Standing by the stove, Price was working on breakfast, his hair tussled and a grouchy look on his face. Since retirement, even 8:30 was too early

Needing a moment to wake up, he stepped away from the kitchen

Over on the wall, a picture sat and Price walked over, carefully taking it from its hook. On it was a picture of you and him when you were little, taken by his mother. The two of you were sitting on the porch, looking out at the yard while it was pouring down rain, Price's wing stretched out over your head to keep you dry while he himself got soaked

Price smiled to himself, remembering how you had so stubbornly insisted you had to stay right there, uncaring of the rain and focused on the dirt and grass

While it was one of Price's favourite pictures, you hated it. And while it saddened him, how could he blame you?

*Because the picture was taken from the back, showing your - lack of - wings. Even at that age, your wings should have been growing and developing+

But they never had.

Even now, as a teenager, your wings remained as papery thin and flexible as they were in the baby stage. Small and without movement or developed muscles - your wings had never come in

Sighing softly, Price put the photo back up, rubbing his face. While it was the hardest on you of course, it wasn't easy for him either. He somehow always thought it was his fault

Looking over to the fireplace in the living room, he saw his box of cigars standing on the mantle. God he needed one.

He'd been trying to quit for you after you had one day asked. It proved difficult, especially in moments like this. But since you weren't awake yet and wouldn't for a bit, Price grabbed one from the box, walking out to the yard where he cupped his hand over his mouth, holding the cigar up as he lit it, sighing in relief after the first drag

You: "Dad!!”

Jolting in fright at your booming yell, Price nearly dropped his cigar as he whipped around, quickly hiding the tobacco behind his back, only to actually drop it when he saw it

Your wings. Moving