Sleeping Dogs
Chapter Five

Soap stands awkwardly in the doorway, not entirely sure if he's dead or dreaming. Either options were both equally likely at this point, though he'd hoped that if he was really kicking the bucket, there'd have been a little more fanfare. Something that at least said he'd been there, existed, and that even though he'd lost, he'd still fought, tooth and nail until his last ragged breath.

Because shite, while he wasn't looking for something as prolific as exiting the stage to a tune from The Edinburgh Military Tattoo, the thought of slipping away in his sleep left a bitter taste in his mouth.

And if this was all he had to look forward to after following God's white light…

The pub he's in is smaller than the average, targeted more towards hard drinkers and solitude than social outings. There's four walls of wooden panelling and the odd lick of white paint, with a central bar surrounded by stools that were more metal than leather. Stepping further into the place, his bare feet scuffing against swept floorboards, Soap is hit with a sense of Deja vu.

He's been through a couple of rough patches in his life. The kind where whisky has been the answer. Bitter and dulling the pain just enough to make it bearable. But even so, he's never fancied liquor to the point where it's controlled him as much as those poor bastards downing it like candy, and he's never had so many rough patches that he's needed it as a lifeline. But he has, once or twice, followed mates into some of the shadier establishments, and this place happened to look a lot like the Red Lion in Leicester.

Which is strange, because the last time Soap had been awake - and if this is a dream and he does wake up, he's going to bloody well deck Price hard enough that the old man sees stars, the sodding prick - he hadn't been in England. In fact, he'd been so far from England that he was sure he'd only ever see it again in a casket. And that was on the off chance that he didn't end up in an unmarked, shallow grave first.

Considering that a majority of the world is still baying for his blood, Soap doesn't expect that said chance was anything more than a pipe dream.

Disoriented and more than a little confused, now, Soap turns towards the closest patron he can find - a middle-aged bloke with a mullet - and asks his burning question. 'Oi, you. Where am I?'

In front of him, the man - sat at a tiny corner table - slowly looks up from his pint of beer. Bloodshot eyes are framed by a sagging face, and they seem to narrow as they take Soap in. '… Fuck off.'

Apparantly heaven, or his subconscious, had its fair share of wankers.

Frowning with mild annoyance and an air of disappointment - an expression that had never failed to guilt even Riley - Soap moves on.

Next stop is the barkeep. From a young age, his father had always told him that if he ever found himself in trouble, to look for the closest authority figure. In here, Soap figured that the staff were probably the highest level of authority he was going to get.

Crossing the room, Soap leans on the hardwood counter and raps it with his knuckles, demanding the attention of the young man working behind it. As their gazes meet, Soap feels an electric shock spike through him - mouth opening but failing to make sounds. The bartender pauses in wiping down a shot glass, eyebrow arching sardonically. 'Can I help you?'

The voice is sharply accented, nasal, and carries zero recognition. Like the man isn't aware that several weeks ago, Soap had plunged a knife into his throat and listened, callously, as he'd choked and gurgled on his own blood,

'I, uh…' Soap swallows thickly, fingers reaching up to brush against his rosary. The cold silver is reassuring, though does little to help him comprehend what's going on. 'Can you tell me where we are, mate?'

'Leicester, England.'

Soap blinks at him. 'You're American.'

The dead man gives him a flat look. 'And you're Scottish, buddy.'

'I… aye,' Soap feels his brows draw together, irritation momentarily winning out over the toxic swirl of emotions in his gut. 'I meant what are you doing here, lad.'

'Working.'

The beginnings of a scowl tug at the edges of Soap's calm. 'Pull the other one. You can't be here.'

'I'm sorry?' The Shadow Company soldier finishes up and crosses his arms, unimpressed. 'Do you have something against us yanks?'

If it's his own mind making up this bloody bollocks… Soap knows he's falling down the rabbit hole, but he can't seem to pull himself up short. 'You're supposed to be dead.'

'Right.' There's a sharp, staccato laugh of disbelief from the dead man. He flicks the towel over his shoulder and shakes his head. 'Look… I'm going to have to cut you off, man.'

'I haven't been drinking,' Soap growls, defensive, his body starting to tense. It would have been intimidating, if he didn't look like he'd just crawled out of a coffin himself. 'I killed you.'

Both of the dead man's eyebrows shoot up now, though his expression reads as more 'I can't believe this muppet' as opposed to anything like astonishment. Which is, Soap realises with a grimace, probably what he should have expected. '… I'm not going to take that as a threat, but if you don't cool it, I'm going to have to get security to escort you out, alright?'

'Mate-'

'Final warning, man.'

Soap's hands become fists on the counter, the hardened, steely expression on his face suggesting that he was very far from letting this go. He has half a mind to vault the bar and give this apparition a good shake – some part of him wanting to know if his arm would go right through the soldier, or hit something solid, warm and living.

Evidently picking up on his intentions, the soldier behind the bar side-steps, tracking Soap, his arm disappearing beneath the counter top. Reaching for what Soap presumes is a silent alarm. Looks like he's about to be put on a timer.

Couldn't he have a bloody minute to think?

'Oi-'

Soap's indignation is cut off as a hand clamps down on his shoulder, firm and heavy - the accompanying voice so familiar in his ear that his legs almost buckle.

'Easy, Soap.'

This isn't real. Can't be.

The dead man before had thrown him for one hell of a bloody loop, but this dead man was about to steamroll his sorry arse into the dirt.

A glance behind him reveals scruff and a baseball cap that'd been left permanently bloodied by Zakhaev five years ago. The man doesn't seem to be carrying a hint of the trauma, though, a mirror image of the man Soap remembered before those last few moments on the bridge. There's laugh lines and the trademark uptick of his lips that always made him look friendly in a barracks full of guarded professionals. Soap's first mate, first brother in the elite ranks of the SAS. His loss remembered as a constant ache that would… could never really be erased.

For what felt like an eternity, Soap simply stares – his throat feeling tight.

'I know, I know,' the new dead man says after a minute, winking in the same way that had earned a sharp 'cheeky bastard'' from Price on more than one occasion. 'I'm a sight to behold, eh?'

'…Gaz.'

'Hole in one,' his old Lieutenant says, using his grip on Soap to help steer him around. They end up being face to face - almost. Soap had always been a little bit taller. 'Don't forget to breathe, mate.'

The compressed sensation in his chest vanishes, Soap sucking in a lungful of air. 'You-'

Are dead, he's about to explain - rehashing the to-and-fro of the argument he'd just lost, because somebody, somewhere needs to understand why he's rather publicly losing his marbles. Gaz, though, simply shakes his head, hushing him with a soft noise. It's the same noise Gaz had used to warn him of incoming enemies, whenever they'd found themselves in the shite on a mission gone sideways. That, Soap remembers fondly, had defined most of their career together.

'I need you to lock it up for a minute, Sergeant. Or is it Captain now, I hear?' Gaz grins at him, though there's something careful and calculated in his eye. 'We need to talk, and it's going to be a hell of a lot bloody harder if I have to haul your arse out of a loony bin. Make-believe, or not.'

Soap's head tilts to the side. The answer to the question he's been asking himself since he arrived in the Twilight Zone washing over him. He's not dead, but dreaming.

Somehow, that's not as relieving as it probably should have been.

'Come on,' Gaz orders, breaking Soap out of his thoughts. 'I've got a table in the back. Should help drown out all this irrelevant bollocks you're seeing.'

The satisfaction Soap feels as Gaz looks rather pointedly at the Shadow Company drone is nothing short of vindictive, but he lets it lie as the Lieutenant jerks his head - beckoning for Soap to walk with him. Soap does quietly, obediently moving to follow.

'Any ideas why we're in Leicester?' Soap asks when they're out of earshot, the meaning of the place still lost on him. Gaz might have also been an apparition, but it appeared as though he was there to be infinitely more helpful than anyone else. 'I know I've been to this place before, but…'

It's a leading question. Gaz stops next to a pair of chairs on either side of a tiny little cafe table. They're tucked behind an inner wall, giving them an impromptu privacy screen. 'You and I came here once, when Griffin was going through his divorce. Helped me drag the mopey sod out before he needed a new liver.'

The memory clicks into place. That hadn't been a particularly fun night, but unit was family, and family would rather let their brother vomit in the car, their house, and wake up hungover and pissed off the next morning than let them end up in the ER with alcohol poisoning. Gaz had taken that bullet, but Soap had helped scrub the carpets before he left.

'He clocked you one after that, aye?' Soap says as he sits, vaguely recalling Gaz with a black eye after the fact.

'I let him,' Gaz drawls, cocky as he slumps down on the opposite side of Soap. 'Griffin's a right wanker, but he pulled his punch.'

Soap nods once, leaning back. 'Hm.'

'I guess that doesn't really do much for you, does it?' There's a level of understanding in Gaz's expression that helps ease at least some of the tension from Soap's shoulders. 'About figuring out why you're here?'

'Made it as clear as mud,' Soap mutters. Gaz signals a waitress to bring them drinks, and Soap flinches like he's been stung, catching sight of the bouncing curls and painted smile. She's MI6. A woman who'd once worked with them on a joint operation. 'Christ, is she…?'

'No,' Gaz reassures, looking amused as the woman returned with a pitcher of beer. He at least has the decency to wait for her to leave before adding, 'She's here because you fancied her.'

Of course the bastard hadn't had the decency to wait for Soap to finish his first sip of beer, though. Coughing, Soap feels the tips of his ears go red. 'That's not…'

'We saw the way you'd look at her, mate. It was bloody funny – she went out of her way to wear all those low-cut tops for you, and you could only ever look her in the eye. Figures she went all out on the good Catholic boy.' Gaz looks far too amused at that revelation. He tips his glass in a salute - drinks a bit before deciding to rescue his former subordinate from the clearly uncomfortable mess. 'And you, Soap? You'd know better than me, but I expect you're here because you need a drink, eh?'

Soap clears his throat – never one to be knocked down and out by some light-hearted ribbing. 'I have better ways of solving my problems, mate.'

'But you can't solve this one, can you?' Gaz cheerful disposition tempers slightly as he throws Soap a knowing glance. 'You're not exactly here by choice…'

People always said that the truth hurt, but for Soap this particular truth was more of a raging, undying anger. Brought on by hurt, sure, because he'd pleaded, begged, cried for it to stop but Price had slid the needle into his skin each time. Locking him in a prison there was no escape from.

It's a betrayal, of the highest fucking order there is. Shepherd might have rammed the knife in, but Price had all but turned him into a vegetable.

'…Didn't you hear the tale of Sleeping Beauty?' Soap says, acerbic, grip on his drink turning white-knuckled. 'It was entirely her idea.'

'Riddles and deflection,' Gaz has always been blunt, honest. 'That's the Price in you, mate. Though I shouldn't expect much else - you've spent five years living in his arse.'

'Best years of my life,' Soap says, still acidic. On a better day, that admission would have been far more genuine. But his better days were behind him.

'Of course they were,' Gaz plays along, though there's a hint of reprimand in his tone. Audible to them both. 'Price is an ornery old bastard, but he brings a level of excitement into your life that you won't find anywhere else.'

'Better than a shot of adrenaline, that's for sure.' Soap grunts, idly playing with a coaster. 'But only because he doesn't do things by the book.'

'Saves a lot of lives that way.'

'So he's supposed to get a Hail Mary pass, aye?' It's hard for him to say - hard for him to fault his OC, because even now, a part of Soap still respects Price. Years of loyalty making it difficult to utter the words. 'He's cost more lives than he's saved. A loose cannon. I should have listened to Riley.'

Riley had warned him, of course. As soon as he realised who Soap had brought back from the Gulag. 'He'll fuck us all to win his bloody war, MacTavish.' He's never stopped wondering if he should have listened.

'Not following the advice of your Lieutenant might have caused more of a cock-up than there could have been,' Gaz agrees, hard but softening ever so slightly as Soap flinches. 'But you trusted Price to lead you. There's a reason for that, Soap.'

'Stupidity.'

'No,' Gaz disagrees, sympathy in his gaze. 'He made the tough calls you knew you couldn't.'

'And look where it's bloody gotten me.' Soap laughs, bitter. 'Stuck in a bed, wasting away. Having philosophical discussions with myself, because I'm trapped in my own fucking mind.'

'Better than being trapped in someone else's.' The fact that Gaz doesn't even deny that he's most likely a figment of Soap's imagination is like pouring salt into an open wound. Soap aches, for the man that he'd lost and the people he couldn't talk to. He was well and truly alone in here - on the brink of going mad, if this conversation was anything to go by. Wasn't that the definition of insanity? Hearing voices? Shite, Soap would take Price right now, even with all their baggage ( the hurt and anger and betrayal ) if it meant he could talk to another person. Didn't matter if his OC was going to stick him again - so long as he actually uttered a word. '… You know he loves you, right, mate?'

The words bring his longing and despair to a sharp, resounding halt.

Soap looks at Gaz, who's really not Gaz, and tries to understand where that came from. Because the Gaz sitting across from him is actually himself, and that was a ridiculously profound thing to say when Soap was desperately trying to drive the narrative in literally every other direction.

He could admit that he cared for Price, of course - could admit that the old man was family. Soap had grown up being taught that there was no shame in showing those kinds of emotions. But Price… he was an old school, traditional type. Emotions were weakness and it was difficult to find love behind mile-high defences and plains so rough they'd take your skin off even if you so much as thought about tripping.

Didn't stop it from being a reality, though. Soap knows that Price is capable of it. The man might have made a life out of his career, but it didn't mean he'd sacrificed family in the process. His family was with him every day he was on the job, and everyday he wasn't. Soap couldn't count the times the old man had shown up on his doorstep when he'd needed him, full of long-suffering, sardonic wit.

'He's doing this to save you, mate.' Gaz tells him, the face of his old Lieutenant demanding a level of trust Soap couldn't give himself. Maybe that was why he was here. 'He'll do whatever's necessary, because he can lose you, but he bloody well isn't going to let that happen…'

Soap closes his eyes. Frustrated, guilty. 'I-'

Somebody screams.

The noise is like a thousand needles stabbing relentlessly into his eardrums, filling him with panic. Alarmed, Soap scrambles out of his chair - knocking over his beer - and tries to find the source, eyes scanning, heart thumping. But the pub, the people…

Weren't reacting?

It takes a moment for everything to click into place – the blonde MI6 operative putting a concerned hand on his bicep, the dead man rolling his eyes at Soap's latest performance, reaching for the phone and dialling 999 – and when it does, Soap's heart explodes into rapid-fire rhythm. They hadn't - couldn't - hear it, which meant…

'Soap?' Gaz is on his feet too, features dark with concern. He's circling the table, reaching out - no longer understanding. This… dream wasn't connected to the real world - not like Soap was. 'You alright?'

'Something's wrong,' The distant screaming gets louder, louder, louder. It's a woman he's hearing. There isn't a woman in the house, or there hadn't been the last time Soap was conscious long enough to notice, and if there was one now and she was screaming then the old man would be there. Always in the heart of the chaos. 'Something's-'

There's a splintering crash, so close that Soap has to guess that it's just outside of his room. Gaz is alert now, too, stormy gaze locking with Soap's.

'You need to wake up.'

Another crash. More screaming.

Price.

A pinch to his shoulder, teeth severing his lip. A shattered glass shard, buried in his palm. Soap starts to tremble, horror pervading through him as the dream stays firmly, vividly in place.

'I… I can't wake up.'

Gaz stares at the blood now gushing out of Soap's hand for a few beats, realisation dawning. There's no way around it - no way through it. The dead man, the woman – they're coming at him now, stony-eyed and determined, forcing him down with restraint. The police, an ambulance is on its way. That's what they tell him as they drive him to the ground – as Gaz watches on, sad, helpless.

'I guess we're both shafted, aren't we?'

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

An elbow lashes out, knocking into a bedside table with enough force that it skitters a foot across the floor. There's a shattering noise - the tinkling of glass on cement drowned out by the screaming and banging and dripping of blood - the vials of drugs lying broken and useless in the dark.

-x-

.

.

.

-x-

Dust engulfs the Humvee – hiding it in plain sight as the storm swirls around them. The light inside the vehicle dims, dirt clouds obscuring the windows like high quality blackout curtains – individual grains splattering against the glass as though they'd just hauled arse through a swarm of gnats.

'Shit, mate,' the heavily accented voice of an Australian erupts over the noise, lilting with amusement. 'This reminds of the time that Thai whore sat on my face in Bangkok, aye? Her beef curtains blinded me the entire fucking night – I couldn't see shit.'

'Bet you tasted it though, didn't ya, Black?' Another voice drawls – the sturdy, built soldier it belonged to glancing up from his Blue Force Tracker just long enough to cock an eyebrow at the other man. 'How did that go down, huh? Did you swallow?'

Black, or Blackjack – his official designation – simply grins, not in the least bit phased. 'Come on, Brax - only a bitch doesn't-'

'Jesus fucking Christ… I don't want to hear about your fucking sexual exploits, Blackjack. It's giving me a rash just thinking about it,' a third voice, echoing with mild irritation, interrupts. ''Sides – we have company. Let's not ruin his image of us, yeah?'

There's momentary silence – save for the wind roaring outside, and then Blackjack is swivelling in the passenger seat. Dark, grey eyes flick to his Boss for a beat – reading the slightly strained expression on Ace's face before slipping right on over to their 'package'.

Chris 'Toad' Williams glares back.

He's sitting in the back seat – the middle - squashed unceremoniously between Ace – a tall, wiry soldier with a crooked nose and perpetual frown – and Cage – a burly, tight-lipped woman who hadn't uttered a single word to him throughout their trip. There's zip ties on his wrists, binding them together tightly enough to be uncomfortable, and a bandage wrapped – constricting – around his throat. It's hiding something – a cut, stretched so far across his neck Chris isn't even sure how he's still breathing.

The sting of it is what makes him think twice about biting as Blackjack starts to smirk – his anger smouldering just beneath the surface. But there's something else – something Chris can't ignore, every time he looks this fucker in the eyes.

( - the rustling of a belt. A room, filled with pain, and blood, and screams, and horrors. There'd been nothing he could do, nothing. Weight, and pressure, and the smell of sweat, the taste of copper – and the tell-tale sound of a silenced gun, ending it before he could be broken any further -)

'I don't think Chris minds; do you mate?' Blackjack says, rapping his knuckles against Chris' knee. 'And who fucking would, aye? The rest of you sad sacks are too bloody boring. I swear the only way you get to live is through me.'

'Wanker,' Cage remarks, tone flat as she kicks the back of Blackjack's chair. 'Why don't you shut your damn gob and focus on getting our comms. back up? If we have to scrap the fucking 'Vee and walk the rest of the way, I'm going to be scraping sand out of my vag for the next week.'

'Your cooch isn't really my concern, sweetheart,' comes the response, and Chris is momentarily grateful that the Australian's attention has shifted focus. 'And there isn't anything I can do. Antenna's fucked. Comms. are down. Engine's blown to hell. We either wait this shit out, or start hiking. Either way – we're going to miss exfil.'

'Fuck me,' Ace mutters, almost knocking his sunglasses from his face as he rubs his forehead. 'This day is just getting better and better.'

There's a snort of laughter, followed by a loud thump. Brax eventually gives up on his Tracker – the feed he'd had turning to static. 'Yeah. Another wild goose chase in the middle of arse fuck nowhere, leading to jack shit. Price and MacTavish ain't here no more – something I'm sure our little pal could have told us half a day ago, couldn't ya?'

Chris finds himself meeting Brax's gaze, as hard as he tries not to, in the rear-view mirror. Unlike Blackjack, there's nothing holding him back this time.

'Fuck you,' he rasps, his lip curling into an uncharacteristic sneer. He was a prisoner – a wanted man, but the 141 was his family, and he'd lead all four of these bastards straight to Hell long before he dared lead them anywhere else.

In the front, Brax tilts his head – thoughtful.

'For someone we just pulled out of a very bad situation, you don't seem all that grateful, bud.'

'What the hell do you expect, man? This isn't exactly a hot tub at a fucking weekend resort. I'm starting to think I liked the other place better.'

A lie. Chris has to stop himself from swallowing, when he catches Blackjack looking at him in his peripheral vision. Damn it.

'Alright, alright,' Ace breaks in, authoritative as he straightens up in his seat. Movements tainted with exhaustion. 'Stop antagonising him, before he rips his damn stitches. We don't exactly have a medic on standby this time.'

A harrumph – a grumble. Everyone falls quiet as their leader scratches his chin, nails scraping against stubble. He isn't happy. Hasn't been since the beginning of this cluster fuck.

'We'll have to hump it. We're ten mikes out from the LZ – that's not far. We know our targets ain't in Haji land anymore – they've scarpered. Our best bet is to get out of here, regroup, and try this again with better Intel. Understood?'

Agreeance echoes throughout the cabin, in a variety of flavours. Chris is the only one to ignore him – instead going back to studying his stained fatigues. Stumbling around in a hostile desert with this rag tag group of mercenaries.

Fucking perfect.

'Storm's not getting any better, ladies. Let's get this train moving.'

There's shifting – rustling in the car, the creaking of seats as four people start moving around. They pull on masks, lock and load their weapons. Chris blanches as something – fingers, graze the side of his face in the commotion. He pulls back on reflex, brow creasing – a little slow in identifying what's going on.

Blackjack is leaning into the back, fastening a bandana fastened around Chris' neck.

'Cool it, mate,' Blackjack says, tugging the cloth up to cover the lower half of Chris' face. 'Here – so you don't choke.'

Had Cage not opened her door at that exact moment – letting Afghanistan's brutal sand storm in to tear at Chris like an enraged Pitbull – Chris might have thanked him.

Might have.

As it was – he was too busy trying not to suffocate.

Fuck.

A/N - As usual, I'd like to give a big thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far. I know I'm not the most prompt updater, and I sincerely hope to have Chapter Six out to you a lot quicker, but please know that your encouragement and kind words are a very big driving force behind my motivation. I really appreciate your feedback 3.

Also, a very special thank you to Katie, my beta, who is 100% the reason I have managed to post this week.