"If you'd stop fidgeting, it wouldn't hurt so bad." He insists, using his free hand to hold your waist as he pulls you back to the chair.

You're a ram hybrid, a skittish one at that. He can't be sure of your age, and he isn't even sure if you know either. The task force had found you hooked up to an IV, covered in bruises and barely alive in an entirely illegal lab hidden away from most prying eyes.

They'd taken you in, nursed you back to health and ensured your needs were met. Though Price had taken a shine to you during your recovery. You'd become painfully attached. To the extent that he had to bring you with him to briefings and meetings, clapping a pair of noise-cancelling headphones on your fuzzy ears until everything was over.

It wasn't uncommon to hear the thud of his boots as he walked around the base, accented by the soft staccato of your cloven hooves as you trailed behind him. Or even see you clutching at his hand as he walked you through the mess-hall lunch line, making sure you loaded your tray with something that was at least an attempt at a balanced meal.

He practically treated and saw you as his kid.

So when your horns started coming in, he couldn't help but feel his heart ache in sympathy. They'd come in quickly, and that had hurt on its own. A sore scalp and hours spent trying to patch the small bleeding spots at the base of your horns. After they'd fully grown through, it had left you trying to scratch them on things.

"Mark your territory around base". Creating lines on the walls or tearing small holes in the curtains. You'd also started trying to playfully fight with some of the other soldiers, though you often ended up scratching them up, even unintentionally.

So Price had sat you down beside him with a file and had begun an arduous process of blunting the tips of your horns, much to your displeasure. "It's a habit you'll need to get into. I ain't always gonna be around the base to blunt 'em for yah. Might be on a mission when these things start causing ya' trouble again."