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“There's a clocktower in Hereford, where the names of the dead are inscribed. We try to honor their deeds even as their faces fade from our memories. Those memories are all that’s left, when the bastards have taken everything else.”
“What happened?”
“They killed Soap. He’s gone, Mac.”
Price wouldn’t have believed it if anyone had told him this day was coming. It had been nearly four years... Four years since everything he’d known had disappeared. Four years since he’d held Soap’s hand while he died. Four years since Yuri had died in front of him at Makarov’s hand. Four years since he’d watched Makarov hang, watched the life drain out of his sick, twisted face. Four years since he’d decided he’d done all he needed, lit a cigar, and let himself drift away, succumbing to injuries inflicted by that madman. And four years since he’d opened his eyes, alive and well, safe on the base in Hereford, with a CIA woman giving him orders.
He’d spent a lot of time coming to terms with what had happened. Back then he had been ready to die; he’d lost all of his team. Gaz first. His body lay on that bridge next to Zakhaev, his blood mixing with Gaz’s, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He’d died looking at Price and Soap, reaching out for them, and they couldn’t help. Not in time. Then Soap… Soap, who he’d thought would live. Who had saved Price’s life as many times as he’d saved his. Bleeding out on that fucking table while people tried to get him to leave.
He was angry, at first. Angry that he’d woken up. Angry that he’d have to live another life, without all the people he knew, a life where he was still in the military, where the world was still complete shit, where he had nothing except his own memories that he couldn’t share, because people would find him fucking crazy.
Being angry is exhausting, and after a while he just couldn’t maintain it. He threw himself into his job wholly and completely, absorbed in being a soldier and absolutely nothing else. He took every job he could, refused time off as often as he was allowed, and killed without mercy. His mission was to stop the same tragedy that had happened in his other life. It was the only thing that mattered. There wasn’t anything outside of getting his job done.
Then, the new recruit. Ghost. Simon Riley. Price hadn’t known him, not really, but he seemed largely the same. He still wore that mask.
Ghost was followed all too closely by Soap.
Soap. What the hell kind of a name is Soap?
They seemed so similar. Ghost was on a different team, but when Price worked with him - rare as it may be - he was plainly confident, smart, and more than able to do what he needed to do. He liked him. He admired him, even. He was a good soldier, and reminded Price a lot of himself.
Soap, he was different. So different in a way that made Price as intrigued by him as he was repulsed. He wasn’t the same man, that was plain to see. He was younger, louder, the way he’d been when Price had first met him all those years ago when he’d joined up in the other world.
He was inarguably smart and skilled in everything he did; he excelled the same way he had in his previous life, but he didn’t take to Price the same way. Price spent more time than he probably should have training him, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference in their relationship. It was different. He wasn’t the same man.
So, he fell into an undeniable depression. Exhausted by the efforts he’d been putting in, finding that he wasn’t making any progress beyond just helping the man be a good soldier.
Years went by slowly. Price slowed down for a while until he threw himself back into his work. He took more solo missions, he requested more jobs, he went back to refusing time off again. The months working with Soap had been quiet, but strained. Like taking a vacation to a version of your hometown that someone inverted. Almost the same, but everything ended up in a different direction. It was exhausting.
He still worked with Ghost and Soap occasionally, but he preferred to be alone most of the time. It was unlike him and he knew that, but he found that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
Then, the attack on Piccadilly Circus. He met Gaz. Kyle Garrick. He had the same fire in him that he’d always had. He brought some of the joy Price had felt in the past back and helped him to come to terms with living a new life, even if he didn’t realize it.
He was young, smart, he had an unbelievable amount of energy and passion, and he felt like Price’s son. Everything he’d been missing from Soap. Everything he’d missed from his past life.
To say that Gaz replaced Soap in Price’s mind would be completely false. He didn’t even replace that version of Gaz that he’d known before. He’d not had as much time to get to know Gaz before as he had with Soap, so he fit into Price’s new life a little better, the same way that Ghost did.
Gaz became like a son to Price. They worked together well and they got along magnificently, but there was no denying that Price had lost another son. There was a part of him that had died when Soap had, and it wasn’t able to be filled by Gaz, as much as he cared for the lad, and this new version of Soap only made his heart ache more.
He worked with him anyway, though. Gladly. He’s a smart kid, he’s good at his job, and he’s as passionate as anyone he’d ever met. There’s no reason not to work with him without admitting that the thought of having him around made Price feel like he was trying to replace the son he’d lost.
And then, one day, things seemed to change.
Soap was acting strangely. He led drills differently, he talked differently, Gaz even noticed, and they were damn good friends. Ghost suddenly didn’t seem to hate working with him so much; there was less complaint, less negative feedback.
It was like he’d been replaced by a different man, and Price couldn’t even begin to guess why that was.
Then he was captured by Graves. Price was on a plane, feeling like he was going to lose his mind if they didn’t figure out a way to fucking fly faster.
When he got on top of that wall and looked down and saw Ghost, dragging him through the courtyard the same way he’d carried Soap through Prague the day he died, he felt more than devastated.
He’d taken too long, he thought, or he should have been there in the first place instead of on the other side of the fucking world. He couldn’t shake this feeling he had, it felt too familiar to the day he’d lost Soap. A sinking feeling of dread that had settled in his stomach when he’d heard Makarov over the comms, “Captain Price.”
Then, he was shot.
He saw it happen, and was helpless to stop it.
Soap didn’t make a sound, but Ghost did. And so did Price. He couldn’t help himself screaming.
No, he didn’t know this version of John MacTavish as well, but he’d still taken to him like a son. He’d still done everything in his power to help him improve and become the best soldier he could be. He’d still brought him onto his task force, caring deeply about him even if he’d been different.
And here he was, losing him again.
He took charge in the same way he always did. Despite the pain he was feeling, he forced his thoughts to behave rationally. He screamed down at Alejandro’s men to bring Soap up, and then he ordered them to take him down to the van he’d driven there in.
He caught Ghost at the top of the wall. He could see it in his face; that distant, heartbroken feeling he often saw in himself. He forced him out of it, ordering him to shoot at the snipers that were lining up on the roof opposite of them.
Soap was shot, but he wasn’t dead, yet. He would be if Price couldn’t keep everyone together.
In that van, with his hands pressed to Soap’s stomach, Price felt like he was back in Prague again. He could almost feel the dusty atmosphere of that bar around him, hear glass shattering as Ultranationalists fired on them.
He begged Soap to stay alive. He watched Ghost falling apart in front of him, crying, holding Soap’s hand, running his fingers through his hair. He knew Ghost was losing as much as he was, and that just made his heart sink further.
When Soap had opened his eyes and looked at Price, Price felt like he was looking at the old version of Soap. The same eyes that had died on that table in Prague. The same pale skin, terrified face, and almost the exact same voice when he asked, “Price?”
Price had to do everything in his power then to hold back tears. He barely managed.
When Soap’s hand grabbed his vest, it felt like a flashback. Like one of the dozens of nightmares he’d had of that exact moment before Soap had died, when he’d grabbed him with the last of his strength and told him “Makarov…knows….Yuri”
Simon answered him. Price couldn’t get any words out past the panic that had welled up in his throat. He couldn’t lose Soap again. Not like this. He couldn’t live in another world where he watched Soap MacTavish die in front of him. He couldn’t bear the thought of ending up in another universe where he’d have to suffer this loss. He knew if he did, it would be the death of him.
When Soap insisted he was dying, Price panicked. His words came out loud and fast. The same way they had in Prague. The same way they did in his nightmares. “No, no, no, Soap! You’re not, we’re almost to the hospital.”
As Ghost panicked when John stopped talking, Price stayed still. He just held the hand that had been on his vest, hoping, but a loud part of him knew that he wouldn’t have a chance to talk to him again.
He didn’t feel hopeful. And as Simon Riley went into that hospital after Soap, Price stayed in the back of the van, bloodsoaked and heartbroken, once again leaving Soap behind.
That part hurt the worst. Leaving him.
He’d had to do that in Prague.
Hadn’t even gotten the chance to bury him. He had no idea what would happen to him next back then, and he didn’t know now, either. This time there was hope, but Price couldn’t distinguish that from despair.
Price doesn’t hope, anymore. He’d learned not to bother with that a long time ago. It hadn’t ever suited him well.
He did, instead, what he always did. He just threw himself into his work. Gaz and Alejandro tried to get him away from his computer for enough time to sit in a prayer led by Rudy, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t hope or pray for Soap to be alive. Not because he didn’t want to give all he could to make that come true, but because he couldn’t let himself stop and realize the true gravity of the situation.
The way Gaz looked at him, it was almost like he didn’t recognize him.
Price didn’t recognize himself, either.
When the call finally came from Simon, Price’s world seemed to collapse all around him. He’d built up that reality where Soap had died so quickly, where he would have to accept that Soap was gone and learn to live and work without him again, and in an instant it came crashing down. He cried.
He had been so sure he’d lost Soap again, so convinced that he’d be living life without him that he couldn’t help himself when he heard the news.
Gaz sat with him the entire time. He didn’t cry, but Price could tell that he almost did.
He cried until Ghost called again, and then he let himself get back to work.
Days later in that hospital, Price couldn’t shake the feeling that he was standing next to Soap’s bed in Africa, where he’d narrowly healed from that knife wound while they tried to outrun ultranationalists. “I want to be there,” he’d said. Price had remembered in that moment what Alejandro had told him about how he’d attacked Graves. About how he’d gone into that mansion alone. And now he was begging to be let out of the hospital.
It was so risky, and not risky in a way that he was used to this Soap - the one he’d spent four years with - behaving. It was like looking down at the version of Soap that had died. That stubborn, outrageous attitude that put him in as much danger as it managed to save other people.
It was so strange. He hadn’t seen that in years, outside of his memories and his dreams.
Price had sat down and talked to him like he’d used to talk to Soap. Soap had talked back the same way. Conversation flowed suddenly more easily. Price was able to talk to him about things he wouldn’t be able to talk to his other soldiers about; about love, feelings, about the way he was behaving. He wasn’t a heart-to-heart kind of man, not anymore. He had been, but those past four years and the losses he had suffered had changed him. He wasn’t as angry, but he kept himself distant. Keeping people at arm’s length kept him from caring too deeply, and unless they were able to weasel their way in closer like Gaz had, he was perfectly content to keep it that way.
Soap hadn’t managed, in all those years, until just now. And Price let him. He felt at peace, in a way, like that black void left by the loss of a son was filled.
When Ghost came over the comms and said there was no sign of Soap in that safehouse, Price felt that empty space in his chest return. Once again, in the space of a few days, he was left feeling like he was losing his son all over again.
Then that call came. And he couldn’t talk, because they were in the middle of a fight with those stupid fucking Shadows.
Relief was short lived, as it was immediately replaced with guilt after he’d hung up. No matter how necessary it had been, he felt like he’d just abandoned Soap to die.
He threw himself into work because he had to. He took charge interrogating Graves’ Shadows. He was cold, distant, and ruthless. Gaz told him he was worried, but Price didn’t care. He couldn’t care. If he let himself care about the Shadows, then he’d have to worry about Soap. Soap was alive, and that’s what mattered. He couldn’t worry beyond that. He’s competent to get himself back safe.
The next call he got doubled down on that feeling of guilt. He sounded considerably worse than he had a few hours ago, and this time, being that things were relatively quiet and safe, Price immediately sent out some men to go find him.
He still hadn’t forgiven himself for hanging up the first time. And after actually seeing the state Soap was in, he honestly believed he never would.
Still, somehow despite it all, Soap had been so upbeat, so impossibly lighthearted. He’d always been that way, even in this new version of himself. It almost made Price forget he’d almost died for a minute. It felt almost normal.
Until Soap asked to go along, yet again.
There it was again, that reckless behavior. He couldn’t place it. It didn’t belong here, in this world. This didn’t seem like Soap; not this Soap. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that he was different, somehow, than he had been for years. Those words, reckless suggestions, they came from a version of Soap that didn’t exist.
And then it happened. Price quoted something he’d said just before Soap had died. The words had never left his memory and they came to him easily in that moment; “History is written by the victor.”
“And history is full of liars,” Soap continued. “All you need to change the world is one good lie and a river of blood.”
Price felt sure at that moment that this was a different man. This was, somehow, the Soap he’d known before. He didn’t know how.
Hell, he didn’t even know if he was finally losing his mind. It sure had taken a long time, if that’s what it was. But the last couple of days had been difficult, and if this was his breaking point, Price thought he could probably accept that.
Soap gave him a knowing look when he finished their shared train of thought. “His truth will be the truth if he lives, and we die.”
He was confused, but he was certain something was different. John was different.
He only became more sure as Soap continued to argue his case to do something incredibly stupid, and Price felt his resolve cave in the way it used to around the old Soap. He agreed, but on strict conditions.
After four years of living here, four years of being unsure of his exact place in this world, four years mourning teammates he’d used to have while he worked with a strange, altered version of them, Price finally felt like there was something besides Gaz that made him feel like he belonged. And he didn’t know why. He just knew that Soap was different.
When Soap asked to talk in private, Price never could have seen what came next. Even despite all his thoughts earlier, his revelations that Soap had been different, his realization that he’d felt like he’d been talking to a long dead friend, it wasn’t really possible to him yet that this was the same Soap. Not even quoting that stupid line he’d delivered all those years ago had done it.
No, he didn’t expect it all. What he did expect was for Soap to tell him he wanted to quit, or that he’d given too much to the SAS and he felt suicidal. His behavior fit the bill.
And then, the most unexpected thing he possibly could have said; “But I died, swear on my life - swear on your life, Gaz’s life, Simon’s life. It was in Prague- it was this stupid fucking Russian bastard.”
Makarov.
Price stood mechanically, his body guiding him while his brain tried to catch up.
“You were there- I mean. Not you, but, like, a version of you. And this kid, a Russian kid.”
Yuri.
Price could hardly hear the end of Soap’s sentence past the ringing in his ears. He extended a hand, which Soap took, and he hugged him suddenly. He held him so tightly he thought he might break him, and Soap held him back.
He couldn’t help it, crying. There wasn’t a damn thing that could stop it. He could feel Soap crying, too.
Four years. Four years he’d lived thinking that Soap was dead, and now here he is, in this backwards, twisted, fucked up world, standing in his makeshift office in fucking Mexico.
“Price?”
Confusion, plain as day. Price isn’t a crier, everyone knows that. He’s a hardass who works day in and day out. That’s all.
But here he was, standing in front of his resurrected son, knowing, somehow, that it was him, alive, in the flesh. And he was crying.
He struggled for words for a minute, trying to find something that he could say to clearly communicate to the lad that he knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Makarov knows Yuri.”
Soap’s last words. Undeniable proof that he had lived through that moment just the same as Soap had.
A moment passed between the two, an understanding that they wouldn’t be able to explain if they ever wanted to.
For the first time in four years, Price didn’t feel that black, empty, bottomless void that had formed in his stomach when Soap had died. He didn’t feel like Hell itself was standing just on the borders of his mind, begging him to return home.
Losing Soap was the hardest thing he had ever done. He was the only family he’d ever had, and the only family he’d ever wanted. He was his son, in every sense of the word except biological. Losing a child is an impossible thing to live through, and Price wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been forced to wake up in this world.
And now, somehow, the son he’d lost is there. Alive.
And he needs a smoke.
He could hear that conversation with Makarov echoing in his head.
“Who is this?”
“Prisoner 627. I’m coming for you, Makarov.”
“Haven’t you heard, Price? They say the war is over.”
“My war ends with you.”
“Like it ended for Captain MacTavish? Tell me, Price, how long did it take for him to die?”
Soap - alive, breathing, happy, healthy - stood in front of him.
He’d outlive Makarov. That bastard had failed, in the end. He’d died, and he’d failed to kill Captain MacTavish.
Soap agreed to have a smoke with Price. As Price dug out his cigars after they stepped outside, lighting them and letting the smoke drift into the sky, the world felt right.
There was still so much to do, so much to tell Soap. But that didn’t matter, at least not in this moment.
Price felt like that massive, gaping black hole in his chest was filled. The weight of the grief of losing a son was lifted from him, and he could breathe easier.
He wasn’t crazy, after all. And the universe is ever mysterious. But at least he can smoke a cigar with Soap again.
We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go
Always a little further: it may be
Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,
Across that angry or that glimmering sea,