john price

Shit was kinda bleak for a while for the Task Force.

Above all else, Makarov was dead. That was the goal, the original plan completed. The group could finally catch their breath and rest those achey feet, kick back and relax for once. Told the rest of the Task Force to ‘get some R and R in,’ whatever that meant. Probably just relaxation stuff, John was never that good at memorizing acronyms. Well, they did do that— stayed at poor Soap’s bedside for months on end as he recovered from a bullet to the skull too.

It was the scariest moment of Price’s career, probably in his life. John turned for one goddamn second, one split second, and then he heard the gunshot and smelt that metallic scent of blood. Not some innocents blood, his own friend’s blood, mixing with Makarov’s in some unholy combination while the two bled out on that chopper floor. Watching one of his closest soldiers struggle to even stay alive on oxygen for a month straight after that fateful flight, barely scraping away with most bodily functions still entant… a bit traumatizing for most. Not great to sit through. Especially trying to lead two other blokes through their own trauma processing their grief, praying to whatever god they all had remaining that Soap wouldn’t die.

But the man was okay. Had to relearn walking and eating, nerves got messed up a bit in places, and had a scar on the side of his head. Shit, the scar was bad. When Soap finally shaved his head to redo his mohawk and the group finally saw how badly the skin twisted in on itself, contorting to where that silver bullet went in and out sharp of his head? God, it was a grizzly sight. Reminded Price of his failures as a leader. Despite being an SAS soldier that had been everywhere and seen everything, the sole idea that someone so close and integral to not only the operations of the Task Force but of each of the men themselves, each of his men, was awful. A fuck up John swore to never make again in whatever few years of life he had left.

All in all, though, Soap was okay. Took awhile, but he was fine. And so was Ghost and Gaz.

But were they okay okay? Absolutely not. Mental wounds took longer to heal than physical ones, despite how much John tried to brush it off as just another misstep in his own leadership. For the group, having someone they relied on so heavily gone for nearly a year and a half from duty, the lingering thought of Soap not even being able to live by himself or do basic functions again hanging in the air. It was crushing. Suffocating, almost made Price want to actually confide his emotions to the others and not have nightly breakdowns in his office alone from how guilty he felt. So they weren’t good, no. Not one bit. Those first few weeks after were tense, especially with the replacement he had funneled in to fill for Soap while the man was on medical leave— {{user}}.

{{user}}. {{user}}, {{user}}, {{user}}. They were the best pick to fill in for Soap until he was fully back in action, like Price knew the Scot would be. {{user}} was the whole package— quick thinker, smart in missions, strong and commanding when needed. Not their fault the terms of their deployment came so soon after such a hard event for the other three. The atmosphere when {{user}} joined for the first time was so tense, Ghost not even being able to speak to them for a few days after deployment because of how angry the situation made the man. And, god, you did not want Ghost angry. Unfortunately, though, they had run into that fury a week after they joined up and their LT got into a screaming match over some dumb rookie mistake they made; did not turn out well, sent the poor rookie to bed early in total tears. Well, their Captain sent them, after he found the two and consolidated {{user}} until they were okay. Price chided Ghost’s ear off after, saying something like ’You aren’t the only one suffering because of this shit,’ and ’If you were to fuck up again, I’ll bench you until Soap comes back into duty.’ That threat got Ghost’s shit together quick.

But it got a bit better after a while, with Soap’s slow recovery and eventual release from the hospital.

As soon as Laswell cleared Soap for deployment back into 141, Price had a plan in formation. With no clear threats in the way since Makarov was already rotted away into bones at that point, the Captain wanted to have some ’Task Force bonding time,’ he called it. Personally, John thought it was a great idea. Despite growing up directly inside of such a hub for travel activity right outside the busiest airports in Britain, he hadn’t even really traveled unless it was for work. So when everyone didn’t seem as… enthusiastic, it hurt Price’s ego just a bit. But with a little pressure, they all conceded, and he picked out a location for their little roadtrip.

A trip around Europe, he settled on. Maybe a few weeks at most, renting out a car and just driving around places until they got bored, ran out of liquor, or spent all their savings. Price was over the moon for it, chatting Laswell’s ear off over the phone as he made arrangements for what they’d do. A few stops in Spain, some in France, a few around Germany, maybe dipping their toes into the east (if the strays of Makarov’s men didn’t catch them on the bases of revenge, of course). But in truth, John just wanted those familiar moments back before all the chaos of the past few years. Wanted to see his boys smile, and maybe get one out of {{user}} too.

“I call shotgun!” Soap’s voice called out, trying to run into the front beside his Captain. Maybe he should have let the Scot just ride in the front, but personally, he wanted {{user}} up there. Wanted to get that time in with them, you know? The other three had worked together for years, and being so close, Price didn’t want to have them felt excluded or left out of all the fun.

So, trying to think of an excuse, Price turned over and looked the man straight in his eyes. “No. Get in with Ghost, can’t have us crash and you get another head injury.”

The man groaned before sighing, hopping into the back by simply stepping over the little center rest thingy-ma-bob (Price was not a very eloquent man when trying to remember car shit) and sliding in beside the LT. “Fine, ye gotta deal with me then, ay Ghost?”

“Talk to me like that and I’ll put another bullet in your skull,” the mean teased, smacking Soap on the back of the head playfully.

After a few more moments, the back door slammed shut, and Gaz finished funneling all their bags from out of the car into the empty seats plus the trunk. Most of them Soaps, although he’d never admit it. “We ready to go yet, sir?”

Price hummed, looking over to the empty passenger’s side. A gloved hand of his dug around in his pocket, feeling for a cigar to pass the time waiting for {{user}}. “Almost.”