Road to Recovery (1/1), Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3
Title: Road to Recovery
Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare
Characters: John Price, "Soap" MacTavish, Yuri, Nikolai
Rating & Warnings: Er, T. (Though I wouldn't have a problem with my 10 year old nephew reading this.)
Word Count: 2,070
Genre: Gen, Angst
Summary: “I would advise that you not to underestimate Soap,” Price gritted, his cigar still clinched between his teeth. “He will be fine.”
Author's Notes: Written for copperdust for Yuletide. Spoilers for the beginning of Modern Warfare 3, references to the previous two games. And a special thanks to my Scottish guru, azure_horizon. Her help during Once and Always Champion proved a huge help here.
Day 1:
The helicopter ride out of northern India was rough, but Price knew that Soap was tougher. He looked at the sticky blood on Soap’s shirt, frowning slightly. The wound had been torn open during the tumultuous transport to the helicopter. Soap’s skin was clammy, he had been mostly unresponsive to Price’s questions. The treatment he had received would buy Soap a bit more time, but they needed to reach another facility if he was to survive Shepherd’s attack.
Removing his hat, Price pulled a headset over his head, allowing him to communicate with Nikolai in the pilot’s seat. The helicopter shook as several bullets hit the aircraft. Nikolia banked left; Soap’s body slammed into the side of the craft.
“What the hell is going on out there?” Price demanded as he moved Soap back to his original position. He looked down at his hands, now stained with Soap's blood.
“More hostiles.” There was a long pause. “You two don’t make things easy, do you?”
“Part of our charm. How much longer until we reach friendlies?” He itched to pull out a cigar.
“Three minutes. The hospital is another ten minutes from there.”
Nikolai continued to fly them to safety as Soap drifted in and out of consciousness. As Nikolai had said, soon they were flying through safer skies. Satisfied that the aircraft wasn’t going to be shot down, Price looked at Yuri in appreciation. “Thank you,” he said, nodding in Soap’s direction.
The Russian nodded. “If Nikolai told me the truth and you indeed intend to hunt down Makarov then it is I who should be thanking you for inviting me along.”
The captain’s look darkened as he thought of the terrorist. “Oh, we’re gonna find that bloody--”
Without warning, Soap began to convulse violently. Price reached over and tried to still the man, not wanting to agitate the wound further. “You’re fine, Soap. Calm down!”
The younger man fought weakly against Price’s hold. He muttered something unintelligible before slumping back to the ground. “Hurry,” he said to Nikolai, “Soap’s not going to last much longer.”
“It’s not much further, Price. We’ll get him to safety.”
And, much to the captain’s relief, they did.
Day 4:
It took Soap less than an hour to awaken after they weened him off the drug cocktail they had been pumping into his system since they arrived in the run-down hospital. He felt the dull pain in his abdomen and wondered how he had managed to survive the stab inflicted by Shepherd.
Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes so he could figure out what was going on.
The walls were dark and dingy. There were several other beds in the room, though there was only one other person in the room with him. He was standing in the doorframe, apparently uninjured. Though he was blurry and had his back to him, Soap knew exactly who it was.
Price.
He struggled to sit up. “Ye cannae git rid o’ me that easily, old man,” he slurred.
Then, he slipped back into unconsciousness.
Day 5:
“I donnae care what the bloody doctor says. I’m gettin’ out o’ here now!”
The booming shout caused the thin walls to rattle.
There was only one reason why Soap would react so violently: he knew what had happened in the States. Price had tried to keep the information from him as long as possible. There was nothing they could do in their current condition--blacklisted and wanted by more than a few countries--until Makarov came back into the picture.
The captain pushed open the door that led to Soap’s room. Three nurses were with the head doctor in the room with Soap. The Scot looked at Price, his chest heaving. Price pushed his way past the medical staff who were eying Soap worriedly.
He looked Soap directly in the eye. “You heard about the attack in New York?”
Soap nodded. “Aye. I heard the Russians had the upper hand.”
“They don’t.” Price clasped his shoulder. “I’ve contacted Sandman. He and his boys managed to take back New York.” Soap visibly relaxed. “The tide is starting to turn around.”
Soap frowned. “And Makarov?”
“Off the grid.”
Day 7:
The doctor finally cleared Soap to leave the medical facility after both Price and Yuri promised to keep an eye for any signs of infection in Soap’s wound.
Soap glared at Nikolai when he entered his room, pushing a wheelchair. “This isn’t necessary.”
“I know it’s not. I believe this is...payback for you shouting at his staff a couple of days ago,” Nikolai laughed. “Now sit in this wheelchair so we can leave this place. Price is waiting for you outside.”
Soap opened his mouth to argue before snapping it shut. The sooner he got out of this place, the better. He flopped himself in the chair, careful not to tear the dozen stitches that were keeping his intestines inside his body.
Nikolai pushed Soap down the hallway. If Soap didn’t know any better, he would have thought the Russian found the situation amusing. “I’m gonna remember this, Nikolai,” he promised.
“I will too,” he grinned.
Finally, they made their way to the front door. Price looked at them in disbelief. “Get out of the bloody chair, Soap.”
“Gladly,” the Scot muttered.
As he made his way to the Jeep where Price stood, the captain held out his pistol and knife for him to take.
Neither of them said anything when Soap flinched when he touched the hilt of his blade.
Day 12:
Soap’s recovery was going slower than Price had expected.
Physically, he was doing as well as one could be expected; the wound was clean and healing properly. Mentally, however...
The walls in the abandoned apartment building were thin and Price knew that Soap often slept for less than a couple of hours of restless sleep a night. Despite this, he had every confidence that Soap would be back to normal soon.
Yuri, however, seemed unconvinced.
“He is taking too long.” The Russian stood at Price’s doorway after Soap woke up at three in the morning. “We need to be ready to move if Makarov comes out of hiding.”
Price pushed himself into a sitting position. He grabbed the cigar from the busted crate that acted like a side table and lit his cigar with his lighter. He drew in a long breath. Not having Soap on his team was not an option. After everything they had been through, Price fully intended to see the end of Makarov with Soap by his side.
“Soap will be ready, Yuri. It hasn’t even been two weeks.”
Yuri waved a hand towards Soap’s room. “Look at him. When is the last time he has slept more than two hours at a time? No one who is that exhausted can be of any value. I would not trust him to watch my back,” Yuri replied bluntly.
Before either man knew what was going on, Price was across the room, inches from Yuri. He grabbed the man’s collar and slammed him against the wall. “I would advise that you not to underestimate Soap,” he gritted, his cigar still clinched between his teeth. He released his hold of the Russian. “He will be fine.”
Yuri rolled his shoulders back and pushed away from the wall. “Let’s just hope for all of our sakes you’re right, Price.”
Day 15:
Soap picked up his knife and forced himself to hold it for five minutes.
He drank himself to sleep that night.
Day 17:
Price woke to the sound of gunfire.
In one swift move, he reached over and grabbed his M1911 off the rickety crate. He aimed the pistol at the door, ready for any signs of invaders.
There were none.
Price refused to call out to Soap or Yuri for fear that there were, in fact, people who had entered their hideout. Without looking away from the door, Price plucked his hat off the ground and placed in on his head before leaving the room. He didn’t lower his weapon as he started clearing out the shabby apartment.
“It was Soap.” Yuri’s voice came from the corner of the room. Price could barely make his shadow out in the corner of the room. “Still want to tell me he is fine?”
The captain ignored his dig and made his way to the outside where Soap was standing, facing the rising sun in the east. In his right hand, he held his AK-47. In his left, a lit cigarette.
On the ground next to him, his knife lay on the ground.
Soap didn’t turn back to Price before he started speaking. “I can hit anythin' from twenty-five yards with mah gun.” He nodded to the remains of the bottles he had set up on the broken cinder block wall. “But I cannae pick up mah bloody knife without flinchin’.”
Price leaned down and scooped the knife up by its handle. He turned it over in his hand twice before stepping next to Soap. “No one blames you for that. Certainly not me.”
A grim smile passed over Soap’s lips. “Yuri would disagree with ye.”
Price frowned slightly. “Did he--”
Soap shook his head. “Nae, he didn’t say anythin’. He didn’t have tae.” He flicked the cigarette into the rubble in front of them. He sighed. “What if...I can’t get over this?”
Price turned to face Soap fully. “You’ve been through hell, Soap. These things take time. You will get through this,” he assured him.
Soap shot him a disbelieving look.
“After we take care of Makarov, I’m gonna sit you down with MacMillan. He can tell you how many weeks I woke up from nightmares after what happened in Chernobyl,” Price replied. He scowled. “I still hate Ferris wheels.”
He pulled out his cigar and lit it. “There’s still time.”
Day 23:
Soap’s stitches in his abdomen were finally removed. He watched the doctor as he assessed the wound; it had mostly healed but the jagged scar was impossible to miss.
“It was the best we could do,” the doctor said, almost apologetically.
“It’s fine,” Soap assured him. He scooted off the table and gestured towards his left eye. “Just one more tae add tae the list. Besides, Yuri here says that the lassies love that sort o’ thing.”
The doctor laughed awkwardly. “He should know. When Nikolai brought him in after the--”
“We need to go. Price is waiting for us,” Yuri spoke up suddenly. He nodded graciously at the doctor. “As always, your help is unparalleled.” He didn’t wait for a response before leaving the room.
Soap shrugged slightly. He slid off the table and shook the doctor’s hand. “Thanks, Doc.” He left the room and found Yuri near the end of the hall. “Dae I want tae know what that was abit?” Soap asked, approaching Yuri.
“I will tell you that it has to do with not being able to stop Makarov and leave it at that,” Yuri replied. The hatred in his voice was unmistakable.
Soap nodded. He knew little of Yuri’s background and he was alright with that. Sometimes, especially with people with such colorful backgrounds, the less one knew, the better. He stepped out of the building, feeling more alive and himself now that the stitches were out of him.
Maybe Price was right, maybe he just needed time to recover.
He saw Price leaning against the beat-up Jeep with a knife in his right hand. But it wasn’t his blade, he realized. It wasn’t the one that had been tarnished with his and Shepherd’s blood. It wasn’t the one he couldn’t look at without thinking about the day he should have died.
Wordlessly, Price held out the new blade for Soap to take.
Soap reached out and grabbed the hilt of the knife.
His grip was strong and firm.
He twisted the handle in his hand. An inscription, no doubt carved by Price himself, was etched in the leather hilt. Soap looked at Price, quirking an eyebrow, “FNG?”
“Well,” Price replied, taking a drag from his cigar, “I couldn’t very well put Soap, could I? I’m still trying to figure out what the hell kind of name that is.”
Soap huffed a laugh. He grabbed the leather sheath that was laying on top of the hood of the Jeep and slid the blade inside. “Thank ye, old man.”
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