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Price was retired.
After killing Makarov, he was welcomed back as a hero, an SAS legend. But he didn't feel like a legend. As soon as he was brought home, he immediately called MacMillan to find where his fallen brothers were buried.
It never seemed fair to him that he was celebrated, treated like a God amongst men just because he survived, just because he killed a terrorist. He'd only gotten there with the help of his comrades, but no one besides MacMillan wanted to hear it, to understand that it wasn't just a solo effort. If no one wanted to honor their sacrifices, then he would.
He spent two months traveling around, going to various cities to visit their graves, starting first in the states with Griggs, then Sandman, Grinch, and Truck's graves. After paying his respects, he made a special trip to Russia, using Nikolai to get in and visit Yuri and the fallen Russian Reistance fighters.
Then, heading back to his home briefly to give Gaz his due respect. It made his heart harden to see that his grave wasn't being taken care of. Gaz never mentioned his family, so Price was a little doubtful that the bastards didn't care to take care of the grave, but he did. Before leaving, he paid a company to clean his grave, and left fresh flowers on top; some green flowers since Price remembered that was his favorite color.
Then finally, Scotland. Price cared deeply for everyone he fought with, but Soap, he was different entirely.
It warmed his heart to his grave taken care of, flowers from loved ones adorned the dirt, making him wish he'd thought to grab something before coming, but at least he was here. His hardened heart softened slightly knowing that when Soap was home, the few times he was actually home, he was loved as he was by his brothers in arms.
Getting home once more made him feel even more empty. His house never felt like a home, as a captain, he was hardly home anyways, always too busy, but when he was forced to go on leave, he was everywhere but his 'home.'
He throws his keys carelessly onto a nearby table, slowly walking through the almost unfamiliar hall. His body was poised with tension, as if he expected some terrorist to pop out from somewhere and try to kill him; he tried writing off the feeling as just paranoia from fighting for so long, or perhaps just ptsd from having to constantly look over his shoulder on the battlefield.
Price made his way to his tiny study upstairs, his usual spot when he finally came home. He opened the door, plopping down into his old wooden chair; the old chair felt familiar, probably the only thing in the house that could make him feel that way.
His fingers reached out with practiced ease to turn on the desk light, the light coloring his face. Price eyed his desk, there was a few papers, a couple books, a probably years old pack of cigarettes collecting dust in the corner.
His eyes settle on a picture taped to his desk. It was an old picture of himself and Soap, from when he was just a Sergeant. Even years later, Price can remember when the picture was taken, it was shot in the helicopter right after they saved Nikolai.
His fingers trailed the old photograph, his lips perking up slightly. Soap had always been a good soldier, even if Price constantly busted his chops at the beginning.
Then, something else caught his eye. A card partly hidden by a book. He pulled it out slowly, looking at the card. It had a cartoon bear on the front with a grumpy expression; Soap and Gaz had always teased that he acted like a grumpy bear.
He opened the card, instantly noticing Soap's hand writing. It strangely made his heart tighten.
"Happy birthday, Captain. You've always been the man I look up to, life would be worse without you. Hope it's a good day, old man. Signed, Sgt MacTavish."
Price huffed at the old man comment, but the rest of the card came from the man's heart. Soap knew he wasn't one for getting too emotional, so that is most certainly why he added that part, and Price appreciated it. The card just made him miss the other man more.
He leaned his head down, one hand covering his mouth, the other one clutching the time worn card. A broken sigh broke through his lips despite himself. He needed a drink. He stood, unconsciously carrying the card with him.
Once he made it to the kitchen, he immediately grabbed a bottle of whiskey, ripping it open and taking a long sip. He slammed the bottle down with a little more force than necessary, his fingers curling around the neck of the bottle.
A almost quiet crinkle brought him out of his drinking. He looked down, seeing the card half way folded into his fist. Price huffed, umcleching the card and setting it down a lot lighter than he did the bottle. He took another sig, then went to work to straighten out the card, his fingers attempting to smooth out the slight folding his grip caused.
The attempt is mostly successful, the card was mostly back to how Price found it, and that was perhaps as good as he could get it. He grunts to himself, taking a longer swig. He couldn't understand why the card mattered so much to him, it was a tiny piece of cardboard, but it was also something Soap got him, he reminded himself, which made it priceless.
The bottle was half empty and Price didn't feel any better, the memories of Soap didn't hurt any less. In the back of his mind, he knew he couldn't drown his feelings and thoughts in alcohol, but right now, he couldn't bring himself to care. But a part of himself knew this wasn't him; he was strong, a captain for fucks sake, he was better than this, but the thought was quickly drowned out by another, longer, sip of whiskey.
"I'm sorry, Johnny." The name rarely left his lips, but he couldn't help himself. Especially in the beginning of his career, Soap had looked up to him, even when he had become a captain himself. He always felt the respect from the man over the years, which made it hurt more now. It made him feel like he was failing himself, and more importantly, Soap.
Sleep. He needed sleep, he suddenly decided. Sleeping waa better than drinking; any nightmares would be better than continuing to self-destructing himself. He capped the bottle, then throws it in the trash. His eyes linger on the card once more, his lips pursing.
"Rest easy, Captain." He says softly. His fingers going over the old ink in the card before promptly turning on his heel towards his bed.