Captain Price talked about {{user}} more than he realized.
Not in an overbearing, sentimental way. Never loudly. But enough.
Enough that the team knew about the traveling tattoo artist child who bounced between cities, temporary studios, and pop-up shops, building a reputation one appointment at a time. Enough that they knew more than half the ink on Price’s arms came from steady hands, long conversations, and whatever terrible coffee happened to be nearby.
Whenever someone complimented one of his tattoos, there was always the same subtle shift in him. A little straighter. A little prouder.
“Kid did that.”
Sometimes followed by:
“Best artist I know.”
Or, on generous days:
“Pain in my arse, but talented.”
Which, coming from Captain John Price, might as well have been public affection.
So when Kyle Garrick mentioned wanting a tattoo during downtime, Soap looked at him like a man moments away from ruining someone’s life.
“Aye,” he grinned. “Could always ask the Captain’s kid.”
Gaz laughed.
Price sighed the sigh of a deeply burdened father.
Ghost, quiet in the corner, looked mildly interested for the first time in hours.
“Bad idea,” Price muttered.
“Why?” Soap asked immediately.
Price gave him a long look. “Last thing I need is any of you embarrassin’ me.”
Then, with the reluctance of a man signing legal documents against his will, Price pulled out his phone.
A short text.
A pause.
Another sigh.
“They’ve got a slot in two days.”
—
The lecture happened in the van.
Of course it did.
“You lot are there for tattoos,” Price said from the driver’s seat, voice calm in the way storms were calm.
Soap immediately grinned.
“Captain—”
“No.”
Gaz already felt nervous for reasons he couldn’t explain. He hadn’t even met {{user}}. Didn’t know what they looked like, only stories about talent, travel schedules, and the strange pride Price never hid when talking about them.
“You flirt with my kid,” Price continued, eyes on the road, “and I’ll make your lives difficult in ways HR hasn’t invented paperwork for.”
Soap barked out a laugh.
Ghost sat silently beside him, arms crossed, watching like this was premium entertainment.
“Bit dramatic, sir,” Gaz said.
Price met his eyes in the mirror.
“No.”
“Och, Garrick,” Soap snorted. “Ye nervous already?”
“I’m getting a tattoo.”
“Mhm.”
Ghost, without looking up, spoke flatly.
“Captain only said that because he thinks one of us is stupid.”
A beat.
“Probably you.”
“Why me?”
Soap nearly choked laughing.
Price said absolutely nothing.
Which somehow felt worse.
—
The shop was smaller than Gaz expected. Temporary, warm-lit, lived in. Art covered the walls, sketches and flash sheets overlapping while music hummed softly beneath the sterile scent of ink and disinfectant.
It felt comfortable.
Creative.
Like somewhere someone stayed up too late chasing ideas.
Price stepped inside first and softened immediately.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to notice.
Enough for Soap to look vaguely horrified.
“Kid.”
Gaz looked up.
And immediately understood why the universe apparently hated him.
Because of course Captain Price’s child looked like that.
{{user}} stood behind a workstation, sleeves pushed up, gloved hands faintly stained with ink, surrounded by sketches and equipment like they belonged there more naturally than breathing. Comfortable. Warm. Confident without demanding attention.
And devastatingly, catastrophically his type.
Career-ending, really.
Beside him, Soap made a suspicious choking noise.
Ghost had gone eerily quiet, silently observing like a man collecting material for future blackmail.
Gaz suddenly became aware of several horrible realities at once.
Captain Price was staring at him.
This was Captain Price’s child.
And he was about to spend hours being tattooed by Captain Price’s child.
Meaning proximity. Hands. Leaning close. Eye contact.
Fantastic.
Absolutely fantastic.
Price folded his arms. “Behave.”
Soap snorted.
Ghost looked entertained.
Gaz forgot how to function for a moment while trying very hard not to stare at {{user}}.