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“This job it takes you, breaks you. Rebuilds the pieces but they don’t fit together the same."

Caught In The System: Chapter 33 - Lívstræðrir

Rated M

There was no idle banter in the rec room that evening.

The heavy, unnatural noises of the aircraft carrier seemed louder, more present than the new normal. An eerie quiet had descended on the men, where no one's voice ever reached anything more than a mumble. They were all exhausted, covered in ash and soot, broken and bruised. The missile had everyone shaken, but it was the absence of their medic that had truly caught their tongues.

MacTavish didn't know where he fit. Beside himself with worry, caught in a purgatory between the obligation to the men he loved and the woman he couldn't live without, he found himself being absolutely no use to either. When he should have been amongst them, a wave of reassurance in uncertain times, he faltered. Where he should have been by her side, he found himself ousted out by the medics who fought to try and stabilise her. There was no place for him to be, no words for him to say and so he loitered in the rec room doorway, back pressed against cold metal as he watched his men with worried eyes.

Every time he blinked, he could see her. They'd stretchered her off the chopper as soon as they landed, what little remained of the fatigues around her chest torn and bloody. She'd been so pale, so limp that he'd sworn his heart might stop in his chest. He'd wanted to reach for her as the medics bundled her away, in the confusion maybe he had, because suddenly Riley's hand had been at his shoulder, a strong squeeze that spoke enough sense to hold him back. Powerless, he'd watched them carry her further and further away, her white hand coated in blood dangling from the stretcher.

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Now, all there was left to do was wait, to find comfort in what little they all had left. But somehow MacTavish just couldn't allow himself that either.

"This is utter horseshit." It was almost jarring, the sudden outburst into an otherwise quiet room. MacTavish looked up as Toad stood, the young sniper still coated in a thin layer of ash. "We can't just sit around here like we're waiting for some fuckin' open casket."

"Chris... mate..." Archer's voice was hoarse, but oddly caring as a hand reached for his partner's forearm. Toad shrugged him off like he was red hot.

"What? You all really want to sit around and pretend like this is a done deal?" He took a step further into the centre of the room, arms open wide. "McCoy's still breathing, still fucking fighting in there. I for one am not writing her off. She sure as shit would hold out for us too, and every man in here knows it."

"No one is writing anyone off here." Ozone, fatigues still covered in her blood shook his head. "No one wants to."

"Then tell that to your face, Nick." Toad retorted. He marched back over to his bunk, kneeling by his pack until he retrieved a cheap looking bottle of whisky. Glancing over his shoulder, he waved impatiently at Roach. "Gary, get your ass up and bring some cups with you."

Between them, Toad and Roach filled the cups in organised silence, using everything that was to hand from the mugs from their packs to old canteens. Whisky was shared amongst every man in the room, all bar Ghost who MacTavish hadn't seen since they'd left the chopper, the lieutenant storming off before anyone could try to tell him otherwise. MacTavish was the last to receive his drink, along with a soft smile and nod from Roach. He took it in both hands like the cheap metal itself was a lifeline.

"To Bones, the toughest bitch to ever walk into this task force." Chris said with a stoic smile, mug held up at head height. "Get your ass back to us, ‘cos getting hurt's no fun when there's no one there to lecture us about it."

The room erupted into a chorus of her name, every man slinging back the measure of whisky in a single gulp. For MacTavish, the alcohol burned at his throat, but the tears that pricked at his eyes were something else. Forcing them back with a long blink, he cleared his throat, willing the emotions growing there to bubble back down with everything that he had. There was an odd moment of clarity in that darkness, caught somewhere between the whisky burn and the sound of his men talking in more than hushed tones at last.

The peace was short lived. Opening his eyes, MacTavish became acutely aware that he was not alone in the doorway, Trojan having imperceptibly slipped in to stand beside him, his arms crossed. He surveyed the Captain was an inquisitive look.

"And how is the good doctor?"

"... In surgery." MacTavish didn't doubt for a second that Trojan already knew that answer. Instead he turned his head, his features passive in the knowledge that he was still around his men. "What do you need?"

"You, as it happens. Captain Price opened quite the can of worms on your watch. Shepherd wants a full debrief."

"Now?"

"Now. Or did you forget the missile launched at American soil?" Trojan laughed, rolling his eyes. "There's a veritable shitstorm coming our way, John. The General needs to make sure that we, and by that I truly mean all of us, end up on the other side unscathed." He pushed off from the door way, a hand beckoning after him for MacTavish to follow. "So shall we?"

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

After what had felt like an eternity since they got back to base, Lara finally got the all clear enough for her doctors to allow visitors. With the majority of the task force hanging back as a sign of respect, Roach made it a point of principle to be by her side when she needed him most.

No contact from his family had felt like rock bottom, a dark place and as close to breaking point as he'd ever reached. It had threatened to consume him with worry more than once, to drag him away from the very work that was sustaining him at this point.

But it had been his brothers that had truly kept him going, who had prevented the wolf of despair to truly come baring down his door. The 141 and the deep bonds that bound them so tightly together were like life support, holding him up and keeping him breathing through it all. He'd found such a strength in that, a solace that before had felt unattainable. The ability to dust himself off and carry on fighting felt that little bit easier when he had Lara, Ozone and Toad at his side.

Now, one third of that support network was laid out unconscious in front of him.

He was caught in place, the muss of thoughts careering through his head too fast to truly make sense of. He was in limbo, trapped between wanting to be useful and wanting to shrink away and hide within his own thoughts.

In the end, the only real choice was to stay by her side.

Her skin was like porcelain, pale with a greyish quality. Dark bags shaded the orbits of her eyes, her body lying flat against the sheets, the plain eggshell blue fabric pulled up so that it was tucked neatly beneath her arms. Her body was wrapped in a white and grey speckled operation robe, her chest padded out with bandages to disguise the surgical wound beneath. She'd didn't look like McCoy, but rather a pale waxwork imitation, the soft sheen to her pallid skin a world away from everything he knew.

It was strange, seeing her so still. Oddly peaceful, though it was a forced kind of peace, artificial and false. There was no relaxed quality to her features, merely a blank one that silently broke Gary's heart when ever he looked at her. His friend was still there somewhere, buried beneath a spaghetti junction of tubes, cables and equipment. She was alive, stable, saved by medics just as brave as she was. And yet, for all of Toad's grand words earlier; her war was over. Busted open and almost lost to them completely, she was going home, leaving the 141 even though Gary knew that it would be the last thing she'd ever want.

That was what broke him the most. The thought of her waking up back home and him not being there to see her. The thought of her being alone without anyone who truly understood.

Roach was used to being a brother. His sister back home drove him crazy, but in truth she had always been like a best friend underneath all the bullshit. Someone who he could tease and provoke and hate and somehow still adore and want to protect. He could still remember the feeling when he'd first met her, the day his parents came home from the hospital and placed her in his arms. He'd wrinkled his nose, oblivious to the responsibility he would feel for the tiny human he held as they both grew older.

With Lara, it was different. Gary loved her like she was a big sister, someone who in a way looked out for him in all the ways that he looked out for his own sister. She was his best friend too, someone who understood him even when he didn't have the words to express himself. She'd been the first person at his side when he'd been unable to reach his parents, the constant presence who would always check every bruise and scrape, no matter how much he tried to shrug them off. The friend who would sit and listen when he needed to vent, or who would sit by his side with a beer in silence if he needed that instead. The friend who trusted him enough to talk about everything, even the things that had the chance of destroying everything she'd worked for.

He and Lara might have been cut from entirely different cloth, but they were the same. It had felt good, to have someone with the same loves and values when he'd felt so far from home.

So far from who he should be.

She would have done the same for him, if their roles had been reversed. Somehow Roach knew that if it had been him who had taken the bullet, she wouldn't have left his side until he'd at least opened his eyes and proved that he was going to be OK. It was that thought alone that drove him to her side, to the uncomfortable, fold out plastic chair beside her bed. At this point, Gary had lost all track of time, not really bothering to check his watch and work out just how long he had been sitting there. Until their next mission, he figured that he had nowhere else to be.

There was a noise behind him, the creak of a door and the scuff of boots against plastic tiles. The medical personnel had accepted his presence at this point, coming and going around him with very little fuss. The sound Gary thought was simply a doctor doing their rounds, here to flick through a chart and check her meds before moving on to the next bay.

Instead, there was a heartbeat of silence, before an oddly soft, cockney voice rang out through all the quiet.

"She ain't going anywhere, mate."

Riley.

Off guard, Gary turned his head, looking to where the lieutenant stood behind him, his hands jammed inside his pockets. He was still in uniform, but his mask was gone, revealing a face that for all of its self confidence looked weary and just a little haggard. His eyes were bloodshot, bags nearly as big as Gary's darkening his under eyes.

A shadow of the figure that he usually cut.

"Like that makes a difference. She'd be sitting right here if it were either of us in that bed and you know it." Gary shook his head, returning his gaze to Lara. He heard Riley shift from one foot to the other behind him. "She gave us everything, man. It's about time we gave her something back."

"Yeah..." It wasn't the reply that he had been expecting, the breathy, exasperated noise final as Riley worked his way around the other side of her bed. He hung back, visibly discouraged by the cables and tubes that surrounded Lara, kicking back and leaning against the wall instead. For a long while, there was silence. The quiet had a heavy quality, an awkwardness that Gary couldn't quite shake. Riley wasn't a man to show concern or care lightly, but his presence in the room still spoke volumes. Although Gary knew more than most, he still didn't dare encroach on his friend, afraid that any words he might say would be badly received.

"She always was too good for us." In the end, Riley broke the silence first. His voice was oddly quiet, his fingers picking at the hem of his sleeve. With his head bowed he looked oddly soft, no longer the hard edged lieutenant that Gary considered a friend. "She's all fuckin' heart, always has been. But she's different... more..." He tailed off, shaking his head and finally meeting Gary's eyes. "... I wanna say softer, but it sounds like a bloody insult, y'know? Bones has some of the biggest brass bollocks out of all of us."

"Maybe that's the difference? She isn't one or the other, just a good mix of both." Gary shrugged. "All I know is that walking into Hell is gonna feel a whole lot shittier without her watching my back."

"Gonna drive her insane isn't it? Waking up out of the fight?" Riley paused, running his tongue across his teeth. A smile cracked his features. "Still remember when she did her shoulder in... worst fucking patient ever."

"Don't envy the doctors over there. Gonna have a hell of a job keeping tabs on her. Knowing Lara, she'll be back on the front lines before we know it."

"Maybe that's not something we want."

The bluntness of Riley's comment threw him and Gary paused, checking he'd heard correctly. His brow wrinkled in confusion and he turned to look at Ghost directly.

"Why wouldn't we want that?"

"...Because." Riley paused, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. He squared his shoulders and straightened up, no longer leaning back against the wall. "I don't have to be your LT to tell you where shit is headed from here, mate. We're guys who are paid to run head first into suicide missions and somehow make 'em work. But the more Shepherd throws at us, the more our luck is gonna start wearing thin. Bones doesn't deserve to die in the mud like a bloody animal. None of you do. But at least this way... she's getting out, y'know?"

Getting out. Somewhere in between the war and losing contact with his parents, that was something Gary had barely even considered. He was trapped now, by both obligation and choice to keep on walking the path they were on, to follow order after order, dutiful and without question. They were all in the same boat, but with Lara's injury both her obligation to serve and her choice had been taken from her. She'd hate it, hate herself even and the mere thought of that made Gary's stomach twist uncomfortably. But she'd be safe, alive, healing. A part of his family would endure, would remember him if the worst was to happen.

Ghost was right. There was at least an ounce of comfort in that.

"... Besides..." Riley's voice cut into the silence again before Roach could voice his agreement. "Losing her? It'd fuckin' kill MacTavish."

Well shit.

If Gary had been blind sided before by Riley's desire to open up, then now he was completely and utterly wrong-footed. There was an unspoken understanding between those who knew Lara best that her relationships were off limits and in truth, most of what Gary himself knew was inferred rather than something he'd been told. Everyone knew about Lara and Riley and their ill fated encounters, but it was only Gary who knew that the pair had cared for each other past the sex, that they were friends rather than enemies. Gary had known that Lara cared for Riley deeply, had been there and helped her through the realisation of just how deeply she'd hurt him. He had guessed her true feelings for MacTavish too, had helped cover for them when necessary. That knowledge was a much more closely guarded secret, something that Roach had assumed was as unknown to Riley as it was the rest of the task force.

"How'd you know?"

"John's my best mate and Bones is as near as dammit the same, how could I not know?" Riley scoffed darkly, rolling his shoulders. "Lovesick bastards deserve each other, they always bloody have. Time was I'd get a kick out messing with that but now..." he paused, running a hand through his hair awkwardly as he hesitated. He lifted his head, eyes fixed on Lara as though Gary was little more than a fly on the wall. "... That's my family lying there all because one stubborn old arsehole can't follow orders. There aren't many upsides to this shitshow we're living Roach, but at least where Lara's headed no one's going to be able to fuck with her again."

"She's my family too." Gary could only shrug softly in agreement, his head hanging from between his shoulders. There was a weight on his back, a heavy stone that pushed against him and made it hard to swallow. "She knows that right?"

"It's that bad, eh, mate? Friendship advice from me?" Riley teased, although the sound rang out hollow to them both amongst the medical beeps that filled the room. The smirk on his features softened the moment he met Gary's gaze, his tired eyes filled with an alien gentleness that at any other time might have unnerved him. "She knows, Gary. Best you can do now is get some rest and look out for yourself. You know it's what she'd tell you too."

"... I don't want to leave her." The words came out as a croak that surprised even himself. Roach looked back to Lara, swallowing back the second half of his statement, unable to say the words. They had no idea when Lara would be shipped out, when the next mission would drag them all off base again. A part of him didn't want to leave her because he simply didn't want it to be goodbye already.

He was so distracted that he never heard the rustle of fabric as Ghost moved, not until he felt a firm hand squeeze at his shoulder. It was gone in a flash, almost awkward in a way and yet the solidarity behind it was never lost. "She won't be alone, mate. Now get your arse in a bunk before I have to make it a bloody order."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

The room didn't feel any less heavy with Gary gone. Riley had expected it to, had thought that when he had the room to himself there wouldn't be that bitter cloud of regret and sadness hanging in the air.

But as door closed on Roach's heels, it became all too clear that the regret was all him.

He wanted to throttle Price, to have his throat in between his hands and watch as the life slowly squeezed from his lungs. Had Lara been dead, Riley doubted that he would have been able to stop himself. But as it was, Price was sitting shackled up somewhere far from the rest of them, contemplating just how many court martials could be thrown at a person. It would have been easier just to slot the bastard. They were at war after all.

He couldn't help but wonder how much Soap hated his beloved mentor right then. Was he swallowing back the same anger as Riley, hiding it behind the mask of the ever professional soldier that he always wore so well? MacTavish was a better man than him, the best friend that he trusted more than he rightly should trust anyone. But that didn't mean that Riley didn't hate the way he could just lock away the ugly parts that made him whole, to choke down all anger and resentment that walked in step with the life they’d all chosen to live.

He admired that quality as much as he resented it. Envied it maybe.

Not that Riley was all beast. Price was lucky that Lara was still drawing breath by the time his sorry arse crawled back out into the light. With trying to keep McCoy calm and conscious as Ozone fought to stabilise her, Riley had had no time to concern himself with beating the shit out of the old man. It was only when Ozone shoved him aside and out of his way that Riley even remembered Price. He'd got one good shot in, a decent slug that the old man hadn't even bothered to dodge. It had been enough to send him hurtling to the ground, nose broken as blood began to pour from his face. It had taken restraint that he didn't know he still possessed to slap cuffs on him in that moment and nothing else.

Sitting by Lara's bedside, Riley smiled softly to himself at the memory. Bones would have been so unbearably proud of him in any other circumstance.

The scars she'd left him with ran deep. He took her hand.

How was he still only just realising the ways she'd gotten under his skin? Why couldn't he have realised when it mattered, when there was still the time for him to be something more? It was a cruel, practical joke that fate had played on him, letting him spend years believing that he was little more than a still breathing ghost only to realise too late to ever properly come back to the land of the living.

He'd been as close to loving Lara as he could. He hadn't realised that until he tried to force himself to hate her, willed himself with everything he had and still not quite been able to manage it. He'd resented her, been frustrated, angry, dejected. He'd reeled from the unfairness of it all, felt sick with the knowledge that she loved John and not him, even though that knowledge had been with him the whole time they'd been together. Hell, it was half of the reason he'd got such a kick out of everything back at the start, knowing that with every visit to his bed he was being rewarded for the same recklessness his best friend warned him against. That rebellion had felt good, like he was winning some kind of argument, especially as McCoy's holier-than-thou halo slipped with every day that passed.

It had been the worst of him, to enjoy that. To let his envy and resentment fuck with the two people he cared for most.

It hadn't stayed that way for long, but he'd fought hard to lie to himself that his reasons for wanting Lara were as fucked up as they always had been. In reality, it had been hard to ignore the strength in her, the beauty in her resilience and determination. More than that, she made him laugh. Somewhere amongst it all, she turned into a mate, someone he trusted and cared for. Perhaps some of it was just the fact that she found the time to care about him too. She didn't walk on eggshells around him, was never afraid of him, showed him a reflection of a bloke he hadn't seen in years. It had scared him shitless.

But he'd loved her, in his way. Had never really stopped either.

"You're going to play Hell when you wake up, aren't you, Bones?" Riley laughed to himself, stroking absent minded circles into the back of her hand. "God... I'd pay to see it. Never known someone be a shittier patient. Doctors are going to have a grand old time trying to tell you to rest, eh?" A pause, as the levity suddenly dropped from his voice. "But... you've gotta listen to 'em, love. Don't put all of Nick's hard work trying to keep your arse alive to waste, eh?"

He could see it almost as clear as day, the stubborn furrow in her brow as she dissected the medical arguments thrown at her, the way she wouldn't rest until she was cleared and back in the fight. The beating she'd taken, even McCoy would be forced to admit that recovery wouldn't be overnight, but he could still see her, forcing her way through rehab like a woman possessed. She was a force of nature, a person who just didn't take 'no' for an answer. It was how she'd fit so easily into the 141. Only those crazy enough ever stayed.

"... I mean it, Lara." His voice was a whisper now, strained as though he was willing her to answer him. "You've got to make it. This isn't your fight any more. There's no winning in this job; it's just the same shit on a different day. But you can get out and do whatever the Hell you want. You can go back to being a doctor and save lives without ever having to worry about taking 'em again. Or go back to Sandhurst and teach the next generation of crazy bastards to be better than we were. You don't have to compromise any more. God knows, you've forced yourself to do that enough."

A lump grated in his throat alongside the words and Riley paused, bowing his head in the hopes that not looking at her might help. It didn't. Instead, the weight in his chest grew, rising steadily upwards to his throat. For all of his wise words to Roach seconds earlier, even he didn't want to imagine a task force without her.

"None of us will be the same without you, Lara. I hope you let yourself take the credit for that someday. You'll always be a part of the 141. I promise you… that's something that's never going to change."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

How had it come to this?

He was used to feeling sick to his stomach, disgusted with the man who met his eye whenever he eyed himself in a mirror. It didn't happen always, but it was there, an extension of his command that meant that he was forever a disappointment to the high standards to which he held himself accountable.

But it was rare for him to feel that same, stomach churning feeling when looking at someone he loved. Someone who was as close to a father as his own back home in Elgin.

John felt betrayed. Cast adrift, the bedrock on which he cemented so much knocked from beneath his feet. So much of the soldier he had become had been built on Price's lessons, on his no nonsense, practical attitude and the respect that followed him through Credenhill.

But this wasn't Price. It only looked like him, the silent, hunched over figure still cuffed as he sat alone in a makeshift holding cell. Through the small window in the door, MacTavish could see the blank expression in Price's eyes, the tired lines that framed them. There didn't appear to be any remorse, any regret, any frustration. He was simply held in place, awaiting judgement like a man who no longer cared what the future held for him.

MacTavish had never wanted anything more in that moment then to walk away. To go and be by Lara's side duty be damned. He'd been held away for so long, briefing after merciless briefing holding him hostage. It had been pure torture to be drip fed updates from Archer and Toad, to know that she was allowed visitors and was almost stable enough to be flown home. The man he wanted to be should have been with her, talking to her in the vain hope that his company might help. But MacTavish could only settle for the man he was, the Captain trapped by red tape and due process, somehow helping Shepherd and Shadow Company make sense of the utter chaos his mentor had left in his wake.

Now, MacTavish wanted nothing more than to hold onto his anger, to clasp Lara's hand in his and to feel the pulse still beating at her wrists. To reassure himself that against it all, she'd not been wholly taken from him, if only for a fleeting moment.

And yet he was here, still duty bound, still a man he chided himself for. Slipping into a room with a man he now loved and loathed all at once. He may have been there on Shepherd's orders, but his feet had their own agenda, driven by the need for answers to the questions he knew would plague him. He needed to understand, to confront the one man he thought he'd known inside and out.

He needed to know whether the John Price he loved was still there.

Price locked eyes with him the moment he entered, his head slowly raising from where he had been staring into the middle distance. There was the swelling of a bruise around under both of his eyes, an angry red line cutting across the bridge of his nose, rusty red flakes still littering his lips and chin. One of the lads had taken a crack at him in the chaos that had followed Lara's shooting. Soap didn't need to be a detective to work out which one.

"Soap." The voice that greeted him was a croak. It was neither a question or an apology.

"Was it your plan all along?" Soap hadn't expected the questions to come so fast, but as a grim line settled across his lips, he folded his arms, eyeing Price expectantly. He was uncomfortable to be in the same room as him, eager to get their chat over and done with as quickly as possible.

"...John..."

"Don't bullshit me, Price. I deserve better than that."

He was greeted by a heavy sigh and a defeated sag to Price's shoulders. The older man drooped back against the back of his seat, although his eyes slowly gravitated back up to MacTavish's.

"It was an... opportunity. A chance to level the playing field."

"And a chance to endanger millions." The words spat from MacTavish's lips. "What if the missile had made landfall, eh? What if the US had fucking retaliated before we got chance to stop them?"

"We're at bloody war! There's always a risk..."

"Civilians, John!" MacTavish could barely hold his temper, sick of the indifference that met him with every reply. He took a step forward, looming over Price with his fists clenched. The man never even flinched. "We're talking about innocents, mate. People we're fucking paid to protect. In what world can we put them at risk?!"

"A world where our biggest ally is bloody floundering." Price was up on his feet in seconds, hands still cuffed, although every muscle in his arms seemed to tense with the action. "Makarov wants this, can't you see? He wants as many people as possible with their eyes on the US, distracted. We needed something... anything to give the Yanks the upper hand."

“And this was the bloody answer?!”

“It was the only one I had.”

"... So you stayed fucking silent. You could have said something, planned this the way it should have been. You could have told me."

"... And put you at risk of collusion?" Suddenly Price's voice faltered, his anger lost. He looked at Soap, his cuffed hands flexing for a beat as though he wanted to reach out towards him. "... This way, the buck stops with me, son."

It was as though the wind had been knocked out of his lungs. MacTavish took a step backwards, unsteady, the small glint of emotion that now flickered within Price's eyes catching him entirely off guard. He opened his mouth to speak, but his words were lost to him whilst his mind fought to caught up.

He'd been so angry, so betrayed that he had never stopped to even consider that Price might be looking out for him.

"... How is she?" Now it was Soap who felt as though he was floundering. He looked up, meeting the older man's gaze, one eyebrow cocked as he waited for an answer. Ever since that ill fated night when Price had caught him leaving Lara's quarters, there'd been no mention of his fraternisation, the elephant in the room that neither had the heart to mention. For Soap, that look of disappointment in Price's eyes had been enough for him to never want to start that conversation, instead leaving it hanging like a loose thread between them. He'd thought that Price's pride and faith in him would stop him from ever really acknowledging it either, but locked in a room where they had both been laid bare, his old Captain was still able to read him like an open book.

Still, the look in the old man's eyes when he asked the question was as close to remorse as Soap had seen him get.

"Alive." Clammed up, it was all MacTavish could do but shake his head, a rough hand rubbing across the ridge of his mohawk, the shaved hair flanking it beginning to grow out and fade the distinct lines across his head. "Her war is over."

"Good." There was another awkward pause. "She fought hard today."

"She always does." Soap hesitated, running his tongue across his teeth. "She earned her place here, Price."

"Never questioned that, son." The expression that met his was hard to read, and in truth Soap could neither confirm or deny whether Price was outright lying to his face. After the events of that day, how could he be sure of anything? "I only question her place in your bed."

Somehow hearing the truth that they'd both chosen to blatantly ignore spill from Price's lips made MacTavish laugh. It was an almost surreal sound that wrong-footed them both judging by the way his mentor's eyebrows jumped in reply.

"We both know that Shepherd would have your balls on a platter, Soap."

"Out of the two of us, I'd say you have more to fear from Shepherd right now." The indignant smirk still plastered across his face, MacTavish folded his arms. "General has bigger fish to fry."

"And fucking about with your subordinates is still dangerous. In more ways than one."

"Still sounds a bit hollow from the man who totalled the ISS. But we're at war, right? There's always a risk?" It was petty, shaping Price's own defence to use as his own and yet MacTavish couldn't deny the powerful feeling it granted him. Deep down, he knew that Price would always have his back and defend him, from anything from collusion to his own, much more carnal mistakes. But it felt like an odd duality, how the man could risk so much for him and yet put the very people they prided themselves on protecting at risk. It was illogical, irrational even... the very characteristics that his mentor scolded him for whilst his hands were still cuffed for a much larger crime. "It doesn't matter... a few more hours and she'll be back in Birmingham, staring down those same ceiling tiles you and me learned to bloody hate. About as far from fraternising with anyone in this task force as you can get."

"Out of sight, but not out of mind, eh?" Price chided. "You need your head in the game, son. Now more than ever."

"Really? I'm the one who's bloody well lost it? Pot and kettle, Price."

"Don't be so naive. Or have you forgotten what I taught you? It's our job to walk a line, Soap. Make the tough calls, sacrifice one for the many. It isn't pretty, but that's why they keep it off the books. The dirty work that no one is ever going to earn a medal for. That's where wars like this are won."

"Maybe... but this is coming from the bloke who also taught me to respect the chain of command, listen to orders and get my men home alive. Where's that Price, eh? Or did he just happen to forget that today was my Op, under my fucking authority?" A scoff left MacTavish's lips, a flash of white teeth as his words tore into Price. Gone was his rage from before, instead replaced by something far more vengeful. He was an injured animal, lashing out at the perceived source of all his pain, ripping into him with whichever weapon he knew would cut deepest. "I read McCoy's report, y’know. Quite the fucking write up, believe me. It was your head she had concerns with, no one else's. Recommended psychological tests, the lot. Shepherd over ruled her, had me back him up because I couldn't believe that the strongest bloke I knew would be compromised... And yet here we fucking are."

He finished with a flourish, indicating down to the cuffs clamped around his mentor's wrists. When he looked up again, the eyes that greeted his were suddenly so much older, tired and exhausted. The stiffness of Price's back wilted and his posture changed, his face crestfallen as his shoulders dipped under the weight of MacTavish's words. They'd been quiet and resentful, designed to punish and he was rewarded with just that.

It didn't feel good, like he'd hoped. If anything it only made his heart ache more.

"... Haven't been whole since the day they took the regiment from me." It was a long time before Price spoke, his words more a mumble than anything else. Every syllable stung. Price's head hung from his shoulders as he spoke, as though the very emotion in his words made him unable to meet MacTavish's gaze. There was another long pause, followed by a slow, rasping sigh. Heavy eyes finally lifted to meet his. "Maybe I'm not right in the head. Maybe it's been that way longer than I want to admit. But don't you think for a second that means I stopped caring about what was right, about what was bloody important. Caring about you. I didn't ask for how today happened, but every single person on that battlefield knew exactly the kind of odds they were walking into. Maybe it's about time you stopped and thought about that too."

"Those people on the ISS, they knew what they were walking into too? How about any civilians caught in the crossfire? You can try and make this about Bones all you want, Price. But the fact of the matter is, what you did, the chain of command you ignored? It's inexcusable regardless of who took a bullet or not."

"Maybe, but I decided to live with that. I'm not asking for your blessing here, just for you to keep your head on your shoulders when your men need it most."

"Thank God for your wisdom." MacTavish let out a dark laugh. He clenched his jaw to prevent any further rebuttal, every inch of muscle tightening in his neck, his teeth grating. They were going in circles now, Price resigned to the consequences of his actions but still believing they were justified. MacTavish would never change that belief, no matter how much his mentor's blatant disregard for all that they had once held sacred stung. They were at an impasse, caught between each other's stubbornness to back down when in reality all that mattered now was Shepherd's final judgement on how to proceed.

"You're never wrong, are you John? You never misjudge, never make a mistake?" MacTavish sighed. "Time was I used to think that was strength. Now? I see you're just as shit scared as the rest of us."

"Soap..." He'd already turned on his heel to leave when Price finally spoke out. "Where the Hell are you going?"

"Anywhere but here. Turns out I can't always be the bloke you taught me to be."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

Obligation and duty forgotten, Soap's legs finally carried him to the place he should have been all along.

It shouldn't have been a surprise to find Riley sitting by her side, but it caught him off guard all the same as he stepped into the room. The lieutenant gave him a once over from over his shoulder, although his eyes quickly fell back to McCoy's sleeping form. The hand that had been holding hers had retreated the second he'd entered the room.

"How is she?"

"Stable. They're keeping her under. Doctor's want her home, they're even talking about shipping her out as early as tonight."

"Tonight?" MacTavish's surprise gave him away. Somehow he'd thought he'd have more time.

"Still a war on, or there was last time I checked. Shepherd wants her out of here ASAP, wants to free up the medical personnel." Riley smiled, although somewhere along the line it became sad where it should have been smug. "Funny, would have thought you'd known about that with Shepherd pissing in your ear all day."

"You've gotta know that I wanted to be here, mate."

"It's not me you need to convince though, is it?" Riley shook his head. "Sometimes there's bigger things out there than command and duty, you know?"

Ghost had him there. MacTavish opened his mouth to speak, but any rebuttal felt hollow. He didn't have the fight left in him, his heart allying itself with his friend even if his brain stubbornly thought otherwise. Instead, he nodded, took the criticism head on and swallowed it with everything he had.

"Thanks. For being here when I wasn't, Simon."

"Didn't do it for you." Riley slowly stood and turned to him. Although blunt, his words weren't unkind. "Found Roach in here about to pass out, figured I'd send him back to his bunk." He shrugged. "I thought someone should be 'ere, so I stayed."

"She'd be honoured, mate."

"Maybe." Clearly uncomfortable, Riley ran his his tongue across his teeth. "You speak to Price?"

"Yeah."

"Any more pearls of wisdom from him?"

"No..." MacTavish sighed. "He's still convinced he did the right thing. Worst of it is, by all reports so far... he was right. American army is digging in and pushing back. It's not his motives I question, but his bloody methods."

"Man's a fucking loose cannon. Had Bones had her way, he'd have never been out there today." Riley folded his arms. "Those kind of calls are above my pay grade, but I agreed with her 100%. So did half the task force."

"What was that you said about command? Don't know about you, but all I remember was a lot of bitching in that Ops room, but not a word of outward opposition to either my, or Shepherd's authority." MacTavish frowned, the piercing headache that had begun to throb beneath his temples coming to the forefront. He was fighting back like he always did, but it was a knee jerk defence when in reality hindsight told him Riley was right. There was so much to regret, so much to be accountable for, but he didn’t need another fight with his best mate to help him see it. "What's done is done, mate. Best we can do is try and pick up the pieces. If things had been different..."His gaze slipped to Lara, voice completely unable to voice an alternative. “… It just doesn’t fucking bear thinking about.”

"Think you can forgive him?"

"Could you?"

"Never, but you're a better man than me." Riley's words were nonchalant. He was still agitated, visibly so, but he was also backing off, saving his anger and concerns for a different day. It was a shade of the best friend MacTavish hadn't seen in years. Or maybe Soap truly did just look that tired after all. "Say your goodbyes, mate. God knows, you've waited long enough."

The room plunged into silence with Riley gone, punctuated only by the rhythmic beep that denoted Lara's heart. It was odd that the first thing he noticed was how much cleaner she was than when he'd last seen her, bathed and pristine and oh so clinical. She looked young and removed, her face set into the mask of a woman he only just recognised.

Taking Riley's abandoned seat with a grunt, MacTavish became acutely aware of how stiff his muscles had become. As he sat beside her, they relaxed a little all as one, groaning with the effort. He hadn't even realised how tightly wound he'd been, how strongly his fists had clenched at his side through endless debrief after debrief.

He should have been more. Should have been there and yet it had almost been easier not to be. Once he'd known that she was stable, a weight had been lifted, but replaced by a fear of just exactly how he would feel confronted by her sudden frailty. If he allowed himself to admit it, there had been an ounce of comfort in that, in delaying the inevitable.

Now that he was here, that inevitability was regret. Sadness. Grief. An unbearable fear that this would be the last time he'd ever see her and she'd never even remember.

Maybe he'd hoped she'd be conscious, hoped that he'd be able to kiss her and give her one last verbal memory of exactly what she meant to him. That in that moment he would have stopped being a coward, stopped burying himself behind his Captaincy and would have finally let the true John MacTavish back into the driving seat, if only for a moment.

But maybe didn't count for shit right now.

Reaching into his pocket, MacTavish pulled out a familiar weight, a loop of strung wooden beads with a weighty silver crucifix attached. His Grandfather's rosary, one of the few treasures he allowed himself to keep. He hadn't prayed with it since he was a teenager under his mother's instructions, but he'd carried it with him every single day since. It was a good luck charm of sorts, a reminder of family and faith and the man he'd left behind. It had never meant what his parents had wished it to mean to him, but that didn't mean that it had never brought comfort to times where it felt as though there was none to be found.

MacTavish didn't need luck anymore. He figured that where he was headed there would be very little of it to be found. He was in this fight until it reached it's end and no faith or reminder of home was ever going to change that.

Not without her at least.

In a slow, deliberate movement, he reached forward and wrapped the rosary around Lara's right hand, winding the beads as delicately as possible between her fingertips. Tightening her grip on the beads as best he could, he leaned in closer, pressing the softest of kisses to her knuckles. Her skin was warm, but he would have given anything to feel her fingers flex at his touch.

"I love you, Lara." His words were a whisper, an admittance to himself though he wished that she could hear them too. He'd known for so long, had kept the words to himself for fear of what they represented. He'd bottled everything up as he always did, scared to love and even more terrified to lose. And yet he was losing her anyway, being robbed of the person who reminded him of everything he'd once wanted outside of the military.

It was his own fault that he'd never hear her say those words back. Just like Price, those consequences would stay with him through whatever trials came next.

He didn't have it in him to say goodbye. Instead, he pressed closer, a hand enclosing hers and the rosary beads. The tears he’d held back since the shooting finally pricked at his eyes and finally alone, he let them fall. He bit his lip, still trying to be strong in front of her even now, at a time when even she would have chided him for it. He was tired, in pain, overwhelmed under the weight of his command and everything in between. He needed his confidante, needed the person who understood him better than himself. In that moment he was every bit the headless idiot that Price had warned him not to become.

He couldn’t break, wouldn’t let himself until the job was done. But finally alone and finally free, John MacTavish at least allowed himself to feel.

Resting his head on his other arm, he lay uncomfortably at her side, seeking comfort in the warmth that radiated from her still body. He closed his eyes, clinging to the memories of her smile and laugh and trying his best to tell himself that they were real.

He hoped that she'd understand. He'd hoped that she'd forgive him, that she'd remember the man he wanted to be, rather than the man he always was.

He hoped.

#citscape

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