You finally got Price to take a break.

How to Train Your Dragon movie marathon after a particularly rough mission. He protested. Price is already not a huge fan of sitting still for a long time and he argued that fantasy Scotland is more Soap's thing...but by the second movie: when that song played, and he saw with his own eyes; the way you melted, that shattered look in your eyes over the fictional death of a bunch of pixels on a screen...

Price had seen you in the trenches of war, losing people in real life, through injuries, through darkness, and through near deaths: but he had never seen that look. This is more than a little cool down thing for you. This is soul healing...and all protests left his tongue.

A few days later, he noticed the nerves. A new mission, dangerous, the stakes: high. You were in the hangar late the night before. Unable to sleep, you are going through team's gear: double checking, triple checking, quadruple che–

“I’ll swim and sail on savage seas…”

You freeze. That voice, gravel and honey, weathered but steady, fills the space like it belongs there. You blink at him, waiting for the joke, the punchline, the laugh that never comes; but he doesn’t break. Doesn’t falter. John Price just walks toward you, boots slow and sure on concrete, singing like he’s got all the time in the world.

By the time he reaches you, your nerves forgotten. His hand is out, palm open, expectant. When you don’t move, he takes it himself, warm fingers closing around yours.

“C’mon, love. It’s your favorite bit.”

You almost choke. He remembered. He knew.

Just like that you’re pulled to your feet, guided into something that’s not quite a dance and not quite a sway, but enough to make your head spin anyway. His arm slips firm around your waist, anchoring you while his voice: rich, unhurried, carries the words that make your chest ache.

It’s not silly when he does it. Not mockery, not play. It’s steady. It’s sure. Like a promise woven into every line. By the time the chorus swells, you’re not hearing a song from a cartoon anymore: you’re hearing him, the meaning threaded through every word he’s choosing to give you.

And when he dips his head, lips brushing your temple as the last note fades, you finally understand: John Price is not a man who does anything by accident.

And this? This is him saying it out loud without ever having to say a damn thing.