LEGAL DISCLAIMER:MacTavish, Price and the other characters you'll recognize from the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare series are the property of Infinity Ward/Activision.

Another chapter that got way too big, but I'm not breaking it up this time. Especially not with the new game coming out on Friday! Huge thanks to Lisbet Adair for betaing this one.

MW3 AU. Contains mature language, violence and some medical imagery.

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"Deep breath in and out for me."

MacTavish's broad back rose and fell beneath Anita's fingers, the diaphragm of her stethoscope pressed against his warm, scar-pocked skin. "And again." She frowned. Not at what she heard, but remembering her heated exchange with Tim at the conference table.

"Can it at least wait until we're done fixing him? It's not our way, we don't get involved. I told Price that and I meant it!"

"I'm not so sure this time, that it's the right thing. We really should give the authorities a heads-up, just be clear that he's in no condition to go anywhere yet, that they need to back off for now."

She planted a gloved hand on his cannonball-like bare shoulder. The three deltoid heads twitched unevenly beneath her touch, the wings of the paratrooper tattoo seeming to beat with his arm's shaky effort to support him. "Hey - you all right?" MacTavish gave her a stoic nod though he clearly wasn't, his knotted brow and bowed head making her decide that her assessment didn't require him to remain upright any further.

She quickly swept his IV lines and monitor wires out of the way, tugging his navy blue bathrobe back up over his shoulders. "C'mon, let's lay you back down." They both grunted with the effort, Anita's arm behind his back as MacTavish gripped the bed's siderail, grimacing. He'd needed plenty of help just sitting up. Standing had been one of today's goals, and she was starting to have her doubts about that one. "Sepsis really takes a lot out of you, it's normal." Eyes crimped shut, he sank into the mattress, while she made a mental note to check on when he'd last been given something for pain.

"And you think they're going to honor that? After what just happened? God knows enough local crooks and ne'er-do-wells have passed through these doors. We've both dealt with the very finest of humanity in the hospitals back home – the gang bangers, the convicts— "

"They were shackled and had armed guards! Wanted by Interpol? These guys are no joke, Anita."

"No, although since I read him the riot act, Price has been on his best behavior— "

"Now there's a set of relative terms."

"If they're trying to keep a low profile – and why else would they be out here - then they're not going to stir up any trouble, are they?"

No matter who came through the door, they had to receive the same treatment. So in retaining one's objectivity, not to mention inner peace, a little willful ignorance went a long way. She would've much preferred if Tim had kept that goddamned Red Notice to himself.

The hardest part about knowing was trying to pretend you didn't. Over six feet of shirtless distraction lay stretched out in front of her, but she had to pretend not to notice that either. Even as she once again leaned her way well into his personal space. Any closer and she'd need a corsage.

"A couple more times, in and out." Lungs were clear. "Now just breathe normally." She orbited his beefy left pectoral with her stethoscope, finding perfectly normal heart sounds, while the boar tattoo snarled at her through its thicket of chest hair as if to say hey watch it, lady.

MacTavish had settled. The bathrobe's sleeve spilled away from the thick bulge of his bicep as he folded his arm behind his head, the patient ID bracelet stark white against his dark hair, propping himself up to watch her with weary interest. Apart from the long dressing down his middle and the ones on his upper right abdomen, one could easily identify every major muscle group on him. An example of ideal male anatomy, the kind people paid to stare at from behind sketchbooks and easels, from the sculpted swell of his chest to the washboard abs - a damned shame about that, she thought ruefully. He'd been carved up like a turkey already; the infection had forced her to make the eventual scarring even worse. He even had a little of the 'Adonis belt' going on at his waistline. All that hadn't come without time and effort, and by this point, despite the tube feedings, he'd already lost some of it. He was destined to lose more in the long recovery ahead. But that was a conversation for another day. For now, he looked like a reclining figure carved by some Roman sculptor, a gladiator in repose.

Except he had more than a fig leaf to keep him humble. While his freshly laundered pajama pants with their AC/DC-style 'fcuk' print had been the source of much snickering among the staff, she was confident that the morning's nursing care had put Eugenie firmly into his good graces. Hopefully she'd earned enough karma to go around.

Anita couldn't be sure. Now that he had his wits about him, MacTavish had become far too quiet. Distracted, preoccupied, the flashes of humor all but gone. While he wasn't rude about it, his brooding wasn't doing much for her nerves.

"I can't believe you're defending the guy who pulled a gun on us, something you take extreme umbrage with, as I recall. He doesn't even need a gun to kill you. As for MacTavish, I mean, look at him - once he's feeling his oats again, he could snap your neck like a twig!"

She'd sighed heavily, trying not to roll her eyes. Especially since it had been Tim's idea to bring him here in the first place. "That's going to take a while, and I really don't think so."

"Based on what? The guy's been out of it 99% of the time; we have no idea what he's really like. Given the circumstances, best that he's gone before he gets to that point." A reluctant pause. "Are you sure you're not losing your perspective here?

It was cheap, it was shitty, and she'd said it anyway: "Are you sure you aren't taking this whole 'work husband' thing a bit too seriously?" An effective - if not regrettable - way to end the conversation, in a mutual retreat with apologetic mumblings and excuses as to what each needed to be doing.

But as Tim had pointed out, she could hardly read MacTavish's change in demeanor when she'd only just truly met him, now that he wasn't half asleep or incoherent. As awareness had returned, so had his worries — that was normal enough. Also, a brush with death tended to make people look inward, if not outright traumatized. Judging by the scarred topography of his torso, not his first. Not all worries were created equal, however. Did he know he was a wanted man? If he did, might he consider her a potential threat?

She pressed her stethoscope to the shallow ridges of his belly now, shaved bare but sprouting a prickly trail of stubble. A bubbling groan filled her earpieces. His sharp blue eyes darted aside. "Erm, sorry."

Leave it to Mother Nature to break the ice. "Don't apologize," she replied briskly. "Music to your doctor's ears." Fugitive. Armed and Dangerous. Public Enemy Number One. At the moment, lying here blushing like a schoolboy over an unborn fart. Pulling off her stethoscope, she carefully pressed her fingertips into each of his belly's four quadrants, watching his face. "Still pretty tender?" He nodded, wincing slightly. "Some of that's to be expected."

Ignorance had been bliss. She had to pretend that was still the case. If she continued with the clipped conversation — or worse, clammed up — he'd know something was wrong. She unpinned the empty bulb of the JP drain from its moorings, while her ever-dependable mouth launched into just-act-casual mode. "Time for this to go, it's not doing anything." She peeled open a suture removal kit. "Somebody or something did a real number on your gallbladder."

He nodded soberly, eyeing the gleaming scissors and forceps in their plastic box as she spread a disposable drape over him. "Aye. Knife nicked my liver too, I almost bled to death."

Now that was interesting, since he didn't exactly show up with his medical records. So was the look that momentarily flickered over his face, like he suddenly remembered he'd left the oven on. There was definitely a story there, so many questions she wanted to ask. She knew better. "Sounds like you got very lucky," she said distractedly, snipping away the loops of black thread coiled around the tubing protruding from MacTavish's upper abdomen. "After the surgery, they gave you the talk, right? About the dietary restrictions?" She glanced up at him. The nod came with a grunt this time. "No more chip shop for you. At least for a while. Sorry, kiddo."

MacTavish shrugged.

"In Scotland, don't they revoke your citizenship for that?"

That, at least, got a semi-amused grunt out of him. "Funny. I can live without that, I suppose. The gravy, however – that was a low blow."

That got a smile out of her. Picking up the forceps, she carefully plucked the remaining sutures from his flesh. "Now take a deep breath for me." A steady pull and it was out, with a relieved exhale from MacTavish's puffed cheeks. "You okay?"

"Fine, just felt weird." He craned his head for a look, wrinkling his nose at the now fully exposed drain lying coiled on the drape. He settled back down, falling silent, eyes wandering the room while she dressed the site. That was disappointing, for a moment he'd really seemed to be warming up to her. Now he was miles away again, eyes narrowed slightly, as if watching clouds gather on some distant horizon. Whatever he saw there troubled him. He was exhausted, clearly. Patients recovering from such an illness were often shocked by how debilitated they felt. Injury had already laid him low, and for a younger guy at his fitness level, the fatigue and weakness were especially difficult to accept. He was also concerned about this woman that Price had told him was now back home … but what else?

She was starting to second-guess herself. MacTavish and Price were cut from the same cloth, weren't they? Same background, same training? Price had been scary enough to deal with, and he'd just been trying to get his friend some help. What would happen if they truly felt cornered? Maybe what she'd misread as a touch of sadness etching his features was actually regret. Over something that had already happened … or over something MacTavish didn't really want to do. He had to know by now. Perhaps he was considering his options, like whether she'd make a useful hostage. "Are you all right? How are you doing?" he asked.

In the middle of smoothing tape over gauze, Anita stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"You have family back in the States?"

She hadn't been expecting that. The very last thing she wanted to talk about. Rattled, she did her best to appear nonchalant. "Oh, not much left, and they're- " She balled everything up in the drape, depositing it in the trash just outside the door. " -far enough away from… well… everything."

He nodded, closing his bathrobe over the fresh dressings.

"Being in Asia makes it even more surreal," she said from the hallway, raising her voice over the sounds of washing her hands. "Half a world away, on the outside looking in." She muttered the last part under her breath before shutting the water off. "While the other half burns." Returning to the bedside, she drew the covers back over him. "Oh, the reminders are everywhere. The newsstands, the TV, the sympathetic looks. But here, life goes on, pretty much like it did before - well, until a couple days ago, anyway."

"Going through the motions. It's what people do," said Price from the doorway.

What an unexpected displeasure. "Oh please, come in," she said dryly.

He did. "They try to act like it didn't happen — especially when it happened to someone else. Like a bomb didn't go off on a train. Or gunmen didn't mow down a bunch of people in an airport."

Heat flared in Anita's face. Her world - and that of every other American - had changed overnight. The suppressed pain and rage rose up within her like bile. "Or Russia didn't blow up New York and DC? Or make us sorry for all those jokes about New Jersey? Yeah, believe me — I get it!"

He even had the balls to look a little surprised. "It's going to keep happening."

"Last I heard, we sent 'em packing," she snapped.

Price shook his head solemnly at her. "This won't be the end of it."

"Well gee, thanks for the pep talk." She dropped her upturned hands at her sides. "What would you have me do? I couldn't go back home even if I wanted to right now."

MacTavish directed his question mostly at Price, pissing her off even more. "US commercial airspace is still closed?"

"And both borders," Price replied.

MacTavish nodded, his scarred brow creasing with a thoughtful frown. "Place is locked up tighter than a camel's arse in a sandstorm."

"It can't be for too much longer. I could go to Europe," she began, thinking aloud.

Their response was sharp and simultaneous. "NO."

" …No?" What the fuck did that mean?

"Not a good idea, love." Price's term of endearment was bone-dry.

She opened her mouth and shut it again; she'd had enough. "Glad to see you're doing better, John. I have other patients to see. You'll have to excuse me." She narrowed her eyes at Price. "Try to get some rest." Striding down the hallway, her blue isolation gown fluttering in her wake, she pretended not to hear MacTavish calling after her.

-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-

Soap looked knackered, Price decided, though still loads better than before. Not too tired to shoot him a withering look.

"Was that really necessary?"

"Took it the wrong way, I think," said Price.

"Aye, y'think?"

"This lot needs to wake up, sharpish, and I'm not talking about the disaster next door. To the big picture."

"Easy, Old Man. You're not the one on the receiving end here. I've finally gotten to the good bit, the one where they're taking things out instead of sticking them in me, and I'd like to keep it that way, thank you very much."

Soap was still all wired up to the monitor screen, still had the ginormous IV thing sewn into his neck. But they'd taken him off oxygen, and he no longer had his own dried blood crusted beneath his fingernails. "Nurses gave you a bath, eh?"

Soap paused to look past Price, making sure none of them were about. His shoulders shook with a short, stifled laugh. "Scrubbed me within an inch of my life, mate," he said wryly. "Had to make sure my tattoos were still on."

Price tapped the side of his own nose. "I see your second least favorite tube is still in place."

"She said if I can manage some liquids well enough, I can have it out today - on the condition that I eat some of whatever bland, mushy shite they've got in store for me. You know, the usual." He sighed. "I think the real challenge is going to be staying awake for it."

His heavy-eyed, half-mumbled responses made that rather obvious. "Hmph." Price raised an eyebrow. "Bet you never thought you'd be so happy to wear those pajama pants again."

"Oh, aye." Soap rolled his eyes in exaggerated relief.

"Small victories- "

"Oi, speak for yourself."

Price chuckled softly. "Here's another for you: the prospect of some warmer weather. When you're ready to fly, we have accommodations waiting for us in West Africa. Courtesy of an old friend."

"Anyone I know?"

Price shook his head. "Mate of mine from the PSC days. He's off on a job in Indonesia, revisiting some old haunts. Nikolai's working on getting us transport."

"Brilliant. Now what aren't you telling me? I'm guessing that's it for the good news?"

"Well, not quite." Leaning out the doorway first for a quick glance down the hall, Price sat down next to the bedside, keeping his voice low. "The photos they picked for our Red Notice make us look years younger. In fact, yours is from when you were a newly-minted Regiment lad still on probation."

Soap's head lolled back in the pillow, jaw muscles working. "Fucking hell. D'ya think they know?"

"Not sure. I'll have a word, try to feel her out."

"Haven't you done enough damage already? We were having a nice chinwag until you turned up. Let me have a go at it." His face darkened even further. "But first, let's have the bad news."

-=xXx:xXx:xXx=-

MacTavish had been fighting sleep pretty much since Eugenie had gotten done with him, but by the time Price had finished filling in the blanks, it was no longer a problem. Especially after the bit concerning the fate of the hapless Loyalist doctor.

"We're on the clock, then. You did what you had to - I'm alive because of it. But as you said, the bastards have likely picked up our scent. People were distracted at the time, but now that the shock's worn off, they're going to start remembering anything that looked out of place - like the big funny-looking gora on the trolley. Maybe he wasn't just a tourist with a bad case of food poisoning. He was being loaded into the back of an NGO truck, wasn't he? If we gave people something to talk about, then the wrong ears might pick up on it."

Price was leaning against the wall, kneading his chin between thumb and forefinger. "They won't make a move, not here. Not yet. The whole bloody country's on high alert."

"Won't be long either. We have to warn them, Price."

Despite any opinions he might have had about the Yanks, the Old Man couldn't disagree. Nevertheless, there was the arms-folded long exhale of disapproval. "Then we also need to discuss our exit strategy. Something you're not ready for."

"Like I was last time?" MacTavish closed his eyes for a moment to shut out his frustration, realizing he wasn't quite as awake as he'd thought. "We need to pop smoke and fuck off."

Bitter amusement played at the edges of Price's mustache. It was as true as it was ridiculous. "Don't we always? We're in a holding pattern until we hear back from Nikolai." Price leveled a cool stare at him from beneath the brim of his hat, an appraising look that MacTavish had never liked, at least not when aimed in his direction. "She said at least a week."

"We've got a day or two at the most. That is, if we're not rumbled already."

Price turned to pace the small room, limited to only a few steps. "All right. So you've just learnt of the attack, and you have … concerns. About who might be behind it. About whether you're safe here." He paused in the doorway to offer a raised eyebrow along with his parting shot. "Sounds like you and your doctor need a heart-to-heart." With that, he was off.

Finally left to his own devices, MacTavish made an absent-minded attempt to take a deep breath, cut short by the discomfort in his belly. He wasn't getting out of this bed today, and tomorrow wasn't looking good either. Too long and he'd find himself handcuffed to it. He lifted a hand to scrub it over his face, catching himself in time. Instead, he brushed his fingers lightly downward in a careful damage assessment, until a stab of pain from his broken nose rewarded him for his curiosity. He hissed, dropping his hand back to his side.

Just a bit longer, he told himself. Despite his aching wounds, he felt the threat of oncoming sleep wrapping itself around his heavy limbs, about to drag him into the depths.

He thought he'd been dreaming when Price told him, and had needed reassurance that it was true. He hadn't been able to see her at all. By the time he'd left for his next mission, she was still hanging on, but that was all he knew, the last he'd heard…

The helo settled onto the flight deck, its door sliding open, the waiting team of Navy Corpsmen charging forward to meet it. Between them and the flight medics, there were so many people around the trolley and so much shit piled on top of her that he could barely tell there was anyone underneath. Was it even Lara at all? He spotted Gary and Simon's haunted faces in the crowd rushing toward him, headed for the carrier's sick bay. "Make a hole!" an American voice bellowed. Then he saw it, peeking out from beneath the blanket. Her hand. All he could see, the sight of it a sickening punch to the gut. Motionless, a terrible waxy color, crusted with dried blood. Someone was holding him back, he wasn't sure who. All he wanted in that moment was to grasp that hand. To know, to be sure that it was still warm-

He gasped, his heart thudding in his chest. The cracked plaster ceiling blurred and came into focus.

"Fuck," he whispered, almost bashing himself in the nose again, raking his fingers through his hair. He had to sort himself out, get his game face on. He'd already said something he probably shouldn't have, Anita had caught him on the back foot. That's what he'd been left to work with, to dance around the truth even more. Pretty hard to stay on script when he didn't even know what it was. In a minute or two, he'd better pull something magical out of his arse. Some of it had to be true, that was how all the best lies worked. He'd try his hardest to only tell ones of omission. He owed the NGO doctors and nurses his life. They absolutely had to know whom they might be up against.

They'd done a damned good job with him - he was alive, with almost all his original attachments and no unwelcome new ones, all systems not quite go, but functional. Now he would repay them by trying to string them along with half-truths while his very presence put them in danger? Fucking shameful. He'd make it up to them someday. If someone could get him a rifle, maybe sooner than that… He sighed. Christ, who was he kidding?

His head was spinning, the ceiling blurring again. He let his eyes close, giving himself a minute. If they didn't hurry up, he wasn't going to have much to say. Maybe that was the way forward … just nod off and let Price run with it...

"Like you did at the sub base?" Simon's voice jeered next to him. "Fuck it, mate, why not? It's his script, innit?"

MacTavish jolted awake - Price was standing his bedside, looking grimly apologetic.

"She's gone, lad. House call. Off to who knows where. Even worse, she's alone."