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1.
The early morning sun barely touched the horizon, casting a dim glow over the briefing room as Price sat at the head of the table. The usual bustle of the 141 was absent, the base eerily quiet after the grueling Urzikstan mission. His fingers drummed against the tactical reports scattered in front of him, but his focus was slipping. He felt it in the way his mind stuttered over the simplest of details, in the gnawing pain that radiated from his ribs, in the sharp ache behind his eyes.
It was nothing. He’d had worse. He could handle it.
But the mission had been harder than he’d anticipated. Close quarters combat. Multiple firefights. There’d been an explosion—he could still feel the aftershocks in his bones, could still hear the echo of gunfire ringing in his ears. He'd taken a hit, caught a piece of shrapnel that had torn through his tactical vest, but he hadn’t let himself stop to assess the damage. Not when the team needed him. He couldn’t afford to show weakness.
He’d been here before, after all. The lone wolf. The one who carried the weight of the mission, of the team, on his shoulders. It was how he'd survived all these years. Even when his body was screaming for rest, when every breath sent a sharp stab of pain through his chest, he pushed on. It was how he was built.
Price shifted in his chair, suppressing a grimace as the movement aggravated his bruised ribs. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. His body didn’t recover the way it had a decade ago. But admitting that—asking for help—felt like a betrayal. He was the Captain. He was supposed to lead by example. Be the one everyone could rely on.
The door creaked open, and the towering figure of Ghost filled the entryway. He moved silently, as he always did, his mask concealing everything but those sharp, unblinking eyes. Price didn’t look up as Ghost entered. He knew the Lieutenant would take a seat without a word, ready for the debrief.
Instead, Ghost stood there, arms crossed, watching him.
“Captain,” Ghost’s voice was low, steady. “You’re lookin’ like shit.”
Price grunted, not bothering to look up from the mission reports. “Nice to see you too, Simon.”
Ghost didn’t move. Didn’t speak again right away, but Price could feel his gaze burning into him, assessing. He hated it. Hated how Ghost could always see through him, no matter how hard he tried to bury everything under layers of duty and responsibility.
“You gonna sit down, or just stand there gawkin’?” Price muttered, flipping over a page of intel he wasn’t even reading.
Ghost took a slow, deliberate step forward, the scuff of his boots on the concrete floor the only sound in the room. “Didn’t think I needed to sit for this, seein’ as you’re in no condition to keep going.”
Price’s grip on the report tightened slightly, his jaw setting. He didn’t need this right now. Not from Ghost. Not from anyone.
“I’m fine,” Price said, his voice gruff but dismissive. “We’ve got another mission to plan. No time for downtime.”
Ghost didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pulled out the chair opposite Price, sitting down with a heavy thud. He leaned back, his posture casual but his eyes keen, still locked on Price. There was no mask of indifference between them, not when it came down to moments like these. They’d been through too much together.
“Been through worse, right?” Price added, as if to justify his stance.
Ghost tilted his head, the mask hiding any expression, but Price could feel the skepticism radiating off him. “That’s what you always say, Captain. But you’re not bloody invincible.”
There was a pause. Price had heard this before. From Gaz. From Soap. Even from Laswell on the odd occasion. But coming from Ghost, it hit different. Maybe because Ghost wasn’t just another soldier looking up to him. Ghost had been through the worst of it by his side. He’d seen Price at his strongest and at his weakest, though the latter was a side Price rarely let anyone see.
Price leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. His ribs screamed in protest, but he swallowed the pain. “I don’t have time to sit around. There’s too much at stake.”
Ghost didn’t break eye contact, his gaze sharp but measured. “There’s always too much at stake. But if you keep pushing like this, you’re gonna burn out. And then where does that leave us?”
Price hated that. Hated how Ghost could cut through his defenses so easily. Maybe it was because Ghost knew what it was like to carry too much. To be the one everyone looked to but never the one who could ask for help.
“Tell me somethin’, Simon,” Price said, trying to deflect, his voice quieter now. “How many times have you asked for help?”
Ghost’s eyes darkened beneath his mask, the only real indication of his mood. “Not the same thing, and you know it.”
Price gave a dry chuckle, though it came out more like a cough. “Doesn’t it feel wrong to rely on anyone else? Feels like I’m failin’.”
Ghost’s eyes softened—just a fraction, but it was there. “Doesn’t make you weak to need backup, John. Never has. You’ve saved our arses more times than I can count. You’ve done more than enough to prove yourself.”
Price looked away, staring at the reports on the table. For a moment, the silence stretched between them. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion wearing him down. It was everything. Every decision. Every life he held in his hands. And Ghost, of all people, understood that. He’d been there too.
But Ghost was still watching him. Still waiting for an opening, for the chance to help in a way Price would never ask for.
“You remember Madrid?” Ghost said suddenly, his voice quiet but steady.
Price’s stomach tightened. Of course, he remembered Madrid. A hellish op years ago, where Ghost had been pinned down by enemy fire, nearly lost in the chaos. Price had pulled him out, but not before getting wounded himself. He’d kept moving, kept fighting, despite the bullet lodged in his shoulder.
“I remember,” Price muttered.
“Yeah, you kept sayin’ you were fine then too. Didn’t stop till you damn near bled out.”
Price grimaced at the memory. “Wasn’t exactly the best time for a hospital visit.”
“No, but you didn’t give us the chance to help you then, either. You were too busy bein’ the hero.”
Price didn’t have a retort to that. The truth was, he’d always seen himself as the one who had to carry it all. Maybe it was because of how he’d been raised in the ranks, or maybe it was because he never trusted anyone else to bear the weight the way he could.
Ghost leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You don’t have to do that anymore. You’ve got us now. We can pick up the slack when you’re down.”
Price shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the pain in his ribs flaring again. But it wasn’t just that. It was the vulnerability. The admission that maybe—just maybe—he couldn’t do it all. That he wasn’t the unbreakable Captain the 141 looked to him to be.
But Ghost wasn’t letting up.
“Take the break, John,” Ghost said, his voice softer now, but resolute. “Gaz and Soap will handle the next steps. You get some rest.”
Price ran a hand over his beard, feeling the weariness settle deep in his bones. His instinct was to fight it, to push through like he always had. But this time, there was no point. Ghost wasn’t going to let him.
“You’re a stubborn bastard, you know that?” Price muttered, his voice tinged with resignation.
Ghost’s eyes crinkled slightly, the closest thing to a smile Price would get from him. “Aye. Takes one to know one.”
For a moment, Price hesitated. Then, slowly, he nodded, letting the tension slip from his shoulders. He hated to admit it, but Ghost was right. He wasn’t invincible. And for once, he let himself accept that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to be.
Ghost stood, watching him for a moment longer before turning toward the door. “Get some sleep, Captain. We’ve got this.”
Price watched him leave, feeling a strange sense of relief settle over him. Maybe it wasn’t so bad to let go, just for a while.
Just for a little while.
2.
The dim light of Price’s office cast long shadows across the stacks of papers scattered haphazardly on his desk. Reports. Endless reports. He could still smell the faint, lingering scent of gunpowder from their last op, but now he was knee-deep in paperwork, trying to untangle a bureaucratic mess. Somewhere along the line, critical files had gone missing—a clerical error, nothing major in the grand scheme of things—but it was enough to pile up hours of extra work that had kept him awake for days. Missing intel, misplaced logs… it was just busywork, but it had thrown a wrench in the smooth rhythm of the 141’s operations.
Price rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, exhaustion tugging at him. His head pounded, the dull ache that had been with him for days now becoming an almost constant companion. But there was no time to rest. The paperwork needed sorting, and then there was the next mission to prepare for. Sleep would have to wait.
A sharp knock on the doorframe startled him out of his haze.
“Cap’n,” Soap’s voice cut through the silence, far too chipper for this hour of the night. “You alive in there?”
Price didn’t look up from the report in front of him, but he could hear the grin in Soap’s voice. “What do you want, Soap?”
Soap strolled in, his footsteps heavy but deliberate, a playful swagger in his step. He stopped short of the desk, hands resting on his hips. “I’ve been sent on a rescue mission.”
Price raised an eyebrow but kept his gaze on the papers in front of him. “What are you on about?”
Soap smirked, leaning against the edge of Price’s desk. “Well, the lads’ve been wonderin’ if you’ve died in this bloody office of yours. Haven’t seen you in the mess hall for days.”
Price sighed, scribbling a quick note on one of the papers. “Got things to do, Soap. Files got lost somewhere between here and HQ. Need to get ‘em sorted.”
Soap cast a glance at the mountain of paperwork. “And by ‘sortin’ it,’ you mean you’ve been sittin’ here for what, three days straight? Surprised you haven’t turned into one of these bloody files yourself.”
Price gave a grunt of acknowledgment but didn’t respond. Soap had a point, but there was still too much to do. The longer he delayed, the more it set back their ops, and he wasn’t about to let some clerical error slow them down.
Soap, however, wasn’t about to let it slide that easily. He pulled out a chair, scraping it noisily across the floor as he sat down opposite Price, arms folded over his chest. His presence was a casual intrusion, one Price was all too familiar with.
“You know,” Soap said, a touch more serious now, though still with that grin of his, “there’s this magical thing called food. Makes you less cranky.”
“I’m not cranky,” Price muttered, still flipping through the reports.
Soap chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Aye, sure. You’re a ray of sunshine as always.”
Price’s pen stopped moving, but his eyes stayed on the paper. Soap wasn’t leaving, that much was clear. The tension in his shoulders told him that. He was waiting for something.
“You know, Cap,” Soap continued, “this paperwork isn’t goin’ anywhere. It’ll be here tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that if you keep on like this.”
Price finally looked up, his tired eyes meeting Soap’s. “I’ve got to catch up. I’ve already lost enough time.”
Soap’s expression softened, but the glint of mischief never left his eyes. “Oh, aye, I know. But you’ve lost sleep too. And if you keep goin’ like this, you’ll be no good to anyone on the next op.”
Price’s jaw tightened. “It’s just paperwork, John. Nothin’ I can’t handle.”
Soap shook his head, his grin never quite fading but his voice taking on a more serious tone. “It’s not just paperwork though, is it? You’ve barely slept. Skipped meals. You’re runnin’ yourself into the ground.”
Price exhaled slowly, irritation prickling at the edges of his mind. He didn’t want to admit Soap was right. He hadn’t slept properly in days, surviving on coffee and sheer willpower. But there was too much to do, too many tasks piling up.
“I’ll be fine,” Price muttered, though even he didn’t quite believe it.
Soap leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You know, it doesn’t have to be a bloody intervention, Cap. Just a meal. Nothin’ crazy. Have a bit of food, talk with the lads. Then you can come back to drown yourself in paperwork if you’re still up for it.”
Price’s lips twitched into a brief, almost imperceptible smirk, but the weight of exhaustion quickly pulled it down. Soap’s humor was relentless, and that’s what made him a good soldier, a good teammate. He could disarm even the most stubborn of men with that boyish grin of his.
“Don’t need babysitting,” Price said, voice gruff but lacking its usual bite.
“Good thing I’m not babysitting,” Soap replied, flashing a quick smile. “Just draggin’ your sorry arse to dinner. Like I said, nothin’ crazy. You’ll be back here in no time to finish off all this rubbish.”
Price stared at Soap for a long moment, his instinct to refuse battling with the tug of truth in the younger man’s words. It wasn’t the meal, or even the paperwork that was eating at him. It was the idea of stopping. The idea that he could let go, even for just a moment, felt… wrong. Like he was letting something slip through his fingers. He didn’t know how to explain that to Soap, or anyone, really. That constant pressure to keep everything together, even when it felt like the cracks were starting to show.
Soap must have seen the hesitation in Price’s eyes because he stood up, clapping his hands together. “Right then. I’ll make it easy for you. We can either do this the hard way or the easy way.”
Price raised an eyebrow. “The hard way?”
Soap’s grin widened. “Aye, the hard way is I drag you to the mess hall myself. And let’s be honest, neither of us are too old for a good scrap, but I’d rather not have to explain to Gaz why you’ve got a black eye.”
Price chuckled under his breath. The bastard was persistent. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to push through the lingering headache that had been pulsing at the edges of his consciousness for days. Maybe Soap was right. Maybe he did need a break, even if it was just a short one. Just long enough to eat. To breathe.
“Alright,” Price muttered, finally relenting. “But just dinner. And after that, I’m comin’ back here.”
Soap’s grin turned triumphant, like he’d just won some grand battle. “Deal. See? Was that so hard?”
Price grunted as he stood, feeling the stiffness in his joints from too many hours hunched over paperwork. Soap clapped him on the shoulder as they headed toward the door.
“Y’know, Cap, one meal won’t kill ya. Might even find you enjoyin’ yourself.”
Price shot him a sideways glance. “Don’t push it, lad.”
Soap just laughed, the sound light and easy, filling the otherwise empty hallway as they made their way toward the mess hall. For the first time in days, Price allowed himself to relax, if only just a little. He knew Soap had dragged him out of the office for more than just a meal. He knew what Soap was really doing.
But maybe that’s what Price needed—someone who wouldn’t push too hard, but who wouldn’t let him drown in his own stubbornness either.
As they entered the mess hall, Soap gave him a sly smile. “Look at that, Cap. You survived leavin’ the office for five minutes. Small miracles, eh?”
Price shook his head, feeling the tension in his chest ease just a fraction. “You’re a pain in the arse, you know that?”
Soap’s grin didn’t falter. “Aye, but I’m your pain in the arse.”
Price allowed himself a small smile, the weight on his shoulders feeling just a little lighter for the moment.
3.
The sharp crack of gunfire echoed through the abandoned industrial complex as Price pressed his back against the crumbling concrete wall, taking a moment to assess their situation. The mission had gone sideways—intel had been off, the enemy had doubled in strength, and now they were caught in a firefight they hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t anything new, not for the 141, but today it was taking a toll.
Price's breath came in shallow bursts, each inhale sending a sharp, stabbing pain through his chest. He’d been hit, somewhere in the chaos. He wasn’t entirely sure when—maybe when they’d stormed the first building, or when they were covering Soap’s advance across the courtyard. Either way, a bullet had grazed his side, and the force of an earlier explosion had slammed him hard against a wall, jarring his ribs. He could feel it now—bruised, maybe worse—but there was no time to stop and check. They were too deep in enemy territory, and they still had to extract their target.
Next to him, Gaz crouched low, peering around the corner with the careful precision of someone who’d done this dance a thousand times. His breathing was controlled, steady, his rifle at the ready. Price glanced at him, the two exchanging a silent look that spoke volumes. Over the years, they’d developed a rhythm, an unspoken language that only came from countless missions together. Gaz could read Price’s movements as easily as Price could read his, and in a hot zone like this, that was invaluable.
Still, even with their silent communication, Gaz noticed something was off.
Price was favoring his right side, his movements just a hair slower than usual, and his breathing—shallow, too shallow for someone of his experience. Gaz narrowed his eyes, watching Price for a second longer than necessary, and then he saw it. The way Price winced, just barely, as he shifted his weight.
“Cap?” Gaz’s voice was quiet but filled with concern.
Price didn’t look at him directly, keeping his focus on the next target. “Keep your eyes on the prize, Sergeant.”
But Gaz wasn’t letting it go. “You’ve been hit.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Price’s jaw tightened, but he gave no reply.
Gaz lowered his rifle just slightly, still keeping his posture tight and ready for action. “Where?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Price muttered, his voice low and controlled, though the pain was beginning to seep into his words. “We’ve got a job to finish.”
The gunfire had slowed to sporadic bursts, and the comms crackled with Soap’s voice, confirming that the enemy was pulling back. They had a window, but Price wasn’t moving as quickly as he should have been.
Gaz, still crouched next to him, wasn’t having any of it. “Doesn’t matter? You can barely breathe.”
Price shot him a sharp look. “I’m fine.”
It was the same line Price always gave. The same line he’d given every time he’d taken a hit or pushed himself too far. Gaz had heard it enough times to know it wasn’t true. And now, with the end of the mission in sight, he wasn’t about to let Price carry on like this.
“Look,” Gaz said, keeping his voice steady, “I’ve seen you pull us out of worse situations than this. But if you keep going like this, you’re gonna slow us down. You’ve done enough. Let me take over.”
Price clenched his teeth, the pain in his side flaring up again. “I don’t need you to take over, Sergeant. Stay in your lane.”
Gaz didn’t flinch. Price’s tone was harsh, but Gaz knew it wasn’t personal. It was instinct. Price had always been like this—unwilling to let anyone else shoulder the burden, especially not his men. But Gaz also knew there was something deeper to it, something Price never talked about but carried with him like a shadow.
Years ago, before Gaz had joined the 141, there’d been an op that haunted Price. A mission gone wrong, one where he’d trusted another officer to handle the extraction. Price had pulled back, letting someone else take control, and it had ended in disaster. Half the team had been killed, and Price had blamed himself ever since. It was one of the reasons why he rarely let anyone else take the lead, why he was always the last man standing, always the one carrying the weight of the mission on his shoulders.
Gaz knew this wasn’t just about the mission at hand. This was about control. Price couldn’t let it go—not after everything he’d been through.
But Gaz wasn’t that officer. And this wasn’t that mission.
“Cap,” Gaz said, his tone softer now, but firm. “I know why you don’t want to stop. But this isn’t then. You don’t have to do this alone.”
Price’s eyes flickered with something—maybe surprise, maybe frustration—but he didn’t respond. Gaz took a breath, knowing he had to push just a little harder.
“I’ve learned from the best,” Gaz continued, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve taught me everything I know. Trust me. Let me handle this.”
Price stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The gunfire had ceased completely now, the silence in the air almost deafening. But even in this brief lull, the weight of the decision pressed down on him. He wasn’t good at this—letting someone else take over. He’d spent too many years being the one in control, the one making the calls.
But Gaz wasn’t like the others. He was steady, reliable. He’d proven himself time and time again. Price knew he could trust him. Knew that, deep down. But trusting someone with his life, and more importantly, with the lives of his men, was something he never did lightly.
“Let me do this for you,” Gaz said quietly. “Just this once.”
Price inhaled sharply, the pain in his ribs flaring up again, reminding him of the reality of the situation. He was no good to them like this. Not in the long run. His mind raced through the possibilities, the risks, the cost of letting go, even for a moment.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Price gave a small, reluctant nod. “Fine. But we do this quick.”
Gaz didn’t let the moment linger. He knew better than to make a big deal out of it. He simply gave a firm nod, his respect for Price clear in his actions. This wasn’t about taking control from him—it was about helping him carry the weight, even if just for a short while.
“I’ve got point,” Gaz said, rising from his crouch and signaling to the rest of the team over the comms. “Soap, we’re movin’ in. Stay sharp.”
Price pushed himself off the wall, gritting his teeth against the pain that shot through his side. He wasn’t used to this—letting someone else lead—but for now, he’d follow. He trusted Gaz more than anyone, and if there was anyone who could handle the heat, it was him.
As they moved through the abandoned complex, Price kept his focus sharp, but the weight in his chest lightened slightly. He still felt the pull to take control, to put himself back in the driver’s seat, but there was a quiet reassurance in knowing that Gaz had his back. They moved in sync, clearing rooms, taking down stragglers, and Gaz’s precision and calm under pressure reminded Price why he’d taken him under his wing in the first place.
Gaz wasn’t just a soldier. He was someone Price could trust, even when trusting didn’t come easy.
By the time they reached the extraction point, the mission had been completed without a hitch. The team regrouped, and as Soap signaled the all-clear, Price allowed himself a moment to breathe. The pain was still there, sharp and insistent, but the burden of the mission felt lighter now. Not because it was over, but because, for once, he hadn’t carried it alone.
As they waited for the chopper, Gaz glanced at him, the respect clear in his eyes. “You alright, Cap?”
Price gave a short nod. “I’ll live.”
Gaz smirked. “Figured. But maybe next time, you let me take point a little sooner, yeah?”
Price huffed out a small laugh, though it was laced with pain. “Don’t push your luck, Gaz.”
Gaz chuckled, but there was a deeper understanding between them now, one that didn’t need words. Price trusted Gaz, and Gaz had earned that trust—not just today, but in every mission they’d survived together.
As the chopper touched down and they climbed aboard, Price felt the tension in his chest ease just a bit more. He wasn’t alone in this. Not with Gaz by his side.
4.
Price sat at his desk, staring at the newest stack of files that had been dropped off earlier in the day. After the last few days of intense firefights and rough nights, he had been bracing himself for the usual mountain of after-action reports, intel summaries, and debrief forms that came with being the leader of Task Force 141.
But when he sifted through the pile, something was… off.
These weren’t his usual assignments. Most of the paperwork he typically handled—mission debriefings, tactical reviews—wasn’t here. Instead, it seemed that Gaz, Soap, and even Ghost had been given those tasks. Small, manageable jobs that had always fallen on him before now were suddenly distributed among his team.
He frowned. This wasn’t an accident.
Pulling out his phone, he shot a message to Laswell, who had no doubt signed off on the assignments. He didn’t mince words.
“Laswell, got time?”
A few minutes later, his phone buzzed.
“Always. What’s up?”
Price didn’t bother with a preamble when he called. "You’ve been reassigning my paperwork."
There was a brief pause, just enough to tell him she’d expected the question.
"I redistributed some of the load," Laswell replied, her tone as smooth and professional as ever. "Seemed like the right call."
Price leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the edge of the desk. “I usually handle the mission reports. The debriefs, the intel reviews. That’s always been mine.”
Laswell didn’t miss a beat. “And now they’re not. The others can manage it just fine.”
There was something unspoken in her words, a subtle edge of finality that Price couldn’t ignore. He knew Laswell well enough to recognize when she was making a point, even if she wasn’t saying it outright.
“You’re worried,” Price said, though his voice was more contemplative than accusatory.
“I’m not worried, John,” she replied evenly. “I’m making sure you don’t burn yourself out. There’s a difference.”
Price clenched his jaw, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk. He wasn’t used to this—having someone else subtly taking the burden off his shoulders without asking. He’d carried the weight of leadership for so long that the idea of someone else sharing it felt… strange. Unsettling, even.
He could hear Laswell’s calm breathing on the other end of the line, the slight shift in her tone as she prepared to wrap up the conversation.
“They’re capable,” she said, cutting through his thoughts. “You trained them yourself. Let them do their part.”
Price’s instinct was to push back, to take the responsibility that had always been his. But this was Laswell. She wasn’t just some desk officer throwing paperwork around. She knew the stakes, knew him. And she’d already made the call.
He took a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little.
“You could’ve said something,” he muttered.
Laswell gave a small, dry laugh. “And you would’ve argued.”
Price didn’t have a rebuttal for that. He knew she was right.
“John,” she said after a brief pause, her voice softening, “this isn’t a battle. You’re allowed to take a step back now and then.”
Price stared at the files in front of him, feeling the weight of her words settle in. He knew she was right. Still, he wasn’t used to it—letting someone else take the load, even if it was just a small piece of it.
“I’ll let you get back to it,” Laswell said, her tone professional once again. “But trust me on this. The 141 can handle it. So can you.”
The line went dead before Price could respond. He set his phone down on the desk and stared at the redistributed paperwork. He could still feel the need to dig in, to take it all on himself, but this was Laswell’s way of reminding him—without saying it directly—that he didn’t have to carry everything all the time.
A subtle gesture. But one that Price knew was done with purpose.
5.
The night was heavy, with only the dim light from a desk lamp cutting through the darkness in Price's quarters. The walls, usually lined with order and precision, felt too close, suffocating, as if the weight of everything he’d been holding back had finally become too much.
Price sat slouched at his desk, hands gripping the edge as he stared blankly at the half-finished reports scattered in front of him. He hadn’t touched them in hours. His mind kept drifting, pulled into a whirlpool of memories—missions gone wrong, lives lost under his command, the relentless pressure of always being the one everyone depended on. His breath was shallow, his chest tight, and he could feel the prickle of tears in his eyes, a feeling he fought hard to suppress.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t break. Not like this. Not here. But tonight, it felt too close—too raw.
He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to will the emotions away, but the more he pushed them down, the harder they fought back.
And then he heard the door open, soft footsteps entering the room, familiar and steady. Nik.
Price tensed, quickly sitting up straighter, forcing himself to blink away the moisture in his eyes. He didn’t want Nik to see him like this—weak, overwhelmed, barely holding on. Not after everything. Not after the years they’d been together.
“John?” Nik’s voice was soft, filled with concern.
Price didn’t turn around, keeping his back to Nik as he stared at the reports, trying to force his breathing to steady. “I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice low and rough.
Nik wasn’t convinced. He never was when Price said those words.
Without another word, Nik crossed the room, moving with the quiet grace that had always unnerved Price in the field. He knew Price too well, could read him like a map, even when Price was desperately trying to keep everything hidden. When Nik reached him, he rested a hand gently on Price’s shoulder, the warmth of his touch both grounding and unbearable at the same time.
“You are not fine, moya lyubov,” Nik said quietly, his accent thicker, voice tender.
Price swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the edge of the desk. “I said I’m fine.”
Nik stepped closer, kneeling beside Price’s chair, his hand still resting on his shoulder. “Look at me, John.”
Price didn’t move. He couldn’t. If he looked at Nik, if he let even a fraction of what he was feeling show, he knew the dam would break. And he couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not ever.
“John,” Nik said again, more firmly this time, but still with that unshakable patience. “Look at me.”
Slowly, Price turned his head, just enough to meet Nik’s eyes. His face was a mask of control, but his eyes—those betraying, traitorous eyes—were glistening, the pain he was trying so hard to hide visible just beneath the surface.
Nik’s gaze softened. He didn’t say anything at first, just studied Price with a look that was full of understanding and love, the kind of love that Price didn’t know what to do with sometimes. It was too much. Too close.
“I don’t…” Price’s voice broke, just a little, and he immediately hated himself for it. He clenched his jaw, turning his head back to the desk, his breathing shallow again. “I don’t need this.”
Nik didn’t let go. “You do not need what? Me?”
Price closed his eyes, biting back the wave of emotion that was clawing its way up his throat. “Help,” he finally ground out. “I don’t need help.”
Nik sighed softly, but there was no frustration in it—just quiet understanding. “You are doing it again, John.”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to carry the world on your back. Alone.”
Price’s shoulders tensed. He couldn’t help it. It was instinct. He’d been doing it for years, ever since he was young, ever since the military had trained him to be strong, to take command, to be the one people relied on. He wasn’t meant to falter. He wasn’t meant to show weakness.
“I’m used to it,” Price muttered, his voice a little harder now, as if he could convince Nik, and maybe himself, of that truth. “I’ve been doing it for years.”
“I know,” Nik said softly, his hand still steady on Price’s shoulder. “But you do not have to anymore. Not like this.”
Price shook his head, still not turning to face Nik fully. “It’s my job, Nik. I’m the Captain. They depend on me.”
Nik was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost like he was talking to the man beneath the title, not the Captain of Task Force 141. “Do you think they do not know that? Do you think they do not see how much you give? They would do anything for you, John. And they have.”
Price’s throat tightened, and the memories from the past few days flashed through his mind—Ghost stepping in to clean up after a mission gone wrong, Soap dragging him away from paperwork to force him into a meal, Gaz taking point when Price was too injured to keep up. And Laswell… she’d seen it too. They all had.
“They have been helping you this whole time,” Nik continued gently, his thumb brushing lightly against Price’s shoulder. “Even if you did not ask.”
“I didn’t want them to,” Price whispered, voice breaking again. His chest felt like it was being squeezed in a vice, the pressure unbearable.
“Why?” Nik asked softly. “Because you think it makes you weak?”
Price didn’t answer at first, his hands curling into fists on the desk. He hated this—this feeling of being exposed, vulnerable. He was supposed to be stronger than this. But the truth, the raw and ugly truth, was that he did feel weak. Every time someone helped him, every time someone took a piece of the burden off his shoulders, it felt like a failure. Like he wasn’t doing enough. Like he wasn’t enough.
“I grew up watching people who couldn’t handle the weight,” Price muttered, his voice low and hoarse. “My dad… he wasn’t strong. He let everything break him. I swore I wouldn’t be like that.”
Nik listened, his hand never leaving Price’s shoulder, his presence calm and steady, a rock in the storm of Price’s emotions.
“I joined the military to escape that,” Price continued, his voice tight. “To be something more. To be the one who could handle it all. And I have. I’ve carried the weight, and I’ve done it without needing anyone. Because that’s what I’m supposed to do.”
Nik’s hand moved from Price’s shoulder to his cheek, gently guiding him to look at him again. There were tears now, just barely clinging to Price’s lashes, but Nik didn’t push him. He just held him there, looking into his eyes.
“You have been strong your whole life, John,” Nik said softly. “But strength is not about doing it alone. It is about knowing when to let others help. You are not weak for needing them. They want to help you because they love you. Because I love you.”
Price closed his eyes, a tear finally slipping down his cheek despite his efforts to hold it in. He felt like a dam had cracked open, the weight of everything—years of pressure, of carrying the responsibility, of trying to be unbreakable—was suddenly too much. But instead of feeling crushed by it, Nik’s presence, his love, made it feel just a little lighter.
“It is okay to ask, John,” Nik whispered, his thumb brushing away the tear. “It is okay to want help. You are not less because of it. You are not alone in this.”
Price let out a shaky breath, his hands unclenching, his body finally relaxing, though the emotions still clung to him, raw and overwhelming. But Nik was there, pulling him into a soft, reassuring embrace, his arms wrapping around him like a shield from the storm.
For the first time in a long time, Price allowed himself to lean into the comfort, into the warmth of someone else’s strength. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Nik held him quietly, knowing that words weren’t necessary right now. Just being there was enough.
As Price rested his forehead against Nik’s shoulder, he realised—maybe for the first time—that asking for help wasn’t a weakness. It was survival. And maybe, just maybe, it was what he needed all along.
+1
The night was quiet, almost oppressively so, with only the faint hum of the base’s generators outside. In Price's quarters, the usual neat order of his life seemed to have unraveled—papers strewn across the desk, a half-drunk cup of cold tea, and the dim glow of the desk lamp that did little to pierce the darkness pressing in. Price sat in the middle of it, staring down at the reports in front of him, but not seeing them. His hands gripped the edges of the desk, knuckles white, trying to anchor himself to something solid. His chest felt tight, suffocating, as if all the weight he carried had finally caught up to him.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
He let out a slow, uneven breath, rubbing his hands over his face. His fingers brushed over the lines of his skin—lines that had deepened with every mission, every loss, every moment where he had to be the strong one. The one in charge. The Captain. But tonight, it was all too close. Too heavy. Memories swirled in his mind—faces, voices, mistakes. Ghost’s wordless nods, Soap’s laughter when things got too serious, Gaz’s quiet, ever-reliable presence. They were always there, reminding him what he fought for, what he had to protect. But it was also a reminder of the burden he carried. He couldn’t let them down.
His throat tightened, and he could feel it—tears, barely held back. He hadn’t cried in… God, he couldn’t even remember the last time. He wasn’t allowed to. Crying meant breaking, and breaking wasn’t an option for him.
The sound of the door creaking open broke through his thoughts, and his body tensed instinctively. He didn’t need to turn around to know who it was—Nik. Nik always knew when something was wrong, always knew when Price was struggling, even if Price never admitted it.
“John?” Nik’s voice was soft, careful. But there was no hiding the concern woven into it. There was a warmth in it, too—one that had always made Price feel a little less alone. But tonight, that warmth felt unbearable.
Price clenched his jaw, staring harder at the reports in front of him, trying to gather himself, to bury everything deeper before Nik could see. “I’m fine,” he muttered, his voice low and rough.
It was a lie. And they both knew it.
Nik closed the door softly behind him, his footsteps quiet but steady as he crossed the room. Price felt the familiar presence beside him, the heat of Nik’s body so close to his. Normally, it brought him comfort—Nik always had—but tonight, it felt like too much. He didn’t want Nik to see him like this. Not when he was so close to breaking. He forced his shoulders back, sitting up straighter, willing his emotions to disappear.
Nik didn’t buy it. He never did. He was too perceptive, too damn good at reading between the lines of Price’s silence. He didn’t say anything as he rested a hand gently on Price’s shoulder, his thumb brushing the back of Price’s neck—a touch that was grounding and terrifying all at once.
“John,” Nik’s voice was soft, almost pleading. “Talk to me.”
“I said I’m fine.” Price’s words came out harsher than he intended, and he immediately regretted it. But he couldn’t afford to let this spill over. Not with Nik here. Not with everything.
Nik didn’t move, his hand still resting on Price’s shoulder. He shifted closer, his presence unmistakably intimate. “You do not have to do this alone, lyubov,” Nik murmured, his voice gentler now, using the Russian term of affection he only ever whispered when they were alone.
Price swallowed hard, his throat tight. He kept his eyes forward, staring at the papers as if they held the answers to the storm inside him. “It’s my job,” he ground out. “I’m the Captain. They depend on me.”
Nik knelt down beside him, his knees brushing Price’s, forcing him to look his way. “And I depend on you. We all do,” Nik’s voice was calm but firm, his thumb stroking soothing circles into the back of Price’s neck. “But even captains have people they can lean on. And you? You have got me. You have always had me.”
Price tensed at those words. He hated how much he needed them. “I don’t know how to lean on anyone,” he admitted, voice rough with frustration. “Not Ghost, not Soap, not Gaz. They shouldn’t have to—”
Nik interrupted him, a rare thing for him to do, but his tone was resolute. “You think Ghost does not notice when you are pushing too hard? Or that Soap has not already figured out when you need a break, even if you do not say it? He jokes about it, sure, but only because he is trying to give you a reason to stop for just a moment.”
Price flinched slightly at that, memories flashing through his mind—Soap’s endless banter and the way Ghost would linger silently when he thought Price was shouldering too much. Gaz quietly offering to take on more responsibility when Price seemed weighed down, never asking questions, just knowing. They had all seen it, even when he tried to hide it.
“They don’t need to,” Price said, his voice quieter now, but the tension still clung to every word. “I don’t want them to.”
Nik sighed softly, his fingers brushing through Price’s hair now, something he’d done before, on those rare nights when they could just be. “It is not about what you want. It is about what they want to give. Ghost—he would rather shoulder the weight with you than watch you burn out. Soap? He makes you laugh because he loves you, John, because he knows it is the only thing keeping you from going too far. Gaz watches you like a hawk because he worships you. They care because they are family, yes, But I care because I love you.”
Price’s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightening as Nik’s words washed over him. Love. It was the one thing Nik had always given him without hesitation. But it terrified Price more than any battlefield ever could.
“I didn’t ask for their help,” Price muttered, the words heavy, but even as he said them, he knew it didn’t matter.
Nik’s hand moved from Price’s shoulder to cup his face, gently turning him so their foreheads touched. “You did not have to. They have been with you through everything, John. They have seen what you have been through, the weight you carry. You do not give them enough credit for how much they have taken on—because they love you. I love you.”
Price let out a shaky breath, the closeness of Nik overwhelming but so needed in this moment. His lips brushed against Nik’s, soft and hesitant, a touch seeking reassurance more than passion. Nik returned the kiss with the same tenderness, a silent promise that he was there. Always.
Price shook his head, a small, broken sound escaping him. “They shouldn’t have to.”
Nik’s thumb brushed away a tear that slipped down Price’s cheek. “But they want to, lyubov. Ghost, Soap, Gaz—they have already shown you, over and over. And me? You know I would carry this weight with you every day, every mission, for the rest of my life if I could.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his lips barely brushing Price’s as he spoke. “Let me help you.”
Price’s jaw tightened, but he couldn’t hold back the wave of emotion anymore. His vision blurred, and before he could stop it, more tears slipped down his cheeks. He cursed himself under his breath, trying to pull it together, but Nik’s presence made it impossible to hide.
“They depend on me,” Price said again, his voice breaking. “I can’t fail them.”
Nik’s hands framed Price’s face, his voice tender but firm. “And you have not. You have been everything they needed and more. But they would give anything for you too, John. They already have. Look at them. Soap, Ghost, Gaz… They love you like family because you are family. They are your boys, and they have been taking care of you, even when you do not see it.”
Price squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of Nik’s words pressing into him. He felt the tears now, more of them slipping down his face, and for the first time in years, he didn’t fight them. He couldn’t.
“I don’t know how to let go,” Price admitted, his voice hoarse and ragged. “I don’t know how to stop being the one in charge.”
Nik pulled him closer, pressing his forehead against Price’s, their lips brushing again as Nik whispered, “You do not have to stop, John. But you do not have to do it alone either. That is what family is for. That is what I am here for. To help you carry the weight, not to take it from you, but to hold you up when it is too much.”
Price let out a shaky breath, his body relaxing slightly as Nik’s words sank in. For the first time, he allowed himself to lean into Nik’s embrace, letting his guard down, if only for a moment. Nik’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, and Price finally let the tears fall freely.
“I have you,” Nik whispered, his voice filled with love. “I will always have you.”
And for the first time in a long time, Price believed it.