Last thing John ever thought he would be was a father.

Fatherhood left a sour taste on the tip of his tongue whenever it became to a subject aimed towards him. The idea of handling a little human of his own ; tending to it, nurturing it. Moulding and shaping into a person that grew up to be nothing like him.

Price never liked the image of fatherhood on him.

But, perhaps, fatherhood wasn’t a case of whether or not it looked good on them, laid the palms of their hands. For soldiers like him, just maybe, it wasn’t always a choice, but rather something they chose to step up to do.

And that seemed to be the case for John ; he made that choice the moment he’d rescued a child from a crumbling building, held safely in the lifeless body of his parents, and even in their final moments they managed to keep their young safe and sound.

In the midst of war — — cruelty and blood, violence and everything that brought out the worst in humankind.

Price wasn’t a good father by all means, it never came as naturally to him as it did to Laswell or Gaz. But he was learning. He wanted to learn, yearned do be something —, anything better than a lost man for this child that had their whole world ripped from underneath them.

And now John was their solid ground.

It seemed to be after a particularly hard day, into a new life where everything was brand new.

He tried to be a patient man, a patient father and tried to understand the little meltdowns. Went as far as to ask Laswell, who taught him that it was normal. That the child was merely learning to feel, to express something they didn’t know how to yet.

But many meltdowns, tears and raised voices later, even John snapped. For the first time, he had shouted at the child he promised to love.

Perhaps that’s why he was there, sat on the corner of the bed, voice softer than he ever remembers it being.

“I’m sorry for yelling,” the man finally spoke.

A pause, a short one — “I’m trying. To be a good dad for you. I got frustrated, and I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“I’m sorry.”