Sleeping Dogs
Chapter One

'Price...'

His voice is rough - cracked, as it rumbles out of a disused throat. Soap swallows a few seconds later, trying to dislodge whatever frog had taken up residence. It doesn't really work, and he wheezes incoherently for a bit, his eyes pleading as the silhouette became less of a shadow and more of a man.

'Price, don't -'

The needle slides into his skin, quick and almost painless. A warm hand is wrapped around his bicep - which is far leaner than it had been two weeks earlier - holding it in place as the plunger is slowly pushed down. Soap's gaunt face radiates anger and dejection, before his eyelids forcibly close shut.

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

Plates clatter in the small sink, Price as grim-faced as ever as he turns on the tap and watches lukewarm water splash into the basin. It's an odd sort of colour. Dark like black tea, as though it's been stained by tannin. He lets it run, waiting – the chore a good excuse as any to ignore the eyes glaring daggers at his back.

Nikolai isn't happy, it seems. Though Price is hard-pressed to remember a time where the Russian had been in the past month. Living life on the run, with every old friend they'd ever had suddenly out for their blood, wasn't exactly a party pleaser. That was for bloody sure.

A soft sigh sounds behind him, disappointed, frustrated. 'You cannot keep doing that to him, my friend.'

'We're out of painkillers, Nikolai,' Price collects the cleanest rag from the sill and starts wiping, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

'I know that, Price.'

'And you think it would be kinder to let him spend every waking moment in bloody agony?'

Rustling fabric, and an irritated harrumph. Price knows without turning that Nikolai's crossed his arms, probably looking far from impressed. He puts it out of his mind, sliding his first plate into their makeshift draining rack.

'At least he would have a waking moment, no?' Nikolai says. 'It is almost as if you do not hear his begging every time he comes around.'

Another plate joins the second, the resulting clatter harsh in both their ears as Price lets his control slip. His scarred knuckles turn white as he clenches his fist, because he does hear it - Soap's broken voice telling him to stop, the weak struggles, the betrayal that stabs deeper than it rightly should. Price knows he's doing the right thing, knows it, but even that doesn't stop the guilt weighing heavily on his shoulders.

He takes a deep breath. Exhales.

Slowly, Price unfurls his fingers and reaches back below the water, not deigning to respond.

Silence reigns supreme, and then;

'Price.'

... If only Nikolai could get over his bloody obsession with being Price's conscience. Grunting in annoyance - annoyance which only grows as he yet again finds himself contending with day old melted cheese stuck to a fork - Price finally bites back.

'Five minutes out of his coma and he'll be begging us to put him back in it.' Price scowls at the cutlery in his hand, eventually tossing it back into the murky depths. 'He didn't scrape his knee, Nikolai - his bloody insides were hanging out.'

It's not fair. It's not fair to insinuate that Nikolai didn't understand the magnitude of what had happened - of how terrifyingly close they'd come to losing Soap back in Afghanistan. Because even though Nikolai had been flying the helicopter, even though it'd been Price fighting desperately to keep the reaper at bay with hands that were coated in hot, sticky blood - the Russian had still been there. Throwing glances over his shoulder, tight-lipped, as he'd broken more than one international law trying to get Soap to a person that could save him. So no, it's not fair. But Price isn't buckling on this one. Even if he has to fight dirty.

Luckily for the both of them, Nikolai has had several decades to come to terms with the fact that Price is an arse. And without so much as batting an eye, the Russian rolls his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. 'Then let him.'

Price frowns, turning to look at the other man. He makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat, not quite understanding.

Nikolai explains. 'Let him wake up and realize it is not all sunshine and roses, hm? Then maybe he will at least accept your... solution.'

'No.'

'Why not, my friend?'

'That's not a tough life lesson I'm going to teach.' Price says, not because he wouldn't, but because he had absolutely no doubt in his mind that the hard-headed bastard was actually going to learn anything from it. Soap wasn't the kind of man that could accept what was best for him, if it wasn't what he wanted.

There is a bark of surprised laughter - harsh and abrupt. Nikolai looks amused. 'How noble of you, Price.'

Price snorts a little, returning to the fork he'd abandoned for a second round. 'It's been known to happen.'

'Regardless, he is going to hate you for it.' Nikolai says - not a warning, but a promise. 'And it may take you longer than you have to fix it.'

There's no outward indication of his feelings - Price still steadfastly cleaning, occupying his mind with a physical task. Not wanting to let it wander, not when it was this late in the game. The losses they'd suffered so far... had left Price with the very real feeling that anymore and he might not be able to come back from this. Anymore, and they'd - he'd - be done.

'Not a whole lot I can do about that,' Price tells his friend, before pulling the plug on the sink and letting the brown water drain away. He flicked his hands - wiped them on his shirt, then turned to face Nikolai. 'Not without the kind of drugs we'd get our arses shot trying to find.'

'That has never stopped you before.'

'Different circumstances.'

Nikolai hums, dirty nails scratching at a week's worth of stubble. His pale blue eyes meet Price's, and before he can open his mouth, Price is shaking his head.

'... I wouldn't ask you to do that.'

Nikolai cocks his head to the side, smiling softly. 'You would not need to ask.'