Author's note: This will be a series of little drabbles following the '30 Day OTP Challenge' I found on deviantart. I know I have tons of other stories I need to work on, but this seemed like too much fun to pass up~
day 1— Holding Hands
The deserted pub in Prague wasn't the first time he held his hand, but it was the last.
Bullets shot through shattered glass, flicking the slivers on his skin, all the noise drowned out as he struggled to hear the gasping words that left Soap's mouth. A gloved hand reached up, covered in blood, gripping his jacket, he met the hold there, wrapping his shaking fingers around the other man's. Soap's grip was frail, in stark contrast to his usual iron, unyielding grasp. His eyes were glazed over, struggling to hold open, there was more than those last three words on his lips, but they stayed there in place. It didn't matter if they were spoken aloud or not, Price could read them, he always could. Words didn't matter, they didn't mean anything when everything was said with the look in his eyes. The despair was blinding, he was helpless to do anything for Soap, but hold on, keeping holding onto him, keep him conscious.
The warmth was gone as fast as it came..the younger man's hand fell out of his own, limply hitting on the wooden table. Everything was muted, so was Soap's heart, so was Price's world.
That was the last time he held his hand.
But it wasn't the first.
It was on a mission, the two of them the only ones awake, keeping watch, younger than ever were and ever would be again, in more ways than the most obvious, swallowing down less than appetizing combat rations in the woods outside their tents.
"This shite is rancid." Soap complained with a groan, forcing himself to ingest the bite of food without lingering too long on the taste.
"Hmm, just be glad you're not eating the 'corned-beef', it's more like corned-tasteless-sponge. Mac and I suffered through 3 days with that load of bollocks." Price retorted dryly, peering over at the Sergeant, cigar in one hand, flimsy plastic container of some sort of stew in the other.
Soap laughed quietly and prodded the oatmeal with his plastic fork, a grimace crossing his features at the unpleasant squelching noise it made. "I don't know, Price, this oatmeal tastes like dirt, seasoned with a hint of dust and mud shite, all that with the texture of something I threw up after a night of cheap whiskey."
"That is precisely why you don't drink cheap whiskey in the first place, Soap." Price scolded lightly over the blaring snoring from Gaz in his tent. He was shocked that their position hadn't been given away yet.
"Aye, good point. But sometimes you get desperate, you know?" Soap said with a shrug of his shoulders, bringing the bag of questionable, damp oats up to his nose for a sniff that looked like he instantly regretted.
A smile tugged on one end of Price's mouth as his eyes followed the younger man's every move, catching each subtle expression. "One should never be so desperate to consume that rubbish."
"Ha, that's how I'm feelin' right about now.." Soap frowned down at the bag of oatmeal and tossed it back into the pack. "I can't eat another bloody bite." He sighed and stretched his arms above his head.
"Want some of this..." Price paused to read the label in the dim light, "Lamb stew, apparently? It's not so bad..." He stuck it out towards the younger soldier so he could take a look at it.
Soap peered inside and his grimace grew. "I - uh, I'm good, Price. All yours."
Price was hoping that he would have taken it off his hands, but now he was left with the bag of garbage stew. He grunted and flung it into the pack next to Soap's, feeling very full all of a sudden.
"All Gaz's is more like, I don't know how he can stand to eat 4 of those in one sitting."
"It's Gaz, what do you expect? We're talking about the man who puts ketchup on everything...everything." Soap muttered lowly.
Price glanced over his shoulder to see that Soap had laid down, one hand propped behind his head, the other at his side.
"It'd be pretty beautiful here if we weren't on constant edge waiting for enemy troops to show up any moment..." Soap said, gazing up at the dawn sky, some stars still simmering in the dim expanse, the glow of the lantern illuminating the other man's face, causing Price to more fixated on him and the comforting feeling he felt when he was around the man, rather than the sky.
"It is quite lovely." Price hummed out, his eyes lingering on Soap's relaxed form. When the younger soldier's gaze fell back on him, he snapped his eyes up to the sky, a smirk growing on his features.
Price scooted over a bit and laid down right beside Soap, puffing on his cigar and blowing out, the back of his right hand bumped into Soap's, a small distance between their hands, but a big leap to make the first move.
The Sergeant dared to make the jump, boldly closing the small gap, slipping his fingers through his Captain's, their palms warm and pressed together, a perfect fit.
"You did say we should see more sunrises..." Soap murmured, squeezing his hand around Price's.
Price responded by rubbing circles around the back of Soap's hand. "I don't think I've ever seen one more beautiful.."
That was the first time he held his hand, but it wasn't the time that affected him the most.
Soap, just like that first time, always had been the one that incited the intimate gesture, pressing a hand into his own. After the Gulag, and back at the base in his room, Soap helped remove the split shackles chained to him, his fingers carefully tracing over the bruises the handcuffs left, pressing soft kisses around the band of deep purple on each wrist, before twining his fingers through Price's. A deep affection and sense of familiar safety washed over them, felt for the first time in years.
"Good to have you back, old man." Soap said softly, looking up at Price, the smile on his lips was small, but brilliant, lighting every dark path that had been in his life without Soap there by his side. Soap kept the tight hold on Price's hands, the hands that had seen a million fights, and a thousand more the younger man couldn't bear to imagine from the past couple years.
"Roger that, love." Price replied, the words spoken on the younger man's lips, their foreheads nudged together, followed by a kiss, endless and starved from years of no contact, their hands never broke apart that whole night.
The memory of their hands locked together is what kept him going in the prison. Even when it was impossible to imagine surviving through another day in that hell hole, focusing on the memory of the pressure of Soap's hand in his own, when he was sat up in the dark cell, leaned on the stone walls, kept him strong, determined. He remembered the touch, the first gentle touch he felt in years, from a man he trusted more than anyone in the world, and loved more than he could ever express with words, and he felt at home. Even if he was in a cell, locked away.
Prague wasn't really the last time he held his hand.
This make-shift hospital was the safest place Nikolai could find, so that was where Soap was taken. Critically injured. Beyond critically. But, somehow, still breathing, pulse still pumping blood through his veins, no matter how dull the beats were.
Price was next to Soap's hospital bed, never leaving his side, sat in an ancient wooden chair that was on the verge of collapsing from years of wear and abuse, much like how he felt after all this time. He kept his hands on his own face, elbows leaned on the mattress, refusing to cover his hands over Soap's, in fear of the empty response he'd receive instead of the loving and impassioned one he knew so well. His eyes swept all over the Scotsman's face, searching for a hint of consciousness. Comatose...4 weeks now. He hadn't seen those ash blue eyes since they were half-lidded in crippling pain, fighting against the black. Hadn't heard his deep brogue since the last three words left his mouth, losing the battle and slipping into this coma. Four weeks since he felt anything but lost.
"You should get some rest, my friend." Nikolai told him quietly, walking into the sheltered room. He looked over at Soap, then to heartbeat monitor, and finally, to Price, his brows pulled down, wrinkles creased on his forehead from worry. "Soap wouldn't want you to spend every second in here, not taking care of yourself."
"I'm taking care of myself just fine. And you don't need to tell me what Soap would want, Nikolai, I knew...know him better than anyone." Price snapped at his friend.
The Russian kept a patient demeanor about him, and patted Price on the shoulder. "Da, I know. But, Price...you need to accept that Soap might not wake up from this...the doctor said he could be-"
"I don't give a damn what the bloody doctor said!" Price shouted, anger and anguish flooding his mind, spiking his heart. He couldn't hear the words repeated, 'He could be this coma for the rest of his life. He...might never wake up.' Price couldn't accept that. "Soap is fine, he has to be fine, he'll wake up any day now...he'll come back." His voice turned hushed and desperate, his gaze turned back to the soldier laid on the bed, his shirtless torso bandaged, spots of blood peaking through the white gauze.
Nikolai stared mournfully at his friend, before turning on his heel and leaving the man with his broken lover. He knew how stubborn Price could be, and there was no way he would be leaving Soap's side anytime soon, if ever.
Price didn't notice the man leave, his eyes were burned with tears that never came before, but threatened to spill out now. He moved his hands up, and stroked them across Soap's face, the man's peaceful expression disguising the trauma his body endured.
"Come on, Soap, you're a fighter, I know you can make it out of this. Come back to me, please." Price pleaded in a whisper, the exhales of his sharply taken breaths making strands of Soap's mohawk blow gently.
His pleas became more despairing, tears brimming over the edge, his fingers brushed into the hallows under the other man's closed eyes, in a feeble attempt to wake him. His lips pressed onto Soap's motionless mouth once, still nothing. "I'll be here when you wake up, love, I won't leave you." He promised, swallowing thickly and kissing him one last time on the side of his mouth.
The monotonous beeping of the machine was the most significant sound in his world now. The only thing that let him know that Soap was there, alive, and if he was fighting to stay, then so would Price.
The hours passed slowly, so sometimes he'd read Soap's favorite poems by James Elroy Flecker out loud to him to pass the time. Soap always loved when Price recited his favorites, leaned up on the older man's shoulder, under his arm, dozing off with a fond smile on his face, their hands intertwined, as always.
It was when he got to the last line of 'The Golden Journey to Samarkand' when he heard the slightest rustle of sheets on the bed, miniscule but impactful on his heart. The book fell from his hands and thudded to the floor, in the next second he was there, with gentle hands on Soap's forearms, looking over every detail on the soldier's face, but still not finding any level of consciousness. His heart dropped to the floor too then, crushed, a sharp pain striking through his chest.
"Must be losing my bloody mind.." Price mumbled, his hands froze on the man's muscular forearms for a moment, contemplating, before he skimmed them down, taking Soap's hands in his own. At first, he felt nothing but a flash of buzzing contentment at finally having those hands in his again, but the expected emptiness soon followed at the nonexistent response. He squeezed his hands around Soap's, pressing a kiss to the scarred knuckles, and rested his head on one of Soap's hands, still held in his grasp.
The beeping of the machine and Soap's calm breathing coupled with the warmth of his hand, were lulling him into a dozing state, the only thing keeping him awake was the panic, that maybe the doctor was right, that Nikolai, as much as he didn't want to be, was right as well...that Soap would never recover, that he'd spend the rest of his days sat up in this bed. Was he prepared to deal with the repercussions of that? Could he really stay in this room with a comatose Soap forever? Not when there was a war still raging on, not when Soap would be devastated and angry if he knew Price was wasting his life away here. But how could he leave him? He couldn't. Not when there was still hope. A small hope...but the smallest of hopes is all you needed.
"You'll come back..." He said onto the younger man's arm, his eyes falling closed.
There was a pressure then, soft, barely there, but it was enough to make Price shot up from his half-laying position on the bed, not letting up the grip. He felt the squeeze again, stronger this time, he wasn't imagining it, he saw Soap's right fingers moving, the tip of his thumb ran down Price's.
That was when Soap's eyes fluttered open.
They looked unfocused, confused, his hand gripped tighter around Price's, his light blue eyes searched around the shaded room before they landed on Price, a sleepy smile tugged on his lips.
"Soap...Soap!" Price cried out, a wet-eyed smile fell on his features. He jumped out of the chair and moved one of his hands to the side of Soap's face, curling it around the other man's cheek, his smile growing by the second. Even Soap's became radiant despite the weeks of being stuck in an unmoving state.
"Price..." Soap whispered deeply, "You held my hand first."
When Soap's voice hit his ears he laughed, exhilarated. "Took me long enough, eh? But you took your time too.." He removed the hand from Soap's face and wrapped it around with the other one, holding Soap's right hand firmly between both of his own, kissing at the back of it.
"I found you.." Soap breathed out in a hoarse voice, the words breaking, but strong. He brought his hand up weakly and wiped a finger under Price's eye, catching a falling tear with a soft smile. Price laughed again, airily, nuzzling his face on Soap's, pressing a kiss to either side of his cheeks, before pulling away to look at his, at last, conscious lover.
"I never left."