Rogue Price meeting clairvoyant reader on a random Tuesday evening. You find him hunched over, scarred hand clutching at his chest while slumped against a tree. He looks like a feral dog, definitely, but you don’t shy away. Instead you stand there, eyes piercing through him like you can see the depths of his soul. And, when a flicker of recognition morphs your features, he thinks maybe you can.
“Oh, you poor soul.” Your voice cuts through the dewy air, dripping with something price refuses to dissect. A black umbrella grips firmly in your hand but it no longer shields you from the slow drip of rain as you hold it over him—you have to swat down but it seems like you don’t mind.
For a long second you watch him, appraising the beaten man before you with sure interest. It’s unsettling, being studied like some lab rat.
“Piss off.” He spits out, his English lilt thickening. You don’t take offense and that confuses him further.
A small smile spreads. “A man who only knows war will continue to wage it.” The umbrella shifts from your hand to place it into his unoccupied one. “You’ve suffered a great loss, sir. Been forced to question the very system you’ve worked so hard to protect.”
Price can only stare in disbelief. He feels exposed, raw and the edges of his nerves fray. You can see beyond the hard exterior that he's spent so long building with his bare hands--a capable solider, a fierce and reliable captain--and gaze into the essence of a man so wounded he doesn't known who he is anymore. Your tone is calm, even, but it's the mention of what he once had shakes him to his very core.
"Your friend is still with you." A manicured finger taps his chest causing his body to tense, waiting for the final blow. "He'll always be by your side." For a brief second your eyes flick past Price, as if there is someone he can't see behind him, and you smile with a soft huff. "Funny guy he is, yeah? Says you look like right shit all bloody like this."
Something in Price breaks, months of agony, of hurt and spending each passing day burdened with guilt--using the smolders of angry as a cloak to hide just how rotten his is inside--while he hunted the one last man who took everything from him storms his system. Tears prick his eyes, forming a lump in his throat that won't be swallowed away.
He had carried the burden of Soap's death so close to his heart, but in your influence he can almost see him, grin spread wide in amusement seeing Captain John Price so broken. Not condescending, just the pure unfiltered mischief that makes up John MacTavish--his sunshine.
"Even in death the muppet is a hand full." He huffs, a newer, softer, feeling fills his lungs, his chest, and the reassurance was all the strength needed to stand.
Price looks more determined than before, more sure with the added knowledge that Soap isn't somewhere too far away.
"Thank you." he nods and you watch as he journeys off to a new destination, his mohawked companion hot on his heels.
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