The pain from the bullet wound to the thigh engulfed Quantum's entire body as if it were being soaked in a hot vial of acid. This was a first, for she had never been shot before.

Strangely enough she braved the pain and told the Soap that it was just a scratch, which was a flat out lie. However, the last thing she wanted was for them to have reason to remove her clothing and well, other things…

Slowly and carefully she began to walk away from the camp. In one of their National Geographic themed workouts, she and Yuri came across a small stream that quickly became their regular hangout.

Her plan was to wash it with water now and later she would sneak some medical supplies to attend to it.

Yuri spotted her leaving, bleeding leg in hand. To him this was trouble and we all knew even bullet wounds ran risk of infection.

Acting quickly, he located the satchel Nikolai always kept on his person and grabbed some cotton, antiseptic and bandages and started after her. Somehow he would have to explain this to his friend later.

After a fifteen minute walk that felt like an eternity, Quantum finally got to the edge of the stream. She flopped on the ground and began to drink like water was going out of style the next day.

Not wanting to touch the wound as yet she wet her face and began unbraiding her hair. This male role was done at the moment for all she cared.

Screw Saunders. She thought angrily.

She dipped her head in the delightfully cool water, allowing her hair to flow freely around her shoulders

"Ffffuuuuuuuckkk!" she moaned as her elbow accidentally dug into her damaged flesh.

"Playing brave does not look good on you…" a familiar Russian accented voice said.

She whipped her head around to see Yuri coming towards her. Med stuff in hand.

"And what do you care?" she said coldly, narrowing her eyes at him.

He came close and knelt at her side. Here he saw the real person behind Quantum. He had seen it before on many of their private adventures off camp, but not in this way.

Her hazel/brown eyes flickered in the afternoon sunlight; her hair was shoulder length and framed her still grime streaked but regal brown skinned face with effortless elegance.

Without recognizing what he was doing, he simply looked at her.

"What the fuck are you doing here Yuri, I'm fine" she snapped.

Remember that darkness he sensed with her? There it was again. Her emotional exoskeleton was about to crumble before him. For a moment his grey eyes locked with her hazel ones.

He shifted his gaze, leaned over and took her leg in his hand to attend to the now blood crusted wound.

Quantum gasped and fell into a panic.

"No..Don't touch me!" she shrieked.

Yuri was surprised at the way she recoiled. It was as if he were trying to kill her.

"Bree…I need to-" he said softly, reaching for her hand.

"Yuri! Don't touch me I mean it." Her voice cracked and she quickly pulled her knees to her chest and squeezed her eyes shut like a child gripped with the fear of the boogie man.

The hardcore soldier he saw in action earlier was no longer there. Last of her perceived strength fell away and the tears began to flow.

"Yuri please…don't…" she whispered.

He studied her face intently, her body shook uncontrollably, willing her with his mind to look at him once more. Seeing her hurting like this was breaking him in a strange way.

He moved away a little and sat on the ground and waited for her to come to her senses.

She finally raised her eyes to look at him where he sat, looking over to the other sit of the stream, drying her eyes with her hands.

Yuri worked his jaw a bit, he had seen this sort of reaction before and it was something deep, his facial expression was set as hard as stone.

"Who hurt you?" he asked gently, not turning towards her.

Quantum looked at him in disbelief, he was a soldier, a man's man. They don't see those things.

But as quiet as this Russian seemed to be, he was very observant.

Back at the base, Price and Soap sat in the makeshift rec room half watching some kind of African soap opera on the TV, courtesy Nikolai. Was there anything or anyone he didn't know?

They had just opened a new box of Price's favourite cigars, Villa Claras courtesy Nikolai again, and took the time to relax after their hectic day.

Soap was lolled off on the lumpy sofa, head propped on a cushion, one foot dangling over one of its arms, looking bored as hell but savouring the taste of his cigar while cradling a beer between his legs. Smoking was a habit Soap picked up from Price inadvertently. During the time thought he was dead, the sheer thought of that loss had pushed him into trying the cigars. Not like he missed Price so bad that it was making him depressed or anything…. Okay maybe a little….or a lot.

He blinked his eyes slowly, sleep was threatening to claim him but somehow he was not in the mood for it.

Hours of fierce battle can do that to you. One minute you're up, adrenaline pumping and when it's over you kind of just fall out in one spot silently hoping for some more action to come your way soon.

Price however had his cigar propped in the corner of his mouth like a pro while he concentrated on sharpening his knife and mumbling something about those bloody technicals.

Soap stopped mid-puff and looked at Price. What the hell is up with him? He thought.

Sure they missed the chopper that had Makarov's precious cargo in it but it was not something worth losing your sanity over.

A spike of mischievousness lodged its way into Soap's mind.

"Price….Pricey Price." he said, prodding his friend to respond. Nothing.

"John." He tried once more.

"Not now princess" Price grumbled.

Soap sat up in shock. No way, he dealt him the P card. He grabbed a cushion off the sofa and wacked Price over the head.

"Blood hell Soap!" he yelled. He threw his knife at Soap who skillfully dodged it and it stuck in the wooden wall.

"Another round?" he said motioning to the vodka that sat on the table.

Price nodded dutifully and poured them each a glass. Time to take a load off, then get Makarov.