Thank you all so much for the love and support for this story. It really means a lot. It surprised me to receive a couple reviews within the first day that I posted the last chapter. I meant to write this chapter far sooner, but a lot of things in my life came up and I couldn't manage to sit down and focus on this story.
Hereford UK, 29th November 2016
Funerals had a magical ability to fill anyone with dread at the slightest mention of them. The two held for Roach and Ghost were no exception. It was hard for MacTavish to fathom how two incredible men like them could be murdered in August, then not have any sort of last rites performed until over three months later. Much like his and Price's trial, it was an occasion that attracted press like maggots to a fresh cadaver. Roach's mother, Elise Sanderson, fought tooth and nail since word of her son's death reached her for his right to a proper burial. By the time anyone could get to both his and Ghost's bodies, left in a pair of unmarked graves by Toad and Archer before they dared to leave the area, the short war had come to a close and they were beyond recognizable. Had it not been for the dog tags, it would have been impossible to identify them.
Roach's funeral got more attention, for obvious reasons. Medals were awarded to him postmortem, and he deserved every single one. Roach's family gathered, as well as a large mass of friends and a gaggle of SAS operatives he'd remained in contact with after his transfer to the 141. He had people who deeply grieved for him, yet there was a blanketing air of relief over everyone gathered that day. At least what was left of Roach was brought home and could be buried. At one point, Roach's mother stopped her son's former Captain, and upon asking who he was, smiled and tearfully told him about how much Roach mentioned him in his Emails to her. Only respect and admiration from the Sergeant, who thought the world of his commanding officer and all the hard work he did for the sake of his men. MacTavish politely excused himself and waited in the back for longer than he wanted till his chest stopped hurting.
By stark contrast, Ghost lacked much of any human connections outside their task force. No family, no friends in the outside world... The funeral home didn't know what to do without any next of kin so Price and MacTavish had to explain that the man's family died a long time ago. With very little that they could spare, the two ended up paying for a cremation and Ghost's military status at least got him a space to leave the urn. No wake was held, no actual funeral. He was burned up, they bottled him, then drove him down with a marker and left him. Soap stood by that urn for a long time, hand in his pocket to guard against the cold and tears chilling his cheek. Someone had to mourn him, Lieutenant Simon Riley deserved that much.
Day after day past, the ex Captain walked to that cemetery to visit both Ghost and Roach. Each day he cried a little less, until he found he simply couldn't anymore. Every part of him yearned to shed at least a single tear, but his eyes remained dry. Still he came. Then one day, a familiar voice broke his vigil. "Captain. It's been a while."
MacTavish looked over his shoulder to find Archer standing behind him. "Aye. Sorry, did you want to be alone?"
"No, mate, it's fine." The sniper stepped in beside him and looked down at the overly simple urn at their feet. "I don't know if Walcroft told you the story, but he died trying to save Roach. They didn't..." He sighed, trying to work out what he trying to say. "They didn't deserve what happened to 'em."
"He told me," Soap affirmed. "And to think, Shepherd killed them and still got a hero's welcome when he came home in a box..."
Archer shook his head. "It ain't right, sir. Something tells me that once Makarov's been resolved, there might be some fighting over it."
"I don't think so. As far as the public's concerned, Shepherd was killed in his crusade against Makarov. It's easier to rally more support against the actual threat right now than to deal with the PR problems that the truth involves." It wasn't right, and even though Price had yet to comment on the matter, Soap saw fury burning in his eyes when he heard the news. In the end, history would see Shepherd as a hero. "The man bet on the right horse."
The sniper knitted his long fingers together. "On a different note, I almost didn't recognize you."
"Aye." MacTavish gave his stump a pointed glance. "I lost weight."
Archer laughed. "At least you still got your sense of humor."
The former Captain maintained a smile for now. "Well, when you aren't as handy as you used to be, jokes are about the only thing you have."
"Tell you what, how 'bout you and I go to the pub in town. I can call up Toad too and it can be just like old times." He glanced down at the urn at their feet, and gave a flat chuckle. "We'll pour one out for you too, mate."
"Aye, I'm sure he'd appreciate it." Just like old times... It wasn't unheard of back in the days of the Task Force 141 for MacTavish to join his men on a night out for drinks. They'd celebrate after a successful mission, a birthday every so often, and even the rare announcement that some lucky bastard had a baby on the way. He and Ghost were practically joined at the hip when they went drinking, largely because MacTavish found entertainment in how easily his XO could end up shitfaced. At this point, MacTavish couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to sit down and have a drink. A few months now at least, since fear of capture kept him and Price straight while they were on the run. "Let's go then."
An hour later, they met with Toad at the pub and were greeted by the bartender with a mix of surprise and joy. "Hell yeah, there's my ops boys!" He didn't even so much as bat an eye when he saw MacTavish's state. He never paid anyone's injuries any mind, never asked questions about them or tried to wrestle a story from them. He was probably one of the best bartenders Soap ever met for that reason alone. The three of them got their drinks, plus a shot of gin for Ghost and a pint for Roach, and found a comfortable spot in the corner of the bar where they wouldn't get bothered. They had some catching up to do.
24:46.
Price stared at the time as worry settled into his gut. Soap left hours ago to go visit the cemetery and he hadn't heard from his old charge since that. Anything could've happened and he wouldn't be sure. Despite his concerns, he hadn't tried to contact him. The man needed space, or so the therapist told him. That's what kept Price from calling him after the first hour, then two, three...
Six hours was where he drew the line. He dialed up Soap's burner phone and waited a half a minute while the dial tone sounded in his ear. No answer. Price glowered at his cellphone and tried again. Still nothing. He took a deep breath. No word from him and no answer. His next move was to call Nikolai and ask. Fortunately, he received an answer this time.
"Что ты хочешь?" Nikolai was groggy, if nothing else; probably sleeping like a normal person.
Best he get straight to the point. "Yeah, have you heard from Soap? He left hours ago and hasn't been answering his phone."
"нет. Do you need help looking?"
"I'd appreciate it."
A loaded sigh on the other end. "Alright. I'm getting up now. Where did he say he was going?"
"The cemetery, but that closes at dusk," Price answered.
"He can be anywhere then." With the sound of shifting and a rustling fabric, Nikolai said, "Keep trying to call him. He should answer at some point."
At this point, Price didn't know what he'd do without Nikolai being around to help him. "I will. Thanks."
After that, he went and got his boots on then went out to his car to start driving through town and looking. All the while, he continued to try calling Soap. After about the ninth attempt, there was finally an answer.
"Aye, whose this?"
There was something off with Soap's voice, and Price could hear a lot of chatter in the background. "Soap, where the bloody hell are you? It's past midnight."
"Um... The old pub on Main Street..." A brief pause. "What's got your bonnet in a twist?"
Price quickly turned off the road he was on to head towards the location. "I called you nine times and you weren't answering."
"Sorry, mate, was on silent."
"Fine. Just stay where you are, I'm coming to get you." He then hung up before any sort of argument could be made and called Nikolai to tell him he knew where Soap was and was heading to get him now. The Russian gave a yawn and announced he'd go back to bed before ending the call.
In seven or so minutes, Price parked outside the pub and went in. It wasn't hard to locate his former charge, since he was seated with Toad and Archer with a decent amount of empty drinks and still a couple untouched ones on the table. Before Price approached him, he checked with the bartender to make sure the tab was paid, it was, thankfully, so he walked up to the table and clapped a hand on Soap's shoulder.
His sudden presence was enough to make Soap jump, but in his idled state he smacked his knee on the table leg and nearly knocked over a couple of the empty glasses. The jostle caused a mug of lager to splash some of its contents on the tabletop. "Fuck. Do ya mind not-" Soap turned his head to look at him and stopped talking immediately. "Oh."
Maybe Price could've provided more warning than he had, but he hadn't had much choice as Soap's blind side was to the rest of the bar. It was an odd change of behavior, since every other time, he kept his blind side to walls and wherever people couldn't sneak up on him. Maybe he got careless after a few drinks. "Come on, lad, time to go."
Soap sighed and got up, not without a noticeable sway as he stood. "Thanks, Archer. See ya around."
"Any time, Captain," Archer replied, nudging a lethargic Toad, who leaned heavily on his shoulder.
Price ushered Soap out of the pub and into the passenger seat. Though frustrated at the situation, he decided to hold off and not say anything for now. The conversation could wait until Soap was sober enough to explain himself. The drive home was silent for all of about five minutes.
"Yer mad, aren't ya, Cap'ain," Soap said, his head propped against the window.
The most Price could provide was a sideways glance before he had to turn his attention back to the road. "Yes, I'm mad. You could've at least told me where you were going." It didn't even look like any of them had stayed sober. Who would've driven them all home? How could they act so recklessly? "What were you thinking?"
"I wasn't, alright? Is that what you want to hear?" Soap shot back. "You don't have to do all this ya know."
"When you do shit like this, yes, I have to." Price practically white knuckled the steering wheel at this point. "How did you plan on getting back?"
Soap frowned. "I woulda figured something out."
There was just so much wrong there. No planning had been done, no forethought. Just pure impulse apparently. "You know you shouldn't be drinking with your meds, right?"
"Fucking relax, I know that. I won't take 'em tonight. One day without that bloody sleep aid's not gonna kill me, Price." With crossed arms, Soap turned his head away. "And before you say it, no, I don't need that painkiller either."
Price turned into his driveway and shut the car off. For a long minute, he sat in the driver's seat and sought to calm himself down. "I'm not looking for a fight here, son. I'm just worried about you."
"Fine." Soap opened his door and got out of the car, but not without some stumbling. With a loud crackle of branches, he landed in a near bare shrub. "Fucking..."
"You alright?" Price got out now and helped him up. Even in the low light, he could make out a few scratches and cuts. "Come on, let's get these cleaned up."
After that, Soap stopped resisting him and Price found it unusually easy to sit him down and take care of the minor injuries. If the man were in any sound state of mind, he would've protested by now and insisted that he could take care of himself. Instead, Soap stared at the floor, disconnected from the situation. Shortly after Price finished up and put away the box of bandages and threw away the damp paper towel, his former charge ended up falling asleep on the couch. Price shook his head and laid a spare blanket over him before going to turn in himself.
For the first time in a couple of weeks, Price wasn't woken up by one of Soap's night terrors.
There's a saying about drinking. Alcohol lets you take some happiness from tomorrow to have tonight. Ordinarily, Soap didn't get hungover from his nights drinking - likely from his tolerance he'd built over the last five years. After a couple of months sober though, that's gone out the window. He drank no more than he usually did, and yet he woke up feeling like death warmed over.
For an unknown amount of time (could have been hours as far as he cared), Soap laid on the couch. It wasn't until his stomach flipped that he had any motivation to stand up, let alone move. Whatever he'd eaten last night came back up and then some. He sat in front of the toilet a long while dry heaving, miserable between that and a brutally pounding headache. When his stomach finally calmed down, he stood up and opened the medicine cabinet to grab the aspirin bottle. He shook out two white pills and tossed them in his mouth, but the instant he tried to swallow them, he yet again heaved as the dry pills agitated the back of his throat.
Determined not to waste the pills, he turned on the sink and cupped a few hand fulls of water to help the medication go down easier. Once he was sure they weren't about to come back up, he sighed with relief and sat down on the tile floor for several minutes. All he could do in that time was tuck his head down between his knees and wait to feel less shitty.
A couple (very loud) knocks interrupted his quiet time. "You still alive in there?"
Soap didn't bother moving and supplied a spiritless, "Aye..."
"Manage to finally trash yourself?" Price guessed on the other side of the door.
Trashed was putting it lightly. MacTavish forgot how much Archer could throw back and did his best to keep up him rather than take a break to drink some water or even simply stop all together. He didn't regret doing so either. It was better that he was completely blotted and couldn't recall the night in any great detail, as opposed to his sober nights up until this point spent staring at the ceiling and wondering if that night he'd be greeted with another nightmare. Just a dead, dreamless sleep. He could care less how sick he felt the next day.
First step to being a bloody alcoholic. Soap took a deep breath, got up at long last, and went straight to his room to hopefully sleep off his hangover. He crashed on the mattress and buried his head under the pillows, soon drifting off into oblivion.
The very next thing he was consciously aware of was being in a state of panic. He couldn't recall the reason for it, only the overwhelming feeling of dread that he associated with being stranded deep in enemy territory with tangos closing in. Mortars ripped through the dirt and gunfire zinged past his ears. Summer heat, and the acrid stench of blood... His heart was racing and he'd broken into a cold sweat. Distantly, he became aware that hands were on his shoulders, keeping him pressed down into a chair in the living room. "... Price...?"
"I'm right here, son." One hand gave his shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "You're alright."
The most the ex Captain could muster was a slow nod as he took in the situation. Of course he had another night terror. "Sorry."
Price removed his hands and sat down beside him. "There's nothing to apologize for."
"Yes, there is," Soap insisted, shaking his head. "It's not right that you have to put up with me running around screaming in my sleep."
"It's nothing to be sorry about. You can't help it." The older man gave his arm a pat. "Someone's got to be around to make sure you don't hurt yourself, and I don't trust many other people to do that."
It was what Price told him every time Soap voiced his frustration towards the situation. His pride demanded he not be so helpless as to need someone to keep an eye on him while he sleeps, that he shouldn't have to drag other people down with his own problems. Price had a borderline hero complex with how much of other peoples' problems he willingly shouldered, and, regardless of whether it was wanted or not, that included Soap's. "You shouldn't have to though."
"Neither should you." There it was. Once more, another dig at his how closed off he'd been with his problems. A moment later, Price added, "I'm not the concern here. Be honest with me, how're you feeling?"
Soap bowed his head, pressure steadily building in his skull. "Like shite."
"Lay down then and rest." With that oh so insightful advice, Price nudged him down on his back and draped the blanket over him. "We can talk later."
The day passed quietly for Price after Soap's night terror. The man dozed in the living room for a good portion of the day, only holding very short and simple conversation when it came up. At one point he got up and grabbed his journal to scribble in, but that was only for ten minutes before he must have given up again and turned on the TV to preoccupy himself.
Price took the chance to get some chores done: namely laundry and cleaning up his kitchen. While he prepared a very simple lunch for the both of them, a call came in on the landline. It couldn't have been MacMillan, Nikolai, or Yuri, since they all knew and opted to contact Price's cell phone first before they ever bothered trying the house. He had several guesses though. The land lady preferred the landline, his ex-wife and son didn't have his burner phone's number, and there had to be about a million telemarketers out there. Now, just in case it was either his son or the land lady, he picked up the phone and answered with a tentative, "Hello?"
"Hey, is this Captain Price...?" There were three things that Price noticed from that single question: woman, Scottish, and a complete stranger. Oddly, she seemed to know him despite him not remembering talking to any Scottish women in recent memory.
"Yes, I am," he drawled, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder so he could continue making lunch. "Who is this?"
"Bridget MacTavish. Major General MacMillan said I should contact you."
He paused, the knife in his hand boring into his cutting board. One of Soap's relatives? Couldn't have been a wife, so he had to guess either a sister or a cousin. She sounded far too young to be his mother. "And why's that?"
There was a brief silence, but the rub of fabric on the other end betrayed a nervous energy. "I heard my brother, John, has been living with you. Is he there?"
Price gripped the hilt of his knife till his knuckles blanched. "Where the bloody hell were you when the hospital was looking for a next of kin?" Was it harsh? A bit. Did Price feel any remorse for it? Not in the slightest.
"It's complicated. Can I speak to my brother or no?"
Was it his place to bar someone from speaking to their sibling? There was no good answer for it. On one hand, Soap never spoke ill of his sister, but he barely ever talked about his family outside the rare reference. From what Price gathered though, his home life was to the effect of an alcoholic father, an absent mother, and a sister who he had to care for. At best, they were a very dysfunctional household, and at worse there may have been domestic violence. "'It's complicated' isn't a good enough reason for me to let you."
The woman on the other end stammered. "It's none of your business. I'm his fucking family, you reprobate!"
"Yes, family that was conveniently absent when he needed it most," Price remarked. "Sorry, but it became my business when I became the one actively housing him. So either you can explain it or leave a message."
"..." If it weren't for the absence of a click, Price would have assumed she hung up. Finally, she said, "Just tell him that I want to meet up at some point soon." Finally, there was the blessed click and dial tone that marked the end of the call. He could only sigh with relief.
"What was that all about?"
Price set the phone back into its cradle and resumed his cooking, though he gave Soap some of his attention. Seemed he must have overheard part of the heated phone call. "Nothing important, son. Just an idiot."
Soap leaned against the door frame now and blinked at Price. "What'd they want?"
"Doesn't matter. They're bound to call back anyways." Price finished cutting the vegetables and set the knife down. "Are you feeling any better?"
The question was enough to distract the younger man from his line of questioning. "Aye. No need to worry about me."
"Good. Now can you grab a couple plates? Lunch is just about done."
There were few times Price could remember feeling uncomfortable consulting MacMillan. In his youth, if it ever happened, it was purely for fear of being badgered about his impulsive decisions. This time though, something sat in his gut that he didn't want to call betrayal, but felt very much similar. Bridget apparently confronted the Major General about her brother, and he diverted her to Price.
Luckily, the old man was more than willing to meet up with Price and discuss it while Soap was meeting with his therapist. They met up at a small cafe, ordered tea, and sat down off the the side. MacMillan propped his cane against the wall and gave Price a stony look. "I'm assuming you didn't call me up for a date. What's this about, lad?"
Price brushed his fingertip around the edge of the cup, using the steam as an indicator that his tea was still too hot to drink. "I got a call the other day from a woman: Bridget MacTavish. She said you told her to contact me."
"Straight to the point then. Aye, I did." MacMillan picked up his own cup and drank the piping hot drink with little indication that the heat bothered him. "It was a matter of time before your friend's family popped up. Apparently she heard that he's been discharged but no longer lived at his old apartment and his old number was given to someone else. So instead, she started calling every last person she could get a hold of asking about him."
"That right?" Price furrowed his brows.
MacMillan nodded and glanced about the dining area. The place was also a flower shop, but given the time of year, their focus shifted to the upcoming holiday season. "She was at it for well over a week before I ended up answering her myself. So I told her that MacTavish is staying with you and left it at that. She probably got your number from the phone book."
All he could offer was an indignant huff. He knew MacMillan was a busy man to begin with. If she was causing that much of a stir, then it was no wonder he threw her a bone. "I don't like it though. We couldn't find her when Soap was in the hospital, and now suddenly she's here demanding to see him."
"Could've been a lot of things, son. Either way, it's not for us to decide." The old man rubbed at his coarse beard, once a light brown and now flecked with grey. "You told him she called, right?"
"I'm getting around to it," Price mumbled, picking up his cup to sip at his tea.
If looks could kill, then the sharpness of MacMillan's stare would've ended Price in that instant. "You haven't said anything?"
"None of it makes any bloody sense, Mac. Why now? Last I heard, they hit a rough patch and now she's asking to see him. I know for a fact Soap hasn't reached out."
"People change."
Price set down his cup, a withering frown set into his face. "I don't like it is all I'm saying."
MacMillan finished his drink and stood up, grabbing his cane. "Doesn't matter if you do. Let MacTavish work this one out himself. See you soon, John."
For the rest of the day, Price was silent as he mulled his options over. Telling Soap could bring trouble. Holding back this information though would lead to resentment if Soap ever found out about it. If Bridget was going to continue being persistent, then Price couldn't gamble on that uncertainty. Soap would find out he hid the phone call, and he would be pissed.
That evening, he resolved to tell him outright. Price went to Soap's room and knocked a couple of times. When he was met with no answer, he poked his head into the darkened room. The only sound inside was the younger's man's slow breathing. In the low light, he barely made out his sleeping form on the bed, his back turned away, and one of his prescription bottles left on the nightstand next to an empty glass.
Price carefully shut the door. Not now then. He retired to his room, but found sleep hard to come by. For an hour, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling before he gave up and went to the living room to sit on the couch and watch the TV. Hopefully the late night shows would tire him out. The news was monotonous enough, at least he felt that way.
01:45, the sound of footsteps on the wood floor snapped him from whatever near sleep he found himself in. Price looked back to the doorway, where Soap was standing quietly. "Everything alright, son?"
Soap rubbed his eye and stepped fully into the living room now. "Aye... what're ya doing up?"
Relieved that this wasn't another one of the younger man's night terrors, Price sunk back into the cushions. "Watching the tellie."
"I've noticed." He sat down next to him. "Be honest with me, Price. Is something wrong?"
Price glanced at him from the corner of his eye. Soap had opted to seat himself with Price on his blind side and kept his gaze fixed on the TV. There wasn't any indication that he was trying to read him for signs of deception. This was absolute trust right now. Price's stomach coiled into a knot. "What makes you think there is?"
"You've been quiet since I got out of therapy earlier." After a brief pause, he added, "More than normal."
With a weighted sigh, Price gave up. "You remember that call a few days ago?"
"Aye, the one on the line?" Soap pulled his eye off the TV now to face him.
"It was your sister. She was asking to talk to you."
There was a moment of silence before Soap rubbed at his face. "Did she say what she wanted?"
Taking the fact he didn't bring up that this was a few days late to tell him as a good sign, Price eased up some. "She wanted to meet up or something, but she wasn't very specific about anything."
"Of course she wasn't..." Soap's hand went down to scratch at the stubble along his jaw. "I'll call her back. See what's up."
Hearing her out was exactly what Price expected Soap to do. It wasn't in him to burn bridges like Price would have done. In the end, it didn't matter what he would have done. This was purely for Soap to decide for himself.
A week passed since Soap learned his sister tried to contact him. In that time, he called her back and they arranged a meeting. Apparently this was concerning Christmas, since it was one of the only holidays he ever bothered driving six hours back to Scotland for. It was done less out of love at this point and more out of duty. With the old man ailing in his early sixties, he felt obligated to make an appearance at home, attend Christmas Mass, and spend the day there. It could be the last year he could do so with his father, after all.
The day they chose to meet, he sat at the park and waited for her with his arm tucked in close to fend off the chill of an approaching winter wind. He managed to pin the extra length of his jacket's right sleeve up to the shoulder, making it far easier to throw on over his stump. That coupled with a knit hat pulled down just about to his eyebrows and his beard having grown out made him look virtually unrecognizable from the man he once was a year ago.
Unsurprisingly, when Bridget came to the park, she didn't realize who he was and went to sit at a different bench twelve meters away. Soap stared at her for at least a minute, wondering how to approach the situation. Turned out he didn't need to. His staring was enough to grab her attention, which earned him a "Can I help you?"
Sometimes he really wished he could be wrong. "Aye, Bridget."
If reality were anything like cartoons, her eyes would have leaped from her skull. They came pretty close. She quickly picked up her purse and came right over. "Oh goodness, John? What the...?" She trailed, looked him up and down - lingering a touch too long on his pinned up sleeve - with a hand pressed over her mouth. "Jesus. When they said you'd been discharged..."
"Sorry, did you want me to go get the rest of me and come back," Soap deadpanned. Hopefully this would give her the hint that this wasn't a topic he was willing to discuss with her. "What did you need?"
She gave a slow nod. "... Dad's not doing well. His medication's getting pretty expensive and the doctors keep adding new prescriptions onto what he already has to take. We were wondering if you'd be willing to chip in a bit to help him out."
Why was he in no way surprised? He glowered up at her from where he sat. "In case you can't tell, I have my own set of medical expenses I have to pay for and I don't have a job to make the money to offer."
Bridget's initial shock was gone in an instant, replaced with her usual stubbornness. She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. "Look, you chose to do your special ops hero shite. That's on you. But this is our dad we're talking about. He needs these meds to live and you're just gonna let him die?"
"If I had the money to offer, then I would. I don't." Soap stood up to leave. Of course this was a waste of time. "If that's all you called me out here for, then we're done here."
A hand grabbed his sleeve. Although he could have pulled it free, he instead stopped. "Please, Johnny... This could be a chance to fix things. You can come home and we can all be a family again. Don't you want that? Please, please, don't walk away again. You're always leaving."
Soap didn't move right away. After several long seconds, he pulled his sleeve free of her fingers. "I will when there's something worth staying around for."
"Y-you're just going to run away again?" Bridget yelled. "We're your family!"
"Have you or dad ever once tried to just be there for me when shite's going down hill? No. I always have to be the one to get over myself and be there for you." He turned to her, a cold anger in his eye. "Every time. Mom leaves and I'm the one who has to keep things from falling apart. I gave up a normal childhood because dad couldn't get his act together and be an adult. Even now, I'm going through hell and haven't gotten my life together, and here you are blaming me for it and asking me to just get over myself and go back with you."
"You're putting words in my mouth," she snapped, rearing up as tall as she could (still nowhere near tall enough to match him). "I'm asking you to stop with the loner pity party and come home already."
"Take one good look at me. I'm missing a fucking arm and I'm half blind. This isn't a fucking pity party!" He took a step back, frustration making his face a deep cherry color. "I'm done. Don't come looking for me again." With that, he walked away whilst his sister continued to shout from her spot at him. He tuned her out and left the park. Rather than follow the main roads home, where she could easily get into her car and follow him, he opted for side roads and took a few paths where vehicles wouldn't follow him. It took twice as long getting back than it should have.
When he got back, Price was reading over a news article on his laptop. He glanced up momentarily. "So how'd it go?"
Soap shrugged off his jacket and hung it by the door. "Just peachy."
"That bad, huh?" His former Captain didn't look up this time.
"Yeah." With that, the younger man withdrew and went to his room. For a long while, he lay in bed and stared off in the distance beyond the ceiling. A storm was brewing in his head, menacing and dark. Some resentful part of him wanted nothing more than to act on the impulses he felt; turn the emotional and mental pain into something physical that he could handle. He didn't need to test that to know how well it'd go. Price would find out right away, and it'd earn him more frequent therapist sessions and maybe another stay at the hospital. It wasn't worth making a bigger burden of himself. Instead, he'd have to deal with his hellish mindscape with no outlet.
A knock on the door forced him to pull his head out of the storm.
"Aye?"
The door opened and Price settled against the frame. "You've been quiet since you got back. I just figured I'd check on you."
Soap sat up. Rolling over to face away from him would be too obvious. "I'm just moping. I'll get over it."
"Did you want to talk about it?" The offer didn't sound forced by any means, and there was a genuine sense of concern that painted Price's features.
"Nah, that's fine. There's not a whole lot to tell anyways."
His attempt at being dismissive towards the matter didn't fool Price though. "If you change your mind then, I'm all ears. Now, did you want to help with dinner?"
It was the first time Price had ever extended the offer to him. Ordinarily he just would cook the meals himself. Although Soap knew the reason behind it, make him feel a little more needed around the place, it definitely felt like a better alternative to what he was doing. At least if he was productive, he could keep his mind off things. "Sure. Why not."
And so ends yet another chapter. I'm really sorry this one was so late. Life sorta got the better of me and I've been preoccupied. Amongst other things, I attempted to enlist in the Army, was disqualified, and have had a few financial hurdles to get over.
Now, in all honesty, I almost gave up with this fic. Terrible, I know. This was just a very hard chapter to write and I only really had the first scene written for months. All it took was one person commenting that they were waiting for an update and I just felt like I needed to try again. Sure enough, I got this chapter done over the course of the last two weeks. I feel like it's rough, that it wasn't at all worth all that time you guys waited for it. I'm sorry about that.
Thanks for the support, and I'll try not to take so long next time around.
