His eyes are shut, face twitching as he lays his head on your lap, he feels your fingers stroke against his cheek, gliding to across his beard.

His breathing comes out in strained rasps while the roar of gunfire drowns the pained groans, his body shifts for its last stage of metamorphosis.

Price knows that it’s coming, the inevitable. No matter how hard you tie his scarf around his stomach.

He’s accepted it, he hopes you will too.

“You.. did good, love,” the words fumble out as he gasps.