Requested: Aftermath of Crew Expendable
Characters: Price, Soap, Gaz [mentioned]
Timeline: Post-Crew Expendable, canon deviation [ extended time before the next mission ]
Words: 2331
Rating: T

#2

'Ice it for ten minutes every two hours during the day,' the medic said, eyes drawn to the chart in his hands. 'If you do that for the rest of the week, the swelling should go down enough for you to safely start a rehabilitation program.'

Soap grimaced, not liking the sound of that at all. 'How long will that take?'

'I can't give you a definite time,' was the measured reply. 'Recovery periods vary between patients. Once you're able, we'll give you some simple exercises to do that will strengthen your muscles and ligaments. Those will help you regain lost balance and coordination. From there, we'll gradually build you back up to regular activity. Generally, moderate sprains take between four to six weeks to heal. It's not a process we can rush without risking re-injury.'

'Right,' Soap muttered, already low spirits dipping even further. He'd be off the active duty roster for a month, at least. If not more. 'Thanks, Doc.'

Despite his moody outlook, the medic seemed to hear the sincerity, offering Soap a sympathetic smile as he snapped the clipboard shut. 'Just remember to rest as much as you can for the next forty-eight hours. If you have to walk, use crutches. The fastest way to a full recovery is taking care of yourself. Trust me.'

It figured that his first black-op's mission running with the crème de la crème of the British special forces would end with him being benched for the foreseeable future. Soap still couldn't quite swallow the injustice of it all.

He'd returned to his bunk as soon as he'd been allowed to hobble out of the infirmary, pride still smarting from the events that had landed him there. He'd sprained his ankle – honest to God put himself out of commission with a single, misplaced foot. Granted, he'd been slightly rushed when the ship they'd been on started going through its final death throes before plummeting to the depths of the Bering Strait, but Soap wasn't interested in manufacturing excuses for himself.

A couple of people had poked their head through the door as the evening wore on. Soap had made an exception for Gaz, but feigned sleep for the rest. He was tired, pissed, and in too much pain to be considered good company – not that being polite had been a top priority at that point, but general irritability and the ire it might have earned him seemed like it would do little more than make his bad situation worse.

Now, he was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. It was dark, the sun having set several hours ago. Despite that, there was enough moonlight seeping in around the edges of his curtains for Soap to see everything in muted silhouettes. He slipped between canvasing his room and dozing fitfully for a while, the ever-present ache in his leg refusing to let him sleep. After he blinked back into awareness for the fourth consecutive time, he gave up, grumbling when he was forced to invent an entirely new choreography in order to successfully drag himself out of bed and into the hallway.

By the quiet that had fallen over the base, broken only by the sound of his crutches clicking against the floor, Soap guessed that most of the lads had turned in for the night. With that in mind, he tried to avoid creating a disturbance, taking the first exit that he saw away from their sleeping quarters. It led straight to the mess hall, which, he realised after a monumental struggle to get through the entrance with two occupied hands, smelled strongly of coffee.

It was particularly tantalizing, for someone who hadn't eaten since early morning. Or it was until Soap's wandering eyes met the sharp, slightly amused gaze of a man who'd no doubt just witnessed his less than graceful appearance.

'Sir,' Soap greeted tonelessly.

Price inclined his head. 'Soap.'

Soap wasn't sure what to do, now, having not accounted for an impromptu meeting with his Captain. He still didn't know where he stood with Price, recent experience telling him it was somewhere between forced tolerance and an unwillingness to watch him fall in the drink.

Admittedly, though, that general outlook could be applied to most people with a conscience.

With the full weight of the man's attention bearing down on him, Soap felt his escape routes crumbling – caving in before he could even try and slip away. The urge to fidget was overwhelming, his discomfort tangible, but he refused to paint a picture of it for all to see. Because despite everything, Soap still had his pride, and with a deep, steadying breath, he let it be the catalyst which, finally, forced him to open his mouth.

'Burning the midnight oil, Sir?'

Price might have been intimidating, but he was also human. A point that was proved a moment later when Price 'hm'd' in answer.

Encouraged by the lack of trademark disdain, Soap moved further into the mess. It was like he'd been granted permission – the security guard casting a critical eye over his ID before nodding him through.

There was a cheap, plastic kettle sitting on a bench beside the food galley. He headed over to it, coordination improved enough that his movements were fluid, muscle memory reminding him how to work around a compromised limb. When he reached the bench, he found instant coffee and lumpy sugar – a combination even his blunt tastes might have questioned, if he hadn't been in such dire need of a boost.

As it were, he simply wedged his body into a secure position and set about making something similar to his preferred recipe.

'That won't help you sleep,' Price intoned knowingly, after Soap had started stirring his drink. The granules dissolved, turning the boiled water black.

'It wasn't going to happen anyway,' Soap admitted. He couldn't face Price without unbalancing himself, so he didn't, instead briefly eyeing a carton of long-life milk before resoundingly deciding against it. 'Might as well make it bearable.'

Silence, then a soft clicking that he couldn't quite place until the scent of cedar and spice filled the air. Price sighed through his nose. 'They gave you something before you left the infirmary, Soap. I imagine they meant for you to use it.'

Soap stiffened slightly, despite Price's words holding none of the sharpness he'd expect in a reprimand. He tapped his spoon against the rim of his mug, and then discarded it with a loud clatter. 'If I can't feel it, I'll end up walking on it, Sir,' he eventually replied, back still to his superior. 'No point in making it worse.'

Finally turning around, Soap caught the man tucking a lighter back into his pocket, something akin to approval etched into his face. Price pulled the cigar from his lips, exhaling smoke. "I suppose you know yourself best, eh?'

'I do, Sir.'

'One would hope,' Price said, returning the cigar to his mouth. He rolled it around between his teeth, focus returning to the sheaf of papers lying on the table in front of him. 'The last thing I need is an F.N.G who thinks he knows better.'

It was said offhandedly – a statement that wasn't meant to hold deeper meaning. Not for Soap, at least. Price couldn't have known what Gaz had shared with him earlier. The lieutenant certainly had a pair of brass ones when it came to Price, but mentioning that he'd laid bare the unit's painful history in order to secure Price some leniency in Soap's eyes wasn't something he'd do. No, that was a secret he'd keep. And he'd expect Soap to do the same.

Soap stood there quietly for a beat, weighing up his options. He had the advantage of knowing why Price seemed to dislike him on principle, though alluding to it in a discussion had an inherent risk he wasn't particularly willing to take. On the other hand, he couldn't simply let things stand as they were and hope for the best. Price held all the cards, including Soap's future, in his hands.

'Sir… about what happened on the ship…' Soap said haltingly, wondering if this approach, which took a substantially more peaceful route than any other he could think of, would do little more than raise Price's ire. Soap had enough of a read on the man to know he was the type who'd prefer blunt-and-direct, but Soap didn't want to get burnt in a blatant confrontation if he could avoid it. 'I wanted to thank you…'

'There's no need for that,' came the sharp, and rather abrupt, response. Price paused halfway through turning the page of his report, frown lines straining his brow. 'If you'd been upfront about your injury, we could have avoided it all together.'

A trickle of irritation – Soap flexed his jaw, working it off before it seeped into his voice. He'd sprained his ankle on the stairs leading up to the cargo ship's catwalk, which had been tilting and juddering as it tore away from its supports. Hardly the time for conversation. 'With all due respect, Sir – if we'd stopped to talk about it, we both would have gotten our bollocks barbequed.'

Price finished flipping the page. 'And if I hadn't noticed you lagging behind, you wouldn't be here right now.'

'Bullshit,' Soap retorted, before the training that had beaten a healthy respect into him for those of higher rank kicked into action. Speaking so freely in front of a superior officer that you knew would tolerate it was one thing – doing it in front of an unknown entity was stupidity. Still, from the way Price suddenly dropped the façade of casual indifference, Soap knew he'd already dug himself a hole. 'You had one eye turned my way the entire bloody mission. I was never in danger of falling with you breathing down my neck like that.'

'Careful,' Price said, an edge in his tone that erred on the side of warning. He'd returned his attention to Soap, gaze dark and intense – daring him to continue. 'You're getting close to crossing a line there.'

Soap forced himself to meet his eyes without faltering. He'd come this far – no point in stopping now. 'Then that would make us even, Sir.'

'Oh?' Price drummed his fingers on the tabletop, the end of his cigar steadily turning to ash and threatening to disintegrate with the slightest movement. He tugged it from his mouth again and tapped the fading embers into a tray, never taking his eyes from Soap. He was waiting for an explanation. 'Don't get tongue-tied now, Soap. Finish what you started.'

Soap grimaced. If he hadn't been bereft of making gestures, he would have rubbed the back of his neck as he was wont to do with growing unease. 'I'm not trying to be an insubordinate little shite, Sir, but you've been questioning my competence since before I arrived. You haven't said anything to that effect, I know… but actions speak louder than words.'

Price didn't interrupt, so Soap forged ahead.

'To be perfectly frank… I don't need a babysitter. I do appreciate you hauling my arse out of the fire, Sir, don't get me wrong,' he took a breath, hoping the sincerity seemed genuine. Had Price not stepped in when Soap had been desperately scrabbling for purchase, about to slip off the helicopter's ramp, then he'd be dead. Body lost amongst the tumultuous waves. 'Neither of us were prepared for me being on that mission - things happened too fast. But that's where the excuses stop. I need to know what you want from me, how things work, or somebody is going to end up knocking on the pearly white gates before their time.'

For a long, arduous moment, Price studied him. Soap tried not to tense under the scrutiny, shifting around on his crutches as though balancing himself. He'd said his piece – regardless of it being a wise move or not. Now, it was time to reap the consequences.

'You think I'd let you run around like a headless chicken and endanger the lives of my men, Soap?' Price finally said, chuckling. He gave him a brief once-over, expression flickering oddly when his eyes landed on Soap's compression bandage. It was gone so fast that Soap dismissed it as a trick of his sleep-deprived mind. 'As soon as that leg's healed, the boys are going to put you through the mincer. They'll grind you into the dirt until you get it right. You'll either learn the ropes, or you'll leave. I won't waste time teaching a lost cause how to breathe again.'

That… was not what he'd been expecting.

Soap blinked, carefully keeping his face schooled in neutrality. The fact that he felt strangely happy at the thought of being put through more grueling training spoke to how warped he was becoming, but he couldn't help the reaction. Price's words were laced with disdain, annoyance, but also with an underlying promise that let Soap know that his past few minutes of speaking without a filter had been worth it.

'Just as long as we're on the same page, Sir,' he said, cottoning on to why Gaz's unique brand of dealing with Price was so effective. He allowed himself to grin when Price cocked an eyebrow, silently questioning Soap's lighter tone. 'I wouldn't want to see such big, strong lads playing nursemaid for too long. It might give you a bad reputation.'

Price grunted, shaking his head at the cheek. 'You'll do, Soap,' he said, picking up the pen he'd long since discarded. 'So long as you keep that spine. Now, sit your arse down before you fall. We aren't going to wait forever for you to get back on your feet.'

'Aye, Sir,' Soap said, glancing around for a chair. When he finally settled into one after some awkward maneuvering, he brought his lukewarm coffee to his lips, suddenly finding that he no longer needed it.