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You leave a trail of red behind you, dyeing the snow with every step you take. It’s a struggle to even stay awake, but you know that you need to keep moving, otherwise you’re dead.
The trail of blood is the only thing that reminds you of the direction you came from. Your rifle weighs you down, your pack weighs you down, and you really want to collapse in the middle of fucking nowhere, but you need to keep going.
For your team.
“Opera,” John says. “You’re not helping anyone out here by exhausting yourself.”
He is a hallucination. That, you’re sure of. “People,” you ground out, your exhale coming out of you with a white puff. “I need—people.”
The hallucination looks at you pitingly. “They’re all dead,” he tells you.
“James is still alive,” you whisper, forcing yourself to take a step with each foot forwards. “Sarah. Lifeng.”
“Lifeng sustained three gunshots to the abdomen,” John points out, “and Sarah died from her head injuries, remember?”
“Alive,” you chant, “alive.”
“James might still be holding on, but you know better than to be naive.” John’s voice turns quiet. “He needs to lose that arm or else the infection will spread.”
You can’t think properly. Your limbs are starting to drag, and your vision is starting to swim. You can’t make out the edge of the treeline that you were trudging towards anymore, and now John’s hallucination is getting worse. It’s becoming even more realistic. You can even make out the details in his uniform.
“People,” you whisper.
John shakes his head. “Opera!” he yells.
You frown. You’re right beside him. He doesn’t need to yell at you.
“Opera!”
The hallucination frowns as well. “Oh,” he says, “maybe you might survive.”
“Alive,” you agree. Then you drop to your knees.
The hallucination looks down at you, lips pressed into a thin line. “I mean, you have the wildest luck. Why are you always the one who’s surviving at the very end? Don’t you ever feel like it’s about time you tried to save someone else instead of yourself?”
You try to reply, but you have no energy left. You just sink deeper into the thigh-high level of snow.
“Honestly. The brass might want to rethink their decision to put you in as a captain because everyone who’s ever served with you has—”
“Opera!” Rough hands pull your face out of the snow. “Fuckin’ hell, stay with me.”
You whimper, because now you’re feeling John’s hands touching you. You’re definitely dropping into the very dangerous zone of hypothermia if you’re got phantom touches.
You can’t stop here though. You need to find help. James’ life depends on it.
“Hey,” John whispers, coarsely, “can you hear me? Can you nod for me?”
His hands are pressed right up against cheeks. His fingers are warm compared to your freezing cold face, and you try to smile at him. “People,” you try to say.
“Stay with me,” he says, “no, no, stay with me—”
Your eyes slip shut.
You just hope someone finds James in time.
—
“So, Captain,” Sarah says with a shit-eating grin, “what it like running a co-operation with your husband?”
You give her a look. James cuts in before you can say anything, joining in by saying, “It’ll be good to see old Price at work again—I heard he’s got a new team. Task Force 141? Heard they’re elite. Not that we aren’t just as good, but we’ve got Lifeng. He drags down our average skill ability.”
“Fuck you too,” your youngest scowls, giving your lieutenant the middle finger. “Just because you can’t count single digit numbers doesn’t mean I can’t!”
“Having a demolitions specialist who can’t count really doesn’t fills me with confidence,” Sarah agrees.
“Who’re you talking about?” Your two demolitions specialists whirl on her, suddenly banding together. They point each other.
“It’s got to be the baby,” James says.
“He’s so old that he can’t even think properly,” Lifeng says at the same time.
You raise an eyebrow. “So how old does that make me?”
“You’re immortal, that doesn’t count,” all three of your teammates dismiss, as if they’d planned it beforehand. You can’t help but smile at their antics, despite trying not to encourage their behaviour anymore than you should.
“Alright, alright,” you wave, cutting them off before they can squabble again, “that’s enough. Do I need to give any of you timeout?”
“We’re not five,” Sarah pouts.
“Lifeng might be,” James mutters.
“That’s enough,” you order, and they obey. Lifeng pursues his lips like a petulant child, and you can’t help but what at his shoulder. He’s a massive man—but he’s more like a big baby than anything else, so even though he could probably carry twice your weight, he lets you swat him and overexaggerates the force as he stumbles to the side.
“You seem quite into the parenting,” a familiar voice says from behind, “is there somethinn I should know?”
You turn with a wide smile, opening your arms. “Simon! Come here.”
Despite being even bigger than Lifeng, Simon doesn’t protest as you pull him into a hug, tucking his face into your neck and sneaking a gentle arm around your waist. You remember when he was just a scrawny teenager; an underfed child was the same height but less than half your weight. Now he’s this massive behemoth, face tucked behind a mask, but hug still just as tight. You hug him back with the same vigour.
Your husband silently slips into the room behind his lieutenant, but your eyes are immediately drawn to him. He gives you a familiar smile when you make eye contact.
Simon gives you a quick squeeze before pulling back, falling back into his stoic soldier persona. He nods, giving you a sharp “Ma’am,” before he’s sidestepping to let Kyle and Johnny give you respective hugs of their own. They might be John’s boys, but they’re also yours.
“Hey, old man,” James grins, giving your husband a solid handshake, “it’s good to see you again.”
“Fitzgerald,” John replies, inclining his head. “Watching my missus’ back?”
“Always,” your lieutenant promises.
When they pull away, you quickly gesture for John to come over. He humours you with a knowing smile, pulling you into his side when he gets close enough to. “Hey,” he whispers against the side of your head, pressing a kiss to the same spot.
“Hey yourself,” you say, patting his arm gently. “Come meet my newest.”
Lifeng buzzes on the spot, eager to meet your other half. He’s almost overloading with energy when John turns to him, offering a hand. “You just be Lifeng,” John says calmly, “it’s nice to meet you.”
Lifeng is utterly starstruck. “Holy shit,” he breathes, “it’s Captain John Price.”
“And who’s the better Captain Price?” you urge, just to make his life harder.
Lifeng’s eyes widen, and he flits his gaze between the two of you nervously. “Uh,” he splutters, giving you a look that is the opposite of grateful, “that’s a funny joke, Cap, that’s a real one—”
“Depends on the day,” James says, coming to his rescue. “Are we talking Barcelona or Yukon?”
John chuckles. You’re close enough to feel the vibrations of his chest, and you roll your eyes as you look over at him. “Not a word,” you warn him.
“At least he didn’t mention Manila,” your husband soothes.
“Manila?” Johnny raises his eyebrows. “What happened in Manila?”
“Nothing,” you say pointedly to the sergeant, “and that’s all that will be disclosed. Now, will we actually get down to business or will we keep talking about insignificant moments?”
John brushes his lips against your ear. “I don’t think it was insignificant. Remember the second night?” he murmurs lowly, and you step on his foot.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he grumbles, hissing in pain.
“We’re at work,” you tell him. “No funny business, Jonathan.”
“Yes, yes,” he sighs, but he doesn’t pull away, “whatever you say, love.”
Whilst James watches the two of you with amusement, Simon is more exasperated. He’s like a teenager annoyed at the sight of his parents messing around. “File,” he says, holding it up. “We should debrief before the two of you become unbearable.”
“You love us,” you tease, but accept the file. John reluctantly lets go of your waist, but he trails after you as if personal space doesn’t exist.
Simon sniffs, moving to lean against the wall, but he doesn’t deny your words. You move to the front of the room, John in tow, splaying out the file on the table and clicking on the projector. As you pull up the presentation, John quickly arranges all the intel on the table, making sure everything is ready by the time you turn back around to face the joint teams of Task Force 141 and Team Ichor.
Much like how you and John easily slip into business mode, your teams have as well. Some lean against the table to get a better look at whatever the objective is, whilst others stand further back to get a better look at the presentation. Either way, they easily move around each other as they take in the information.
Kyle and Lifeng make quick introductions, same with Johnny and Sarah. Simon and James stand beside each other against the wall, watching you and John carefully.
“Alright,” you say, and they all straighten to attention, “down to business. We’ll be heading up into the Canadian wilderness this time ‘round, so remember to pack warm.”
“This operation has a two-pronged approach,” John continues, “one for each team. We’ll walk through both so you know exactly what the other team is doing when, because that’s going to be very important.”
The two of you glance at each other, John nodding ever so slightly, and then launch into the debrief.
—
“It’s severe blood loss, she’s lost at least thirty percent. I need a transfusion!”
The job went like this. There were two locations, each one housing a point of contact for the cell of international terrorists you were tracking. At each location, they had someone they called a Bishop, who would hold the detonator to multiple destinations back home in England. The plan was you’d go catch Bishop North and Task Force 141 would catch Bishop South, hopefully getting them at the same time.
The problem was, of course, the fact that the detonators had to be disarmed at the exact same time, otherwise everything would go kaboom. Hence, the reason why your team was called out to go overseas despite mainly focusing in domestic terrorism.
“Someone get Razor in—blood type AB, age twenty-two—will somebody please fuckin’ listen?!”
The start had gone well. The initial scouting of the land, identifying flaws in the schematics that you had gotten and eyeing the security, it all went swimmingly. Your kids took turns on watch, taking the surveillance very seriously, but also trading quips across the line to the member of 141 on the same shift. Through surveillance, you discovered that your building was a little more complex, having a basement as well as two floors, but you had turned down John’s offer to swap.
“Next of kin! I need next of kin!”
A comparison of the two targets made it clear that the difficulties in each operation were different. In your designated target, there were more entrances and exits, making micro-managing a clear issue. You’d need to split up to cover all possible points. But 141’s building was closer to civilisation, making innocents a big problem.
John had offered for Simon to join your team, but you had pointed out that he needed someone on overwatch more than you did in case someone decided to run and head for the closest farm. Evacuation was out of the question too, because they’d notice, and they’d then get spooked.
So you all took your risks in stride, preparing as best as you can. You remember the last thing John had said to you before going dark, and you remember hearing its echoes when things went to shit.
I love you, he had murmured. It had been an open line, but everyone else pretended they didn’t hear in the pretense of privacy, and you said it back to him.
“You’re the what? Husband? Okay, okay—I need you to sign here—yes! It’s for surgery—please, oh, okay, yes, thank you, thank you, you can sit—right over there—”
You think that this isn’t the worst way to go. The detonators had been disarmed with your own bloody hands, thankfully, but having split up and cleared the building solo meant that you needed to find the rest of your team.
They had been in terrible condition. James had been shoot real ugly in the arm, right in his dominant. He could barely shoot straight, the only thing saving your life when you accidentally stumbled across him down in the basement.
The good thing was, he could walk. The bad thing was, Lifeng couldn’t.
You had found your youngest in the kitchen area, slumped against one of the cabinets, trying his hardest to staunch the bleeding. It took everythingfrom you and James to haul him out in the snow, trying to use the cold condensation to help stem the flow of blood.
Then you had trekked up to see how Sarah was faring. When you found her, she was surrounded by six corpses, throwing up a tired thumbs up as she leande heavily to one side. She couldn’t stop vomiting up blood, but you didn’t feel any more comforted when she stopped.
She had stopped breathing just before you had left. That had been six hours after the op, and nothing was heard from John’s side.
You needed to get help. That was the only thing that would save your team.
“She’s coming to. Where’s the husband? He should be here.”
Rationally, Sarah probably didn’t make it. And considering the state that Lifeng had been in when you started your trek, he probably didn’t make it either.
Irrationally, you hope that they did. You hope that you won’t have to look Sarah’s sister in the eye and tell her that her twin died, or show up to Lifeng’s parents’ and tell them their only baby was gone.
God, and they had been so young. What a fucking shitshow.
“Hey,” John says, clearing his throat. His voice still cracks. “How are you feeling?”
You keep your eyes shut, and pretend you’re still asleep. He grasps your hand, and sits with you. Eventually, you do actually fall asleep.
—
The day you and John first met was also the day you and Simon first met. Thinking back, it’s like one of those weird crossover moments when you didn’t realise that two very important events happened on the first day.
You had been an instructor, and John had come around for recruiting for the SAS. “Lieutenant Price,” he had introduced himself as.
“Viking?” you had replied, quirking an eyebrow.
He mirrors you. “Opera?”
“That’s me,” you had said, surprised, “didn’t know anyone still talked about me.”
“I don’t go by Viking anymore,” John had replies in equal amusement, “didn’t know anyone still talked about me. ”
“You’re famous,” you pointed out.
“So are you.”
And that’s how it goes. Little Simon Riley had just been a scrawny teenager at the time, but he had been the only one to be selected to enter the SAS. You had puzzled over Price’s decision, but he couldn’t have been more right.
Sometimes you still wonder what your life would’ve been like without them. John had given your life colour, but Simon had been the reason why you rejoined active forces. You remember hearing about Simon’s supposed death through acts of domestic terrorism, and having raised that boy yourself, you couldn’t let it go.
John had been solemn the night you signed the papers, and you thought he was going to break up with you. After all, it was a dangerous job.
Then he had proposed to you the day after. It had been a affair, closed ceremony, with just one witness each. Your mother came, and so did John’s. But someone else was at the ceremony that day, dressed in all black, a mask over his face.
You didn’t know that you could cry that much, honestly.
So that’s the story, you suppose. Nothing too climatic. You like it like that. Your job is far too dramatic for it’s own good, always coming up with twists and turns, so you like it when things at home are calm and peaceful.
And it is. You and John alternate cooking, and sometimes Simon comes over and forces you away from the dishes. Then it had been James, Sarah, then Kyle, then Johnny, and now Lifeng. He’s yet to come to one of your infamous dinner barbecues that John hosts.
He always complains that there’s too many people in the house when they come over. But he always stands by the barbecue, always serving more food than needed.
—
“You can’t sleep forever,” John whispers.
You’re tired, though. And he hasn’t said anything about your team, so many if you sleep a little longer, then he’ll be back with good news.
“You can’t leave me,” he says, even quieter.
You go back to reminiscing the old barbecues.
—
You finally wake when you don’t feel lightheaded at the mere sight of anything brighter than a dark shade of grey. John is still beside you, never moving, but Simon also sits in a chair in the corner of the room, slumped, almost as if he’s asleep.
You twitch your fingers. They’re in John’s grasp, and he rouses. “Love,” he says, still half-asleep.
“John,” you reply.
His eyes snap open. “Hey,” he says, much more awake, “it’s good to see you.”
“Time?” you rasp.
“A couple of days,” he replies. “How’re you feeling?”
“Team?”
John squeezes your hand. “They got James and Lifeng. Sarah…she went peacefully.”
You press your eyes shut. You can’t help the relief at knowing only one died, but then you feel revolted at the way you had actually felt positively about death.
“It’s okay,” John says. “You did well. We found you because you walked into the range of the GPS.”
“I want to sleep,” you whisper.
“It’s not a dream,” John murmurs, “and when you wake up, it’ll be the same. I’m sorry.”
“I know,” you say. “I know.”
“It’s okay.” John presses his lips to your hand. “You can sleep. I’ll be here when you’re up.”
“Simon?”
He turns his head to look at the man sitting justa few feet away. Now that you’re more alert, you can hear him snoring gently. “He’ll be here too,” John promises.
“G’night,” you whisper.
“Good night,” John says, and you sleep.