Chapter Text
Price’s eyes were red, puffy.
That was the first thing Ghost clocked as he let himself into the cramped, temporary office the captain had been assigned. They couldn’t go back to Hereford - not yet, not when he’d be lurking in every shadow, his laugh echoing down every empty hall.
They couldn’t go back yet, not with Makarov in the wind. The fucker was out there still, and he'd pay for everything he'd done. One way or another... he'd pay.
They owed him at least that much, to finish it.
Price’s eyes were red, rimmed with broken blood vessels. They’d all taken his death hard, but to see their captain , the bastion of strength he’d always been, look so shaken?
“Sir.”
Price motioned him to sit. “Waiting on Gaz,” was all he said before staring down at his desk, rubbing a nail through a healing cut on the back of his hand. It was red, irritated, but he hadn’t quite broken the skin.
Yet.
They hadn’t all been together in the last week, not since they’d all put on brave faces and gone to the lonely cliff in the Highlands, six days after.
See you down range, brother .
Gaz’s words bounced around in his mind, had ever since they’d been whispered into the lonely wind. He’d been keeping an eye on the younger man, worried. If he wasn’t with him, he was with Price - the old man apparently having the same concerns.
They’d failed. They’d failed themselves, failing in bringing Makarov down once and for all.
They’d failed him , he and Gaz arriving too late to put rounds solidly between the bastard’s eyes.
He looked down at his lap, his mind a tangled mess. If Price was going to send them back out… he honestly didn’t know if he could do it.
Not without his sergeant.
That, and there was no way he could take Gaz with him. He’d already lost two , Gary not medically sound for active combat and with him swept away on the lonely breeze - he couldn’t risk losing Gaz. Price couldn’t risk losing Gaz. He’d been across from them in the back of the exfil vehicle they’d been sent - he with his elbows on his knees and head in his hands on one side and with Price and Gaz trying to occupy the same space on the other. He’d seen Price break in that moment, his face buried in Gaz’s shoulder as his own shook violently.
It hadn’t lasted long, just a few moments, but his eyes had been so blank when he’d looked up.
It had been like looking in the mirror.
Besides... He'd never forgive him for putting them in danger with their heads not on straight.
A knock and Gaz let himself in. Like themselves, he clearly wasn’t all right. His normally warm skin was grayed, the bags under his eyes looked like he’d been in a fight and lost. His movements, usually fluid and graceful as befitted a man of his training and skill were sloppy, his boots scuffed… and scuffing… the worn linoleum flooring.
“Cap.” He didn’t salute, didn’t look up, just dropped into an empty chair.
There was still one available.
Turned backwards because he liked to turn it that way to straddle, the cloth on the back of it frayed . He'd never been in this room, never would, but that Price turned a chair into his usual orientation...
It stabbed like a dagger that it would stay empty.
Ghost sighed, not quite looking up yet. He’d been keeping tabs on Gaz, making sure his favorite foods were available to eat when he did. Two nights After , he’d scraped him up off the floor of the nearest off-base bar, paid his tab silently, and hauled him back. Another SAS member had been there, had recognized him, had realized what this particular flavor of self-destruction meant and had made a call before the lad could get himself arrested. Price had met them when they’d gotten back to base, helped haul him back to Ghost’s own personal barracks, had cleaned him together up when he’d expelled all the alcohol he’d consumed. They’d put him to bed, had sat flanking the bedside all night, had silently opened their arms to him when he’d woken and broke .
He’d held him like that, after Las Almas, after Hassan. That night in the Chicago hotel had been rough, but the little shite had single-handedly broken down walls he’d had up for years , and he’d done it in the span of a few short days.
Bloody wanker.
A few months ago, he’d never have thought he’d be able to have someone in that close of a proximity for any length of time. Gaz was one of his though, and Gaz needed someone. He could do it for Gaz. Price had done it for him, after Roach had been hurt… it was like a cosmic bit of payback.
He’d certainly left his mark.
Price was fumbling with papers on his desk, a nervous tic. Ghost clocked his trembling hands, the tiny muscle spasms just under his right eye.
“Price. What?” He couldn’t take the silence any more, had to push this forward.
Gray eyes finally blinked up at them, focused on a point just between their shoulders. “There’s news.”
Well, that wasn’t helpful.
“Makarov?” Gaz nearly snarled the name, the wound that would never close too raw, too new.
Price just shook his head.
“... Updates on the Shepherd situation?” he hazarded, frowning beneath his mask.
“Neg.”
He and Gaz shared a look, a raised eyebrow to each other.
“What then, Cap?” Gaz finally asked, his voice far more tired than it should be for someone of his age.
“T-these are from Laswell,” he said softly, finally pushing a folder to each of them.
The folder was unlabeled, full of medical reports, though much of it was indecipherable. The oldest dated to that day, the newest just the day before. He skimmed it once, locked onto a few key words, felt his mind blue-screen to a screeching halt, then rumble back to a reboot. He physically shook himself, began to reread.
Depressed vitals. Multiple codes during transport. Multiple GSW, one just a hair shy of the subclavian artery, one to the leg that had actually ricocheted off the femur, one that skimmed off the cranium. +/- 40% of total blood volume gone upon hospital arrival. Severe contusions. Left shoulder nearly ripped from its socket, major nerve damage. Two strokes on the table, had coded thrice more.
There were words about the patient’s prognosis, about how the GSW to the skull had been glancing and that most of the damage was caused by bone fragments and not the bullet proper. Likely damage to the speech processing centers of the brain, likely residual impacts to fine motor control and vision on the left side.
Current status: induced coma, on a vent. Brain activity looked good, but there were concerns about infection and backsliding. Stable for transport.
Patient had needed seventeen units of blood. His entire blood volume had been replaced nearly twice .
“Captain…” Gaz spoke first, his eyes wild and wide. “This-”
Their captain just shook his head. “When the support teams came, they checked him over again once on arrival, then once again before they loaded him up. He was dead the first time. We… we hadn’t left him, he was gone . Somehow… somehow the bloody git came back .” He was crying again, their captain - indomitable, strong - had tear tracks coursing down his face, soaking into his beard.
Ghost refused to allow himself to hope, not yet. He couldn’t . “The… the ashes, Price.”
His laugh was borderline hysterical. “Laswell’s team. With Makarov out there, she didn’t want to risk him in the condition he’s in. He’d been listed as a John Doe - he’s only just been transferred somewhere else, under an assumed name. She…” He took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself. “She didn’t want to tell us before they had a firm prognosis, didn’t want to get out hearts up.”
He wasn’t surprised, not really. The logic was good, made sense. Compartmentalization was SOP, after all, especially for high-level operatives. He hated it, but it made sense. Especially if Makarov actually did catch wind of his survival…
Hell's bells.
“Can… can we see him?” He couldn’t bring himself to say his name, not yet. Not without seeing him. He needed to see him, needed to know that he was still breathing. It'd been just short of two weeks, two weeks of this unwelcomed silence in his life.
And if Price wouldn’t tell him where he was, he’d go find him alone.
Or with Gaz’s help, given the stricken expression the younger man had.
It seemed as if Price was fully aware of that, already bobbing his chin in a nod. “Affirm. Kate’s putting us all on long term stand-down regardless, at least officially. Gives us the chance to drop off the radar to take care of things.
Gaz started to laugh. It was soft at first, then grew in volume until it was a full-body thing, his shoulders rocking and tears freely flowing. “Bloody fucking hell ,” he gasped, leaning over his knees. “When do we leave?”
"Now. Go and grab your gear bags."
The weight of the world that had been resting on his shoulders for the last week had lessened slightly, despite the veritable ream of paper contained in the folder on his lap. It wasn’t gone, not by any means - and it wouldn't be until he heard that accursed Scottish burr again, but… just the possibility that his sergeant was alive was enough.
It had to be.
And… he put the folder back on Price’s desk and stood, allowed Price to usher him out into the hall. If his sergeant needed for anything , come hell or high water - one of them would be there for him.
Johnny MacTavish deserved at least that much from them.