The Captain's Confession
Summary:
Guilt is the worst of companions for commanders. For three years, Price has carried the gaze of Johnny's fading eyes and his own fatal "We're better than them." Simon finds him on the brink of moral and physical collapse. But human warmth alone is not enough to bring his old friend back. Sometimes, the ghosts of the past return not to torment, but to save.
Notes: After watching the trailer, my emotions are mixed... I just want my favorite boys to be okay 🙂.
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The sky above the city was disgustingly clear.
The sunset spread out like molten gold and thick blood. The sky seemed like a canvas, on which a brush was carelessly drawn, mixing orange with crimson. Below, in dozens of floors, the evening illumination of the skyscrapers shimmered, cold and indifferent. And here, on the roof, time stopped.
Price stood at the very edge. The wind ruffled the hem of his old tactical jacket. He seemed to be carved from granite. He was tired, broken, but no less dangerous. He was an old rock that had been polished by the sea for years, but it had not been destroyed; only cracked.
There was a slight crunch of gravel behind him; one step, then another.
"John."
Simon's voice was too quiet for the vast, burning sky. He stood at a respectful distance, keeping his hands in plain sight, indicating that he was not an enemy.
"Don't come any closer, Simon," Price's voice cracked. He didn't even turn around. "This is my cross, and I will carry it alone."
"You've been carrying it for three years," Riley slowly stepped forward. "Look at yourself. You've been smuggling guns, sabotaging three operations, because... what? You thought this would be your redemption?".
Price turned around abruptly, and Simon finally saw his face. His eyes, usually impenetrable, were wet with the kind of inhuman weariness that comes from carrying guilt around for so long that it seeps into every cell of your body. It erodes everything except for that black, sticky weight.
"You don't understand," Price stepped forward, and there was so much desperation in that movement that it couldn't fit inside. It spilled out through the white knuckles of his clenched fists, breaking his voice in the middle of a word and trembling in the air between them like a string stretched to the limit. "I had a chance to let Johnny kill Makarov. One fucking chance." His voice sank into a hoarse whisper.
"I've seen that look. I knew Johnny was going to pull the trigger, and I-" Price stammered, as if the word had stuck in his throat like a splinter. "I should have just ignored the way he was raising the gun." It's easy not to hear that damn command in your head: "We're better than them. We don't fall to their level."
He punched the iron pipe, and the rust crumbled and bit painfully into his arm. He wasn't paying attention. What difference does it make to another pain when everything inside has long since turned into a solid wound?
"The blood was running down between my fingers, but I didn't do anything... I couldn't do anything. Just watch his eyes go out. I spared the monster and it devoured him with my hands".
John thumped his chest.
"He lives here. And every night I see his forehead on half of his face. And I hear, "Don't blame yourself, sir." But I can't. I can't, Simon. Because it's my fault. I failed my soldier.
"Do you think Johnny would want that?" Riley asked quietly. "So you can rot alive?" To turn you into what we were fighting?
Simon paused. The wind died down for a moment, and in that silence, cars could be heard honking their horns far below. Such a mundane and such an alien sound for this moment.
"I don't care", Price whispered. "He doesn't care, Simon. The same for him... It doesn't hurt anymore.
Riley stepped forward, shortening the distance to one step, holding out his hand like a rescue for a drowning man. In the sunset light, his fingers cast long shadows on the gray concrete.
"Then do it for me", he said. "I don't want to bury another friend. I don't want to stand at your grave and think that I could... That I could just talk to you. Don't let you escape into this void".
"You're asking me to come back," Price muttered hoarsely, and every sound sounded like he was spitting out broken glass. "Where to?" There's nothing there.
"There is me. And there's Kyle. And there are guys who are waiting to call you an old jerk. They need their captain. I need.
John slowly raised his hand, his fingers trembling slightly. He stared at Riley's palm and couldn't bring himself to take the last step. He had been walking alone for too long, he had carried this burden for too long, he was too used to the fact that no one would come.
"The house is where they're waiting for you, sir," there was no need to say "they're waiting for you," and Price understood that.
Price closed his eyes. Fatigue weighed down like lead. The wind died down, and the silence came suddenly, thick, irregular, in which the heart was beating treacherously loudly.
And in that silence, on its viscous, sterile radar, Price felt warmth. The soft, living warmth of someone else's hand on his shoulder. The touch was sure; John could have sworn it felt real. So much so that goosebumps ran over my skin, and a lump formed in my throat.
He felt a slight push on his back. It's like being pushed forward when you're hesitating on the threshold of your own fear. Go ahead to Simon.
Johnny.
Not a ghost from old nightmares, not a hallucination that the mind has helpfully blinded out of guilt. No, it's more than that. Something that can't be squeezed into the cold terms of psychology or dim light vapors.
A memory that has become alive.
With every nerve, with every frozen cell, Price felt: This is absolution. Something for which he did not dare to ask even in the darkest corners of his own soul, but waited long and hard. And so it came, not with a plea or a confession, but with someone else's warm touch, though soundless, but saying everything. Forgiveness didn't rattle, and it didn't require an answer. It just washed over him like a wave. It was as if a light had been turned on in a frozen soul.
He opened his eyes and stepped forward.
Riley couldn't stand it, hugging the captain. He grabbed the shoulders of an old soldier who smelled of gunpowder and loneliness, pulled him towards him, abruptly, awkwardly, like a man. Price jerked, his hand clenched into a fist for a moment, and then dropped limply.
"I'm sorry, son", he whispered. For almost letting them lose another one.
Both of them felt this cozy presence. Someone invisible stood next to them, putting his hands on their shoulders, without saying goodbye. Just to remind you, I'm here. I'm always here.
Price didn't cry, he'd forgotten how long ago. But something heavy and sticky that had been stuck in my throat for three years was slowly melting away. It didn't disappear, no. It doesn't go away. But it was getting smaller, easier. Someone to live with.
"Come on," Riley tapped him briefly on the shoulder, in his old-fashioned way. "Stop freezing in the wind.
There was a car waiting downstairs; Kyle was waiting. He was waiting for a conversation that wouldn't solve all his problems, but at least it would be a start. He was waiting for a home where he was remembered, loved, and supported.
John imagined, or just his heart prompted, a short, aching heart: "Thank you, sir."
And somewhere nearby, for a second, there seemed to be a light scent of heather and wet stone, morning mist over the hills. The one Johnny used to talk about: "The air smells of freedom there." And in this fragrance, it seemed like the warm, calm smile of a long-gone shadow, which finally did not hurt.