, frozen, for the slightest of moments, Riley has to think, with an echo of vindictiveness, that he's hit a sore spot.

It's rather fucking beautiful. Or it is until she recovers, regaining her composure completely in the space it takes him to take a breath. Painted nails click on hardwood as she sizes him up, that far-too-sweet smile back in place, promising retribution. 'Careful, Lieutenant. You might hurt my feelings,' Dawkins doesn't break eye contact, her voice almost simpering, her words hand-picked with careful consideration. 'Though I think your reluctance has more to do with your new baggage and less to do with me, don't you? Perhaps you can tell me… has she forgiven you for fucking me yet?'

Pain. Riley hears his knuckles crack as he clenches his hands, the skin turning white with the tension.

… Cunt.

A wise man once said that good things come to those who wait.

Soap happens to think that whichever numpty came up with that bollocks probably hasn't had the pleasure of an irate training sergeant's boot in their backside. Operating in a timely manner is the backbone of the military, and as of twenty minutes ago, Price has made him miss his first deadline in three months.

Nothing like being late to your own bloody party, is there, Old Man?

Standing out in the hall like a scorned husband banished to the doorstep, Soap raises his hand again, pounding on the metal for a few seconds. Nobody answers. With a soft groan, he massages the bridge of his nose, rotating his wrist to check the shiny face of his G-Shock. The silent arms wave back at him with accidental malice. Shite.

It's as he's raising his fist again that the door finally opens, Price frowning at him with faint annoyance.

'Where's the fire, Soap?'

'Apparently not under your arse, mate,' Soap steps back to give Price some room, relief soothing raw nerves. It doesn't escape his notice that the Old Man looks far more like himself with the muck scrubbed off - even in the dark aqua fatigues that would have fit Price better if he'd been eating three square meals a day and exercising like there were hell-hounds nipping at his heels. The three years since they'd last seen each other hadn't been kind - the recently healed pink scars struck across the skin Soap can see, unnerving him. He swallows, hard, against the guilt, the concern, refusing to let his mind go down the drain. It wouldn't be appreciated. 'Come on, before McCoy puts me on her naughty list.'

There's a grunt. Price cuts a sharp glance in his direction as Soap starts to move, disapproval tugging at the edges of his face. Of course the remark doesn't go unnoticed, Soap hearing the unspoken I taught you better than that. '... You're not chasing skirts, are you?'

Nary an hour after escaping the flaming ruins of a Russian cesspit, and Soap can already feel himself roasting under the Old Man's judgement. It's a testament to his steely resolve that the words don't make him stumble - the thought that normal people would still be reminiscing by now, bringing a fond, yet forbearing smile to his lips. Price has never been one for those kinds of pleasantries.

'McCoy has too much self-respect for herself and her career to jeopardize it on the likes of me. She's 141.' Soap says, trying not to think of Riley, as he keeps his feet steady - his footsteps thudding in measured rhythm. There's a few things he's let slide since taking up the mantle of leader, and the way his lieutenant and his chief medic, two of his best mates on the Task Force, look at each other, is one of them.

But Price doesn't need to know that.

The corridor banks right and dips, leading down to the lower level with a series of metal stairs. Price takes the first two without a word, before quietly grasping the rail. Soap pretends that the hairline fractures in the wall are exceptionally interesting, until they both hit the landing. 'Women in the special forces. It didn't take long for this place to go to the bloody dogs.'

Tensing shoulders spell the beginnings of irritation. 'Bones is one of the best medics this Task Force has,' Soap says, though the echo of reproach is softer than it normally would be - the song of not kicking a beaten dog while it's down, playing on repeat in his head. 'She's pulled me out of enough sticky situations to rival you, Old Man.'

'I doubt that,' Price doesn't hesitate, quick to crush the chorus of praise, the cynic and the realist in him pulling Soap up short. McCoy may well have been toe-to-toe with his former Captain when it came to hauling Soap's arse out of the fire, but Price was far too confident in himself to admit it. 'But as long as they don't start calling her Kelly Flinn...'

It takes a fair amount of self-restraint to bite back the exasperated sigh. Dealing with Price has always been a bit like finding himself stuck between a rock, and a hard place. The rock was the result of daring to challenge him, and the hard place was the result of daring to back down. There was no winning. 'Price...'

The man's name slips out before Soap's sure which solid surface he'd like to be fucked against; his former Captain's blue gaze snapping to look at him. They both stall briefly in the hallway, Price grimacing slightly as he habitually puts more weight on one of his leg's than it can take.

'... You always said that the integrity of a soldier was a reflection on the officer in command,' Soap cocks his head to the side, arms crossing. It's a defensive tick; his heart thumping faster - as though he's jogged a mile. For as long as he can remember, he's always slunk back towards the hard place. Today, he's choosing the rock. 'So I'm going to have to assume this bollocks is your low opinion of me...'

A disparaging snort cuts him off - Price shaking his head ever so slightly. 'Shepherd's turned you into a martyr, has he?'

'Everything I've learned, I've learned from you.'

'And now's the part where you use it against me, is it?'

There's nothing malicious, nothing angry in his tone, but Soap is savvy enough to note the sudden, calculating look in his eye. The reappraisal as Price realizes the discrepancy between the man that'd been forcibly dragged away from him in the Karkonosze Mountains, and the one standing before him now. It's a difference that shifts the air around them - the slight quirk of Price's lips, echoing dry amusement.

It takes a minute for Soap to catch himself - his skin prickling with something he doesn't quite have the courage to call unease. 'I'm not here to use anything against you, Old Man,' he goes for a smile, despite it feeling strained. 'I'm here to drag your arse to the doctor, and not just because Shepherd will put a boot up mine if I don't.'

'Oh?'

'You look like shite.'

As usual, Price doesn't seem particularly impressed with the concern, expression almost emulating a silent reprimand. 'I'll live.'

Soap doesn't give an inch. 'I know, but I'd still like a second opinion, aye?'

'The last thing I need is people faffing about, telling me what I already know,' Price is watching, taking his measure. Even if Soap wanted to, even if he understood that Price testing the waters might not entirely be out of stubbornness, he wasn't about to circumvent protocol - he wouldn't do it for himself, let alone anyone else.

'Red tape, mate. If you don't go through medical you'll be stuck here until the war's bloody finished,' Soap shrugs, apologetic, honest. 'Shepherd might like to do things hard and fast, but even he's not willing to invite that kind of scrutiny. McCoy needs to look at you. Sooner, rather than later.'

Price has never been one to mince his words, or to hold back. It's a quality that's left him cautiously regarded by some, and revered by others - his habit of spearheading through bureaucracy, considered both a flaw and a strength. Now, Soap can practically see the grey storm clouds forming above the old man's head. Can almost feel the deluge that's about to unleash.

'Hm.'

Price moves stiffly, continuing on his way.

That... wasn't good.

'I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.'

The day she graduated medical school and swore to uphold the Hippocratic oath is a day she will always remember. Not just for the pride and sense of accomplishment; the promise of new beginnings and the evolution of past memories, but also for the purpose it had borne her with. The ability to help people. The ability to save people.

It was only later when she was a fresh-faced medic in the Royal Army Medical Corps that reality sunk in - the fact that she could help someone, not always going hand-in-hand with whether she really wanted to. Over the years she's been hit, spat on, and abused by the people she's treated with only their best interests at heart. She's been covered in piss, vomit and blood without a single thank you to ease the unpleasantness.

Yet in the face of adversity, she hasn't faltered. Because she made a promise, and when she feels herself wavering, she recites that promise. Word for word, until the cracks in her resolve smooth into a solid wall of steel. Unable to be bent or broken, no matter what is thrown her way.

To be honest, it's been a long time since she's had to bolster herself; since she's had to strengthen weakening supports to ensure she stands tall. But as the sharp, intense gaze of John Price takes her in from top to bottom - his reputation and status in the 22nd not lost on her - she feels herself grow smaller, not quite sure what to do with the disapproving frown, or the blatant fact that he finds her wanting.

No matter how many obstacles she manages to scale, another is inevitably thrown in her path.

Lara swallows to clear her throat, tensing her spine to try and stop herself from wilting in place. She hadn't gotten this far by sobbing into a pillow every time a superior had looked at her like that, and she sure as bloody hell wasn't going to start now. Better start climbing, McCoy, before you get left behind.

Not daring to dilly-dally a second longer, she strides across the room to meet the man Riley had rather correctly pegged as her new white whale.

'Sir,' Bones offers a quick smile, wiping her palms on the dark fabric of her uniform. MacTavish, standing on Price's left, knows her well enough to catch the tell, eyes strained with silent apology as she extends her hand. 'It's nice to meet you, in spite of the circumstances.'

Price glances at the gesture, looking rather like he's just been offered a dish rag. It's a calculated move, the 141's former Captain leaving her hanging for a beat, as though to knock her off-balance. Lara is almost surprised when he finally does clasp her hand in his own, giving it a firm shake. Whether it's archaic gentlemanly conduct or the glare drilling into the side of his skull that drives him, Lara isn't sure.

Warmth and rough callouses brush against her palm, and then they're gone, Price seemingly unwilling to impart any physical power plays. '… And those are?'

His voice is hoarse, words tactfully blunt. Lara blinks – opening her mouth, but thankfully rescued from summarizing the horrors of the Gulag to the man who'd lived them as MacTavish steps front and center, tone coloured with reproach. 'I expect she meant that it's not every day we pull superior officers out of godforsaken holes in the middle of Russia, aye, Bones?' The man gives her the shadow of a wink. 'It's a new one for us, that.'

'Is it, eh?' If Price is bothered, it's hidden well behind a stony veneer. 'Best not to share that one around, Soap. They'll think we've gone soft.'

Boots thud in a slightly uneven tempo. Price walks past MacTavish, taking in the private examination room's surroundings, his left leg far more weight bearing than his right. Lara had fought the aircraft carrier's senior medic for the space, eventually telling the nasally man that if he wanted a British POW to go through the invasive and personal tests required behind little more than an inadequately thin curtain, he could very well tell both MacTavish and Price himself. The thought of coming face-to-face with either Captain had simultaneously pulled the stick out of the man's arse and beat him with it - the speed in which he'd capitulated after that, leaving her wishing for the day her name carried that kind of clout. Life would surely be easier…

Stopping near the leather treatment chair, his fingers stretching to hover over the medical paraphernalia there, Price suddenly tenses like a shock has run through his body. The outstretched fingers curl into a fist, and he turns back, catching Lara watching. '… Did you need another minute, love, or are you ready to do your job?'

Behind her, MacTavish sighs tiredly.

Lara ignores the echo of annoyance that ignites in the recesses of her mind, trying to embody clean professionalism as she stands straighter. Price has a reputation in Britain's most revered military units, and that makes her feel … Christ, it makes her feel unsure. Intimidated. Riley's words quick to sound off and play on her insecurities: '…And he won't like you.' Yet Price is also a man – perhaps a man she might soon want to drop an anvil on – but also a man who is no doubt loved by her Captain – MacTavish weary with visible concern – and who's just been pulled out of Hell on earth.

He at the very least deserves some compassion.

'Of course, sir. I apologise - it wasn't my intention to keep you waiting,' Lara flicks MacTavish a quick smile, reassuring him as he'd done for her not a moment ago, and collects a clipboard from the medical trolley nestled just by the door. 'If you could take your shoes off and stand on the scales-'

'Is that necessary?' It's brusque, interrupting her mid-sentence. Lara pulls her gaze from the patient chart she's scrawling preliminary notes on.

'I promise I won't ask you to do anything that isn't necessary, sir.'

Price's lips press into a thinner line – her reply perhaps a touch too tongue in cheek for a man with so much pride that's already got its fair share of hairline fractures. Lara idly wonders if he's going to start choosing hills to die on this early in the game, almost transfixed as the 141's former Captain shifts his target to the man standing at her back, piercing MacTavish with a look that would have made Lara think twice, had he actually been her Captain.

MacTavish clears his throat in the silence, 6"1' of pure bulk and muscle fidgeting under the scrutiny. She can't imagine how hard it is for him, to have to turn his authority on a man he's looked up to since his fiery inauguration in the 22nd. 'I know it seems like bollocks, Price, but McCoy is here to patch us up, and she hasn't let us down so far,' he claps her on the shoulder, solidarity to the last. 'She's not asking because she wants to stick you in a pie.'

'I wouldn't dare, sir,' the praise leaves a light flush in her cheeks, but Lara laughs it off quickly. It feels like too much of a weakness when she's sure Price is searching for vulnerabilities. 'My cooking is bloody terrible.'

A blonde eyebrow, peppered with grey, cocks as Price refocuses on her, the intensity of his stare close to burning. 'Is that why you joined the service?'

The smile she's wearing falters, if only for a second. 'For Queen and Country, actually.'

'Didn't we all...' Price doesn't look too impressed, though Lara is starting to come to terms with the fact that it might just be his nature. He certainly seemed to be the type where if she gave him a unicorn, he'd probably ask why it didn't sparkle. The realization isn't one that gives her much solace - the shreds of optimism she's stubbornly held onto dissolving into resignation.

Coughing into a closed fist and swallowing, she opens her mouth to prompt the former Captain into moving from the spot he seems rooted to, but shuts it again, choosing instead to glance at MacTavish for help.

Coward, rings in her head, even when MacTavish catches her eye and gives her a nod of understanding, knowing as well as she does, that he probably has a better chance of making the mountain move.

'... Need me to step out, old man?'

MacTavish is rubbing the back of his neck, not feeling particularly good about both calling into question his mentor, and making it personal. The rubbing turns into more of a white-knuckled grip, nails biting into his skin, as Price turns sharp daggers on him, but MacTavish doesn't give. The hand drops away as her OC crosses his arms, raising a dark eyebrow in return. There's mimicry in his presence, the stare not so different from the one Price had been wearing minutes before.

Lara fights to keep the grin off her face, despite the tension in the room. Did Price know he was looking at himself?

'If it makes you feel more comfortable, Soap,' the words are slow, careful, the bite delivered like a snake in the grass. Discipline and hard exteriors had ruled in his era. Cracks in the armour frowned upon.

But it had worked both ways – the implication that Price couldn't handle MacTavish bearing witness to a very simplistic check-up, touching a nerve. There's a grunt and a thud, as Price kicks off the Navy style, steel-capped boots he'd been given, the scales whining as he steps onto them, pistons decompressing.

Quick to react, Lara sweeps over – her pen hovering expectantly over her clipboard, while she peers at the green, digital numbers on the scales' reader. The scratch of her ball point scribbling ink on paper draws the attention of Price. Their eyes meet briefly, both of them well aware that the number in front of them is far too low.

'Ok-'

'Is it, eh?'

Lara finds herself frowning slightly at the sarcasm, not quite sure what he expects. 'Well, it's not good -'

'And how many years into your degree did they teach you that?'

'I'm not sure, sir, it was a long time ago,' Lara says, looking up at him through her lashes, ire rising. 'But once we're done here, I'd be happy to take you through my academic transcript. It's always nice when people are interested in my achievements…'

The owlish blink she receives is about as close to a win as she's going to get, and she continues, voice deliberately soft. 'Malnutrition isn't difficult to reverse, but if the conditions were this bad-'

Price interrupts bluntly. 'It wasn't exactly the Club Méditerranée.'

'I understand that,' Lara bites the inside of her cheek. Remember he's been through the mincer. Don't smack him with the clipboard. 'What I was trying to say, is if the conditions were that bad… there might be other things, other tests we need to be thinking about.' It's delivered as gentle as can be, but she still feels like an arsehole when a tell-tale shadow flickers across his expression. 'If you feel you need to advise me of anything-'

'… Sure, love,' it's his tone that makes her wince, her olive branch promptly cut off at the base. She steps back as he steps down, unable to hide the disapproval in her gaze. 'Anything else?'

Bloody wanker…

Drawing from her wealth of experience dealing with the once antagonistic Riley, Lara offers a smile, making a show of checking her chart. 'I'm going to need to measure your waist and take your blood pressure. We'll probably need a blood sample and… urine, as well, if that's alright?'

The smile stays fixed in place. Price is letting his annoyance filter through, the beginnings of a scowl no longer making her stomach churn. She had his measure.

Not giving him a chance to answer to her very rhetorical question, Lara gestures to the leather treatment chair. '… If you could take a seat? I promise to have you out of here in no time,' the lie slides of her tongue easily, dealing with patients having always been a tug-of-war between realism and reassurance. 'Captain MacTavish?'

He's been lurking in the background, trying to pretend he's not completely privy to their conversation. The creases around his eyes as he focuses on her, though, belying strain. 'Hm?'

'Can you get us a glass of water, please?' Lara tries not to linger on her friend, doing her damnedest to ignore her urge to comfort him with soothing words. He's built like a brick shit house and is as imposing as all hell, but it's obvious to her that he's hurting. 'Captain Price is dehydrated.'

Price is settling in the chair, brow furrowing. 'That's really not necessary-'

'I wasn't aware you had a degree in medical science as well, sir,' she's prepping the blood pressure machine, opening the fabric cuff by ripping the Velcro. Without bothering to ask permission, she folds it around Price's bicep, noting the corded muscle that persisted in spite of everything he'd been through. He was a survivor, that was for bloody sure. '… It's just to make it easier on you when it's time to take blood. Veins are finicky buggers, and I don't want to stick you twice…'

Lara knows she's being a bit facetious, but she gets the distinct impression that to stay standing with this man, you'd need to be able to throw a good few punches yourself.

'… How noble,' Price says, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Lara finishes up and presses the button on the machine, making it hum as the cuff starts to tighten around Price's arm like a boa constrictor.

It's not long before it begins to loosen in quick bursts, the reading on the machine's screen becoming final as it released him indefinitely. Lara sighs softly, relieved as his levels came back relatively normal, her fingers scrawling the information down. In her peripherals, MacTavish stands by the sink, filling a plastic cup before lumbering over.

'Here, old man,' Price nearly cops a face full of water as MacTavish hands the cup to him, holding it so close to the older man that it literally had to be taken, or else risk something going pear-shaped. 'Drink up.'

'… Your bloody bedside manner needs work,' having grabbed the drink out of reflex, Price takes a sip, before deciding that filtered aircraft carrier water was safe enough. He swallows the rest, crumpling the cup in his fist.

MacTavish grins. 'Heard that one before, mate…'

Lara unstraps Price, wheeling the blood pressure machine away from him. She pauses at the medical trolley, snapping on a pair of latex gloves, expression twisting at the smell they gave off. Familiar, but not the comforting kind, as her hands collected packaged syringes and a pair of vials from the array of equipment. In her rush to get this over with, she forgets the tourniquet, muttering a curse as she spins back, wincing.

Thankfully, neither of them seems to have noticed.

Blowing a few strands of hair out of her eyes, Lara returns, placing everything in a yellow basket, and setting it atop the table next to his chair. She subconsciously bites at her lower lip, gaze flicking between his arms. 'Sorry, if I could just…' Tentatively reaching for his right, she turns it until she can see the underside, the pads of her fingers gently palpating the crook of his elbow, searching for a vein. 'Do you know if there's a spot doctors have had success in the past, sir?'

'Whichever one hasn't been butchered…'

Helpful. Lara is too used to soldiers supposedly made of steel that she doesn't bother trying to impart sense into him, instead continuing her search. A minute passes without luck and she moves to switch arms, mildly taken aback when she notices that MacTavish is already ahead of her, calloused hand wrapped around Price's wrist, index finger tracing a path from memory. Like she'd done seconds before, he palpates the area, his A&E training, as well as in-field experience placing IV lines, helping him identify the sucker Lara was looking for. As Soap's finger dimples Price's skin, the older man starts to look queasy, jaw clenching in response.

'This one,' MacTavish says, side-stepping out of her way once he's sure she's got it. Lara takes over with a quiet thank you, reaching for the tourniquet as soon as she feels the unmistakable bounce-back of a healthy vein. He's right. 'It's always worked, as far as I remember.'

There's a story behind that, but Lara doesn't ask, her attention solely on looping the strap around Price's upper arm and buckling the clasp. Tightening it with a deft tug, she double checks the intended injection site. 'Can you make a fist for me?' The second Price does, she has the syringe ready.

Despite the simmering frustration still coiling inside her, Lara tries to be kind, gentle, as she slips the needle into him. It's quick and painless, but as the seconds pass, the vial stays empty - her stomach flip-flopping as she realizes she may have just made a dogs breakfast out of drawing his blood.

'Sorry, sir,' she murmurs, grimacing slightly as she wiggles the syringe, looking for the vein. She could have sworn she had it. 'I think I've missed it, if you'll just bear with me. I know it's not pleasant...'

The look she gets for her trouble, is about as far from friendly as she could possibly imagine.

She's about to pull it out and try again when it suddenly clicks - the statue stillness of his body, finally registering through the flash of heat and panic her potential cock-up had caused. He's not actually breathing.

Of course that would throw a spanner in the works.

'In lieu of sticking you again, sir, can you take a deep breath for me, please?' Letting herself relax, Lara simply smiles again in the face of his irritation, keeping her tone light. 'Sometime's that can help...'

A long, tense moment passes - and then Price shifts, his shoulders rising as he inhales. Red spurts into the vacuum sealed vial she attaches to the syringe, Lara honestly happier that she's ever been, seeing another person's blood. With the first filled, she twists it out and replaces it with the second, before popping a wad of gauze over the site and removing the needle entirely. She keeps the compress there until she can replace it with a dot band-aid, her fingers trembling only a touch as she smooths the adhesive onto his wound. Bloody hell, was this stressful, but as she unbuckles the tourniquet and backs away, the weight lifts from her shoulders.

'All done, sir, though I'm going to need you to sign a form before you leave…' Lara collects her samples and carefully seals them into a specimen bag, pausing to write names and dates on the outside. She's putting down the pen and looking for the pathology collection box, when she spots the small container sitting forgotten by the medical trolley. 'Oh, and you'll need to complete… this.'

It's the piss test. Lara picks up the spherical jar, almost apologetic as she turns back towards her patient, holding it out to him. Price inspects the offering like it's a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe, half-lidded eyes and carefully contained expression belying a challenge. 'Spent the last few years getting on crank, have I?'

Lara is well aware of the street names used for methamphetamine, and she shrugs. 'It's not my concern what went on down there, sir, but your health is my priority. I can see a lot more in a urinalysis test than what someone uses to get their jollies off,' the words are out of her mouth before she thinks to censor them. Price tilts his head, taller now that he's found his way back onto his feet, and MacTavish stares at her, wary. It's that, which makes her briefly stumble, but Lara forges on, trusting in her own authority, and skills, as a doctor. 'In order to determine if you're fit for duty, I need to make sure that you're physically fit to do the job.'

'From what you've seen so far…' Price takes a step forward, into her space – or the outer edges of it. This close, he nearly matches her for height, though falls short by a few inches. What he doesn't quite have in stature, however, he more than makes up for in presence – his ability to take command of a room, shining through, dark gaze and stony expression, rather intimidating. 'Am I?'

'Sir?'

'Fit for duty.'

'I couldn't tell you until I've had time to run tests, sir,' Lara says, deflecting. A glance over Price's shoulder shows MacTavish, watching her closely. He knows what she's thinking. What her decision is. Christ, she's sure that Price knows, too.

A few seconds later, and he proves she's not wrong.

'You could make an educated guess.'

Lara crosses her arms over her chest, refusing to crack. 'I won't make a ruling on your future without all the facts...'

But she already has.

It's no.

Because even if she could look the other way about the fact that he's half the bloody weight he used to be, there's going to be something in his blood work that disqualifies him, or a red flag raised in the psych eval he's scheduled for. Prisoners of war didn't just walk out of internment ready to take on Tom, Dick and Harry, and as hard as Price is, Lara knows better. It's her job to know better.

And she will not put her boys in harm's way to satisfy one man's need for revenge, regardless of how heartbreaking his story is. Not after the scare she's had today, the memory still raw in her mind.

Blood drips onto white linoleum. Gary is paler than a sheet as he suddenly lurches on his stretcher in an uncoordinated flurry of movement, retching over the side.

'Fuck…'

The curse is more of a half-groan – the sergeant staring morosely down at the contents of his stomach, before slowly wiping at his mouth. Lara completely ignores the fact that her boots slap right into the stinking mess; instinct driving her across the medical wing in a heartbeat. He looks terrible.

He also looks like he's about to fall, his body swaying unsteadily.

Lara grasps the straps of his ALICE to stop him, grunting as she digs deep, muscles bulging, and all but lifts her friend into a more stable position. Unfocused eyes lock onto her – Gary squinting in an effort to recognize the face swimming in his vision.

'… Lara?'

'Who else would it be?' With a soft smile, Lara makes sure he's settled on the mattress before letting him go, fussing ever so slightly. 'You know you're supposed to catch things with your hands, not your head, Gary.'

Another groan. 'Maybe that's why I always sucked at baseball…'

'Maybe, eh?' Lara cups his cheek gently, reapplying the pressure bandage that'd fallen off when he'd moved. The sergeant's head is a bit of a mess – the taut skin of his scalp separated by a jagged gash that's still bleeding sluggishly, applying another sticky coat to the tufts of hair stuck together with congealed blood. Red smears latex gloves, Gary letting out a pained hiss as she accidentally grazes his injury. 'Sorry, mate.'

She's made his eyes water, but Gary pushes through it with gritted teeth, somehow summoning a weak grin onto his lips. It brings a bit of life back into his features. '... I won't hold it against you, Bones. Just - shit - just make sure Jordan's alright first, yeah?'

A quick glance back towards the door and Lara can already see the former Green Beret being tended to; the dark uniform of another 141 medic reassuringly popping into view. William 'Druid' Harding has served under Lara for several months now, and despite the Texan's mellow nature, he's doing a perfectly fine job of shoving a Green Whistle into Jordan's mouth; Worm being less than a model patient, even with his expression contorted in agony. The methoxyflurane would fix that right up.

'... He's fine, Gary,' Lara reassures kindly, while reaching for a pen light to start her examination. Pupils first, to check his response time, then cleaning the injury and the rather unpleasant act of suturing it closed. He'd need x-rays as well to put her mind at ease, but that could come later. 'Now let's get you sorted, before you bleed out all over my floors, hm?'

He'd needed stitches, x-rays, and Druid to sit by him, even now, to make sure he didn't fall asleep. Gary had been knocked on his arse by an accident, despite having a full, able-bodied team at his back. The thought of him having been led by someone other than MacTavish, someone not fit to be charging into battle, is an out and out nightmare.

'… You've already made up your mind, haven't you, love?'

There's a calculating look in Price's eye as he analyses her, top to bottom. The kind that fills her with dread. Lara swallows under the intensity, suddenly feeling ten times smaller in the face of a threat. Because that's exactly what Price has just pegged her as, his body language suggesting that her arse is about to be thrown in the firing line. MacTavish is straightening, tensing like a coiled spring, in the backdrop, but she doesn't let him step in. This is her cross to bear.

'I am responsible for the well-being of this Task Force, in the field and out of it, sir,' Lara can hear her own steel; can feel the emotion bleeding into her words, despite her attempts to keep it out. 'If anything were to jeopardize the health of these soldiers, I would stop at nothing to remove it. That's my job, Captain Price.'

She steps forward, exactly as he had moments earlier, and presses the container into his chest. Price reaches up reflexively to grab it, his hand brushing against her own, and she stares him down, one hundred percent the medic that would run through hails of gunfire, to pull her brothers out. 'Like I said, sir… I'm not going to make my decision without all the information, so I suggest you hop to it. Shepherd wants my report by tomorrow afternoon.'

There's silence – Lara letting go, but staying put, her heart beating a mile a minute. In less than an hour, she's just made herself enemy number one to a man that could very well ruin her life.

Price holds the jar, regarding her, something an awful lot like a smirk slowly twisting his lips. A cold shiver runs down her spine, her stomach dropping at the sight. '… Mind telling me where the bathroom is, Bones?'

This is a game of cat and mouse.

And she's the mouse.

Lara points slowly at the door, not quite able to find her words. MacTavish is scrubbing his face with his hand, defeated.

It's only when he's gone, that she lets out the breath she's been holding.