LEGAL DISCLAIMER:MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision/Sledgehammer Games/Raven Software.

This story is an AU. Contains mature language and violence.

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Price wasn't sure which was worse, hanging about inside the clinic or outside it.

His knee jiggled constantly, keeping pace with his jangling nerves. His fidgeting hadn't escaped Nikolai's notice, though the Russian pilot kept his eyes moving over the room and his comments to himself. The waiting area had exceeded its capacity, with the overflow seated in cheap plastic stacking chairs. The place was crammed full of people young and old, with a tremendous din of crying children and screaming babies, a swell of diseased humanity that sobbed, hacked and coughed. Price was keenly aware that any of those could be riddled with tuberculosis, and that he and Nikolai were the target of countless stares, some openly hostile.

In the row of seats immediately opposite them, an elderly man sat hunched over, cradling his head in his hands, as a grandmother draped in a brilliant turquoise sari comforted the tearstained toddler in her lap. Beside them, the child's listless mother sat cross-legged, dwarfed by a quilted jacket two sizes too large for her. Gran paused her cooing and clucking to shoot them a suspicious look. "Looks like we're making enemies even faster than usual," said Nikolai in a low voice.

"You can't blame them," said Price, quieting his knee to match his tone. "We're obviously not here on any mission of mercy. No more than the bastards that just shot up their fellow countrymen. You might say we bear more than a passing resemblance."

"All the attention they've attracted might have actually bought us some time, my friend."

Price gave a wry huff. Makarov's lot wasn't exactly known for their finesse. "You might be right about that one. This was loud and sloppy, even for them. That said, you know it won't be long." His rapid turn startled the willowy woman in blue scrubs who tapped him on the shoulder.

Her hand fluttered to her chest as she took a calming breath. Wisps of curly dark hair had escaped the filmy puff of her surgical cap, framing an oval face with a golden brown complexion and fine high cheekbones. Her heavy-lidded green eyes were wary; the girl was switched on, with the look of someone who didn't suffer fools gladly. Her soft accent was French. "Come with me."

Price and Nikolai did so, mimicking the steps of her dark blue rubber clogs over and through the legs and feet of the waiting crowd. Into rooms with a lot fewer patients, a lot more personnel and bleeping equipment. Past shelves of supplies that might have been previously stored in the closet she led them to, various warning signs posted about to keep others away from the 'contagious' patient within. Price scowled at the resuscitation trolley parked outside the doorway. Well that bloody well spells out the situation, doesn't it? The red steel cart contained the necessary emergency drugs and equipment, including a defibrillator, to medicate, ventilate and - if needed - zap any poor sod who tried to die on them. It wasn't likely there by coincidence.

"Thanks, Eugenie," Tim's voice called out from the closet. Pursing her full lips with disapproval, the young nurse left them. Tim stood just inside the doorway, wearing similar attire and a we-are-not-amused expression, his surgical mask hanging around his neck. If he was going for the stern doctor look, he probably should've ditched his scrub cap first, with its comic book superheroes posing and flexing their way across his head.

Anita had a matching outfit, though she wasn't paying the new arrivals any mind. She sat crouched on a box next to the cot pushed against the wall, one leg splayed out to balance herself as she leaned over Soap, exposing a bit of the brightly embroidered black socks she wore beneath those hideous Crocs. Her glasses had a minimalist gold frame and a small lens, resting on a delicate nose bearing a light spatter of freckles Price previously hadn't noticed. He guessed they were readers, better for her to examine her handiwork.

The lad wasn't looking much better than he had before, still quite pale and bruised, once again hooked up to a variety of machines. His sleeping face was relaxed, at least, and the equipment in newer, more reassuring condition. Along with an oxygen cannula, the feeding tube was back in his nose — he wouldn't be best pleased about that when he woke up. Anita's fingertips rested near a clear dressing taped to the side of Soap's neck. It looked like a bit of cling film stretched over orange-smeared skin where they'd sutured the triangular blue plastic anchor for the large IV catheter they'd inserted into his jugular vein. Three segments of smaller clear tubing split off from that, one capped off, the other two connected to the clear bags and glass bottle hanging overhead. Monitor wires sprouted from beneath the blanket, curving over his bare shoulders; he probably had nothing on underneath. Spotting the bag hanging underneath the bed, Price shuddered – definitely not. Bright multicolored lines zigzagged across the small screen on the shelf above. They were keeping a close eye on him. Anita's look at Price removed any doubt about that. Back in her element, this bird was in her comfort zone, and ready to make it clear who ruled the roost.

"Tim, Nick, can you give us a minute?" She asked. Tim began to protest. "Please?"

Tim regarded Price for a moment before brushing past him and Nikolai, not so much to put on a show, it was just too damn crowded in here not to. Price almost smiled. The bloke shrank from them, intimidated, while still full of bravado for this lady. Giving the distinct impression that his interest in her wasn't entirely professional. "Just yell if you need me." Nikolai gave Tim the prerequisite tough-guy cool stare while he made his exit, and then followed, with an amused glance at Price on the way out.

She pulled the puffy white cap from her hair, a reddish brown twist kept in check by a clip behind her head, some of the escaped ends turned to riotous frizz by their recent captivity. A few of those were gray. "I always do."

"How is he?" Price asked.

"Stable. So far, so good."

"What about his fever?"

"Still around 39.5"

"That's good? Didn't you give him anything for it?"

"It was 40 at the hotel. And no, that's his immune system doing its job, so we let it."

She sat quietly for a minute, looking past Price at the doorway. Her eyebrows rose into two swooping arches, like a child's drawing of birds. "I'm okay, Tim. Really."

Shadows shifted over the tile floor in the hallway, now lighter. She sighed, folding her glasses and slipping them into her pocket. With her hands braced against her knees, she pushed herself up with a grunt, along with a few notable cracking sounds. She rubbed her neck and turned her head to produce a few more, until her deep brown eyes were once again level with Price's chin, but boring into his with an intensity that seemed to make her grow a bit taller. Used to pushing her lads around, this one was.

"Okay. We need to come an agreement here."

" …Go on."

"He's going to be with us for a while."

"How long?"

"The next 24 hours should give us a better idea, and it will be a couple of days before we get all his lab results back, so we can see what actually caused the infection in the first place. Then we can fine-tune his antibiotics — the right drug for the right bug. Right now we're hitting him with some pretty strong stuff." She nodded at the glass IV bottle slowly dripping above her. "You can count on him being here at least a week."

Shit. Though her answer came as no surprise, Price doubted the Inner Circle would hold off that long before surfacing again, and the longer they were forced to stay put, the more vulnerable they became. Then again, if he and Nikolai had held off any longer from getting the lad to a hospital, well … here was a worry they were thankful to have.

Glancing over at Soap, she moved in even closer to Price, lowering her voice to a 'not in front of the children' level. "It's not an option, not if you want him alive and fully functional. With the right meds, fluids and plenty of supportive care, he should be."

"All right… "

"And that's with or without the two of you, who are optional."

Price's eyes narrowed. "How's that, then?"

"Let's start with this: don't you ever point a gun at me again."

Price's eyebrows shot up.

"You saw those guards out front – the nice men in the uniforms with guns a lot bigger than yours. One word from me and you'll find yourself down at the police station, where the cops will first beat the shit out of you, then ask you what you were doing in here armed, and proceed to beat the shit out of you again. After that, things will get really ugly."

"Armed?" Price took care not to make the lie too obvious. "They gave us the old pat-down up front, didn't they?"

Crossing her arms, she leaned back against the wall to look down at him with just a hint of a chilly smirk, studying his shirttail hanging out over his trousers. Giving him a nice long stare of appraisal – below the belt.

Unbelievably, his face was getting warm. "What?" He threw up his hands, indignant, turning to give her an even better view. Maybe she'd like to take a picture. "See something you like, love?"

Her smirk was no longer a hint. "You know, I do realize the backdrop here brings some—" Her eyebrows quirked as she waved a hand, offering possibilities. " –assumptions with it. But I'm not that much of a bleeding heart liberal. Puts me on the outs with these European kids sometimes. I grew up in the country, Mac. Where hearing occasional gunfire is a perfectly normal event. Where people with 'summer teeth' have a home that's mobile and nine cars that aren't. I know what Thunderwear is. I can make sure that pat-down is much more thorough next time."

The insufferable cow was too clever for her own good; one might say he had a Sig in his pocket, but he wasn't happy to see her. If she weren't a Yank, she'd be perfect for the part of SAS Selection where they'd capture you and try to get you to crack. One of the methods employed was to strip a captive down and have a female insult his manhood. She'd doubtless be a dab hand at that. The concept was similar in that he had to play it cool here, no matter how much she pissed him off. And she knew it.

But she also knew she was pushing it. Her obstinate expression softened. "Look, whatever sordid story that brought you here, or did this to him – we don't want to know. Your secret's safe with us because we don't know what it is. We don't get involved in any of that shit. We're here to treat all comers, and that's it. As long as things stay peaceful in this facility – and that includes not threatening me – you and I, we're good. Okay?"

Price let out a long irritated breath through his nose, before giving her a barely audible reply. "All right."

She'd stepped forward, but he still was in her way. At her expectant lift of eyebrows, he pressed himself against the wall as flat as he could. She recoiled from him as well, almost reaching the point of falling over onto Soap's sleeping form. But neither of them could prevent the inevitable awkward brush-up against each other, which included a breast, followed by an immediate and unanimous lack of acknowledgment. Her perfume, though faint, smelled of jasmine. Much better than the earlier smell of booze.

"He's here, he's my patient now, and I'm going to make him better – with or without you. You can go piss up a rope for all I care." Now out in the hallway, this tiny blue diva began making her grand exit, her rubber clogs clop-clopping over the tile, but immediately stopped in front of Nikolai, who'd just returned. She acknowledged him only by lifting a hand. Looking sheepish, he dug into the pocket of his trousers and deposited the goods. Her fingers closing around the new iPhone, she clopped off.

Hearing a sleepy sigh behind him, Price took a seat on the box next to the bed. "F f'y'sk mmm," MacTavish mumbled.

Price leaned in to listen. "All right, lad." He patted Soap's arm. "What was that?" Nikolai stepped closer as well.

Soap swallowed, smacking his dry lips, and tried again. "'F y'ask me," he said, cracking open one drowsy blue eye that rolled in Price's direction before closing again, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "She fancies you."

"Pfft." Price choked back a sarcastic laugh as Nikolai's face split into a broad grin."Shot you full of painkillers, didn't they?"

"Hmm… " was the only reply. Price thought he'd fallen back asleep until he eventually spoke again. "Mac?" Soap murmured, his eyes still closed. " …Does'is mean we're gonna find the Maltese Falcon?"

"Oh, leave off."

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39.5C = 103.1F

40C = 104F

A quick public service announcement: Soap gets off easy here. Sepsis, sometimes called 'blood poisoning', is a very serious matter - people of all ages frequently die from it. Those whom it doesn't kill often end up with amputations, organ damage and other long-term physical and psychological effects. It can develop from something as innocuous as a paper cut or abscessed tooth. If you experience a fever and/or start feeling increasingly worse after surgery, a minor injury or illness, such as a UTI or respiratory infection, please seek medical attention immediately. It could save your life.

Thanks to Lisbet Adair for her assistance.

'Summer teeth': sum'er here, sum'er there...

'A home that's mobile and nine cars that aren't' - Robin Williams (I'm pretty sure it was him, anyway!)

The Maltese Falcon is the property of the Estate of Dashiell Hammett.