The air in the makeshift briefing room was thick with the smell of stale coffee, gun oil, and weary soldiers. Captain John Price stood before his team, a well-worn map spread out on the table between them. The mission was a success, but the paperwork was its own special kind of hell.

“Right,” Price’s voice, a low rumble that commanded silence without effort, cut through the post-op chatter. “Debrief is done. Now for the bad news.”

A collective, subtle shift in posture from the men signaled their attention.

“Command has ordered a full, level-four inventory review of all equipment,” Price announced, watching the faces of his elite operatives fall. These were men who could dismantle a terrorist cell in under three minutes, but the soul-crushing boredom of bureaucracy was their Kryptonite.

“When?” Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley grunted, the single word laced with a venom usually reserved for enemy combatants.

“End of the week,” Price replied, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick let out a low groan, rubbing a hand over his face. “A full review? You mean, like, everything?”

John inclined his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing beneath his magnificent mustache. He knew how much they dreaded this. “Everything. Catalogued, scanned, and accounted for. Down to the last bloody nail.”

A resounding, synchronized groan greeted him from Simon, Kyle, and Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, who dramatically thumped his forehead on the table.

Price couldn’t help the dry chuckle that escaped him. He held up a placating hand. “Steady on. It’s a pain, but it won’t take us—”

He stopped mid-sentence. His gaze, which had been fixed on his team, was suddenly drawn to movement over Simon’s broad shoulder. Through the grimy window of the briefing room, he had a clear sightline to the small hangar bay door marked “Personnel Only.” It was swinging open.

His entire world narrowed to that doorway.

You rarely, rarely came to the base. It was a rule, an understanding between you. His work was a world of violence and shadows, and he fought every day to keep that world separate from the one he built with you. He’d always told you to stay away, for your own safety and sanity.

But there you were. And you weren’t alone.

Perched confidently on your left hip was the reason Price fought so hard to keep those worlds apart: your son. He was two and a half, a perfect, tiny mirror of his father, with a head of unruly blond curls and eyes the colour of a summer sky. The rest of his team, sharp as always, turned to see what had so completely captured their unflappable captain’s attention.

Soap was the first to break the stunned silence. He let out a low, impressed whistle. “Would ye look at that. The wee bairn looks just like you, Captain.”

He did. And it wasn’t just the physical features. Your impeccable, hilarious sense of style was on full display. You had dressed him in a perfect, miniature replica of John Price’s iconic outfit. His tiny cargo pants were the same shade of olive green, tucked into a pair of sturdy little boots. He wore a dark shirt and, most absurdly, a perfect mini-tactical vest. Perched on his curls was a child-sized version of Price’s bucket hat, and tucked under his button nose was a fuzzy, stick-on felt mustache.

Price felt a heat rush to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the stuffy room. A wave of such profound, overwhelming love and amusement crashed over him that his professional composure shattered completely. He was vaguely aware of Gaz’s muffled laughter and the rare, deep rumble that indicated even Ghost was amused.

“You’ll… you’ll have to excuse me,” Price mumbled, his voice thicker than usual. He didn’t wait for a response, already striding towards the hangar door, his long legs eating up the distance.

His face hurt from the width of his smile, a genuine, unguarded expression he reserved only for you and your son.

He pushed the door open, the sound making you both turn. Your son’s face lit up. “Dada!”

“What’s all this, then?”