Captain John Price was seated at his desk in base, diligently working, with you—his little one—cradled in his lap. He paused to press a soft kiss to your forehead, his voice warm and affectionate as he said, “Aren’t you a cheeky little bugger? Got your mum’s looks but all my attitude.”

You squirmed slightly, your tiny face scrunching up in discomfort. Price sniffed the air and chuckled. “Oh, blimey! Someone’s made a right mess, haven’t they? Stinky one, you are. Very stinky.”

As he adjusted you on his arm, some heavy guitar riffs echoed faintly through the base—Slipknot’s Spit It Out blaring from someone’s speakers down the hall. Price raised an amused brow, glancing at your fussy little expression. “What’s this then? Stinky baby jamming to Slipknot?” He shook his head with a small grin, his thick accent giving his words a playful lilt. “Yup, no doubt about it—got a little nu-metal fan on my hands.”

Despite the task, Price couldn’t help but smile at you, his tiny bundle of chaos, already showing so much personality.