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Another injury on the field, another sick leave at home to welcome his wife and daughter like he always has -- with a broken, battered body and barely enough energy to stand.
The fireplace crackles in the quiet night, the darkness outside sending shadows across the walls. The house is warm, just like it has always been. Little things have changed since Price remembered it, but most of it remains the same.
It always does.
Quiet footsteps alert him to your presence in the hallway. He hasn’t seen you since returning home. He hasn't seen you in too long.
Fourteen. You're fourteen. It’s been months since he’s been home, years since he’s been in the house for longer than a few months at a time, but he never expected you to have grown so much in so little time. You were supposed to be his little girl. But here you were, a teenager, staring at him from across the darkened living room like you’ve seen a ghost. Staring at him like you don’t know who he is.
Maybe he doesn’t, either.
Sit with me, he wants to say, but he doesn’t. Your mother says you haven't gone through your moody teenage phase, but he’s wary of it. Because he hasn't been here for so long, he’s not sure how you’ll react to anything he says. You’re so big.
“Hi, Peanut,” he says instead of voicing everything he wants to say. Because he hasn't been home in so long, he hasn’t talked to you in so long, he doesn’t have the right to say all those things. To say you've grown when he should’ve witnessed it.
You don't understand what he’s been through. But the look on your face is something close to distraught as you stare at him. He knows he’s seen better days. Bullets to the shoulder, waist, and thigh don’t give much room for keeping up appearances. Almost dying isn't forgiving to aesthetics. His facial hair is weeks overgrown, his eyes sunken, his body wrapped in bandages that he’d like to think are useless now, but he knows better. Old wounds have a habit of popping up over time, especially if they aren't healed correctly.
Your approach is nearly inaudible, your footsteps breezing over the wood floor. You were always a quiet one, even when you were small. Your mother liked to joke that you got it from him. But Price was never around enough to teach you that, was he?
Price’s heart clenches as you stand in front of him, so grown, your hair longer than it had been before, your frame thinner. He’s lost so much time. Have you been eating?
“Hi Poppa,” you whisper, and sit beside him on the couch, tucking your legs over his and curling into his lap like a small child. “I missed you.”
Price’s arms surround you immediately. Sweetheart. His little girl. Not so little anymore.
“I’ve missed you too,” he murmurs, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his embrace as protective as it is needy, his body ignoring the ache in his wounds in favor of being close to his daughter again. Your head tucks under his chin as you close in on yourself, as if trying to be absorbed into his skin. Your skin is cold, icy. You look so small.
“You don't look so good,” you say quietly. Like you're scared, perhaps of him , perhaps of what he’s become. Price huffs out a humorless laugh -- not so good is an understatement, and he knows that. He looks and feels the worst he ever has, but your presence warms his weary body, even if your weight is unsettlingly cold in his lap.
“Don't worry about me, sweetheart,” he responds. “I’ll be fine. I always am.”
Your head shakes under his chin, and you sniffle. Price’s heart clenches with the realization that you’re getting choked up.
“I hope you're right.” Your head is still tucked to his chest, as if you're afraid he’ll disappear if you move even an inch. “I miss my dad.”
An ache bubbles in his chest, a tightening that nearly steals his breath at your confession. He wants to deny it. I’m right here, he wants to say. But who is he kidding? That person you miss -- the carefree, joking, warm father who didn't look like a dead man walking that you knew from your childhood, however infrequent, isn't here, not entirely, at least.
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs instead. “I’m sorry.”
I’m still your dad. Still your poppa.
“No,” you murmur, and Price’s fingers clench around your back. You sniff, but you don’t move, don't look up at him, as if you’re afraid of what you’ll see. “I’m just happy you're alive.”
God, you're just a kid. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. You deserve a father who’s here. You deserve a dad.
Price rests his chin on your head. He knows what you're trying to say, that you understand that his pain isn't his fault -- but it shouldn't be something you have to understand. You're just a kid.
“I’ll be fine,” he repeats, the words slipping out of his mouth automatically. A self-reassuring mantra.
“It’s okay if you're not.”
The words are honest. Your fingers curl around the hem of your pants, twirling the fabric around the digits tightly. Maybe you can learn to be happy with this version of your father as well. Maybe. Price leans his head back against the sofa, though his hold on you doesn’t loosen. He’ll be fine. He always is.
But what does that mean for you?
“Please don't go back.”
Oh.
“Sweetheart…” Price murmurs, his stomach clenching at the realization. It’s okay if he’s not okay. Because maybe, just maybe, that means he won't go back. “It’s complicated.”
Deep down, in the quiet part of his heart where he rarely lets himself linger, he craves the comfort of a normal life. He craves the simplicity, the peace, that he knows he'll never find back on the frontlines. But that’s not him. It never has been.
Injuries are part of the job. He’ll heal. All will be fine.
“Doesn’t have to be,” you respond simply, your body unnaturally still and unmoving as you remain curled against him. No, he doesn’t have to go back. He’s injured. He can be honorably discharged. But -- “I want my Poppa.”
Price’s jaw clenches involuntarily, the sharp intake of breath nearly choking him. Honor, duty…
“I know,” he says, his voice thick. “But it’s not that simple.”
It should be.
“I need my Poppa,” you amend, and fuck, Price can hear the desperation in your small, timid voice. He’s hurting you. He’s always hurt you. “And Momma needs her husband.”
He swallows, his throat suddenly tight. The mention of your mother strikes a nerve, cutting through his defenses like a hot knife. The weight of your words settle heavy on his shoulders, worse than any injury or loss he’s ever endured.
“Peanut, you… you don’t understand,” he murmurs, the familiar guilt beginning to resurface. You’d never understand. You're just a kid. But you're his kid. “It’s my duty. It’s who I am.”
“You're also a husband.” The words aren't angry, even if they should be. Price wouldn’t blame you. They aren't even sad, just resigned, and that makes it all worse. They're the quiet, resigned words of a child who’s tried to understand. Because he’s always chosen the military over you. His duty to the military over his duty to his family. “And you're supposed to be my dad.”
A simple, innocent truth that cuts to the very core of his identity.
“I…” he starts, his voice faltering. I’m still your dad. “I’m trying to do what’s right…” he finally manages, a desperate attempt to justify a choice that feels like an impossible war raging inside him.
“For who?”
The question hangs in the air like a ticking bomb, echoing in the still silence. For who? It’s a question Price wishes he didn't have to answer. He opens his mouth to respond, but the words get lodged in his throat. He knows what you want to hear, what you and your mother deserve to hear. But the truth, as painful as it is, refuses to stay hidden.
“For my country. For my men. For the cause.”
Your breath leaves your body, quiet and shuddering. You close your eyes, and you don't move, even though you could. He knows you're not a small child anymore. You’re not naive enough to think that little parts of your dad are enough. But even though any other daughter would get up and scream and leave, you don't. Because you need your father, however little of him you get.
“Then you shouldn’t have started a family.”
Price tenses, the truth of your statement slicing through the fog of his justifications, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. He’s been ripped open, his innermost demons and fears exposed.
“Sweetheart,” he begins his voice catching in his throat. “I just --”
“Please don’t say anything else,” you whisper, your voice quiet and timid and honest. “Let me pretend.”
Your honesty and vulnerability shake him. They force him to confront the harsh reality that he’s allowed his duty to overshadow his family, to the point where his own child is begging him to… to pretend.
His stomach clenches, the guilt and despair welling up like a flood. Pretend. Pretend like you have a real father. Pretend like you don’t have to grasp at whatever pieces of him you can find. Pretend like he, for once, makes a choice that he never will.
He swallows, trying to find his voice.
“...Okay,” he manages to say, his grip on you tightening. “Okay, sweetheart. You can pretend.”