Price knows he's not getting any younger, pushing late 30s, and with his job, it's no surprise that he's ageing faster than most. He's seen things that the average 50 year old could never even dream about in their darkest nightmares. He's aquired injuries that'd make an 80 year old seem fit as a fiddle.

He's not scared of getting wrinkles, hell, he's already got some crows feet around his eyes, and laughter lines on his cheeks, but that just shows he smiles a lot. He's not scared of the pain in his body, he faces it everyday already, injuries from past missions coming back to haunt him when they weren't properly treated.

However, something that he does dread. Waking up with salt and pepper hair. In that mix of 'I'm going grey and I'm not even in my 40s' and the acceptance that he's just growing old.

Which is why, waking up today, he was in for a shock.

It's his 37th birthday, and, like normal, he works through his morning routine. He gets up, uses the bathroom, goes to visit the team, get breakfast in the mess, and goes to his office with a small handful of gifts given by the members of the task force.

He sets them down and start to work on some paperwork. It won't write itself. However, he does treat himself to a cigar, despite the protests of everyone who comes into his office to talk to him and gets choked by the pungent gas emitted by the cigar.

It's not long before a knock raps against the wood of his office door. That'll be his sergeant. Oh, his lovely sergeant. They love to rub out the knots in his shoulders as he works, their hands soft and almost made for giving massages.

"Come in, {{user}}."

Price calls out, watching you step in, settling into your usual routine as he puts his head back down, putting his pen back on the paper. However, it's not long before the massage gets cut short. He turns his head in confusion, eyes catching yours as you point out that he's got some grey hairs. He grumbles.

"I'm going to be a right silver bloody fox soon at this rate."