"You wanted to see me, sir?"

First lieutenant Zhihao "Banshee" Miller stands in the doorway to Price's office with her arms behind her back. Her black hair is slicked back with sweat. He'd just called her from training exercises.

"Take a seat." He motions to the chair in front of his desk. The order makes her nervous. She's always been good at hiding her nerves, but a call to Price's office always puts people on edge. He'd let her be worried. It would just make what he says all the more sweet.

Price pulls a folder out from his desk drawer and drops it between them. "Do you know what this is?" He asks.

Banshee swallows, taking the offered seat. "I don't know, sir."

"It's your file, covering everything from your enlistment to right now." He taps it for emphasis.

"Did I do something wrong?" Her tone is monotonous and her eyes locked on the photo frames on his desk. It's a perfect segue.

Price turns the first photo around. It's of Gaz, Alex, and Elliott. Gaz holds the toddler in front of him as Alex holds the camera. Half of his face is cut off, the angle thrown off by the fussing child between them. There were better pictures, but this is the one he'd chosen to display.

"You remember, Elliott?"

"Yes, sir."

The Keller-Garricks had visited a few months ago, spending the night at base. Every member of the 141 had cooed over the three-year-old as if he were a kitten. Banshee had even had a chance to hold the infant, looking more scared to be holding a human child than a weapon capable of mass death.

He turns the photo back around. They'd inspired him.

"I've talked it over with some of my superiors and they've agreed with my decision."

Banshee brings her hands into her lap, pulling on her thick fingers until they pop. She flinches and shoves them under her thighs.

"I'm promoting you to Captain."

Her dark eyes widen until there's more white than brown iris.

"The 141 needs someone capable to take the reins. You've shown courage, smarts, and steel."

Banshee works her jaw, tilting her head to the side. The new captain speaks four separate languages and yet seemed to struggle to comprehend what he was saying.

"Your promotion will be finalised come the end of the month, perfect to coincide with my retirement." It's the first time he's said the words out loud and a new emotion comes over him. He thought if he felt anything in this moment, when he finally made it known that he, John Price, was stepping away, he'd feel some semblance of regret. Maybe this wasn't the right decision. But he doesn't. That emotion that bubbles about his brain is a warm contentment. For the first time in his life, he knows he is doing the right thing.

"Retirement?" Banshee's voice is a hint above a whisper, as she feared she heard wrong. She rubs her forehead.

"You're not hallucinating. I'm making the announcement next week, as well as fully announcing your promotion."

There's another first, Banshee's eyes well and for a second, she hunches forward. But then she straightens and blinks back the tears. Her eyes are already puffy and swollen but she puts on a straight face, settled into marble determination. "I'll do you proud sir."

"I know you will. Get along now, I know I pulled you away from work."

She stands stiffly and on wobbly legs, she leaves his office. It's only once the door closes behind her does he hear the choked sob of elation. She whoops and hollers before audibly chastising herself in Mandarin.

Despite his claim of a formal announcement, word spreads quickly of Price's changing career plans. Soldiers whisper when he's around then sit straight backed, ready to bolt the moment he looks at him. So much so that come the formal announcement, in the form of a party in the REC room, everyone sits in silence, holding onto drinks like props. This couldn't be real. John Price, one of the youngest men to reach the rank of Captain in the SAS and founder of the 141, was retiring.

He steps up to the front of the room with his own drink in hand. He'd barely touched it, only sipping at it for the flavour. He hadn't needed the liquid courage.

A murmur had risen upon Price turning down the stereo, "Alright, settle down." They quiet instantly, even Banshee who stands only a few feet away from him. She tries to look brave, like someone worthy of Captain, but she constantly shifts her weight foot to foot. When she catches Price's eyes on her, she stills, but it isn't long before she's on the move again.

"I know you've all heard the rumours. Or lies, if your faces are anything to go by." He turns the radio down some more and clears his throat. He hadn't thought he would need to rehearse this, confident in his decision. "I've been in this career for a long time. I've seen people come and go. Good men who left when the time was right and others who died in the line of duty. I always thought I'd be the latter. But as you all know, I have obligations outside of work now. I have godchildren and brothers of yours who have moved on, building something great. I'm starting a new chapter outside of the service.

"And I know it's a shock. But, I'm not leaving you all high and dry. Come the end of the month, Banshee will be taking over as 141's Captain."

Since the news has had a bit of time to settle in, Price doesn't have to prod for applause. Every set of eyes land on Banshee's shocked form, showering her in congratulatory whopping, clapping, and drunken celebration. The energy of the room shifts from a funeral to what it actually should be, a passing of the torch, a beginning.

At this point, everyone continues to drink and share food. Banshee fights to remain serious and professional. She is Captain after all, but even she can't help it as Grey, someone even more stoic than her, spins her around into the centre of the room, scream-singing the words to whatever pop song is playing and translating it into Swedish. Banshee's entire face flushes redder than a tomato as she mumbles along. Psych turns the radio up. Thatch and Gollum try to play chess in a corner but frequently get distracted by Psych thumping down another round of drinks on the table. There's more merriment. And it tells Price everything he needs to know.

This was more than the right decision. It was fate. Come the end of this month, his office would be packed up and he'd be settling back into a house somewhere in between England and Scotland. There's a great deal of distance between the Riley-MacTavishes and Keller-Garricks, so he needed someplace that would allow him quick access in case of emergency or school events, especially with Siobhan's starting secondary school and ballet recitals, her new sibling finally settling in, and Elliot beginning to form concrete memories. He is going to be very busy, probably for the rest of his life.

—

"Captain Price!" Banshee calls to him, just as he's loading up the boot of his car, "A word!"

"I'm not your Captain anymore, Miller." Price adjusts a bag before closing the boot. Banshee, despite screaming his name from across the base. It's how she got her callsign.

She shakes her head, "Old habits, Price."

"You're never going to call me John, are you?"

"It's not polite." She dips her head a bit, "And it's not like you'll ever call me Zhihao."

"That's why I made you Captain. Anyway, what did you want to ask me?"

Banshee flushes, looking around and lowering her voice. No one is around them to hear her anyway, but she still takes precautions, "I need your advice. Well, it's more of a question, really."

Price nods at her to go ahead.

"Grey and I…" She pulls on her fingers, "I don't want you, or anyone else, to think I'm leveraging my position with her. It's not that. We hadn't started before the promotion but it- it doesn't- I'm not using her -"

Price stops her with a raised hand, "Miller."

"Sir?"

"I'm retiring to help raise kids, the kids of my former soldiers who all got together while in the service. It's not professional, but it's not unique. And I wouldn't have chosen you if you were the type of person to abuse your power like that."

"I didn't want you to regret your decision."

"Then don't give me a reason," He claps her shoulder, "I trust you. I also want you to know you can call me if you need more advice."

She salutes him, holding her hand to her head, "Yes, sir. Enjoy your retirement."

Price smiles, looking around the base one last time. He'd only been at this one for the last few years. Always on the move. What would it be like to sit in one place for more than a week? To get to know the land and the people? And to be known by them in return?

He salutes Captain Miller, putting her at ease. Her and the rest, they are the future. And by god, he trusted them to continue on the good name of the 141. And hopefully, they'd follow his example. They'd build it up, find their own happiness, and move on and live.

John Price was going to live.

—

Price cracks his neck while waiting for someone to open the front door. He knocks again.

"Dad!" A familiar voice screeches from behind it. The following huff is just as audible.

Siobhan opens the door. The sixteen year old's face had been scrunched in angsty irritation, but upon seeing her grandfather, it brightens considerably. Her curly hair is clipped behind her ears, keeping her afro out of her face. The pink butterflies glint in the darkness.

"Price!" She spins around, "Dad! It's Price."

"He heard you the first time! Will you stop yelling?" A voice squeaks from the staircase, Lory.

Siobhan's grimace returns, "Why do you have to criticise everything I do?"

"Maybe because you need the feedback." Lory bites. Their own curly hair, cut into a bowl cut that is saved from being unfortunate only by said curls, bounces around.

"Fucking-"

"Siobhan!" Another voice joins the fray before Price can even step into the home. The cold spring air seeps into the house, not seeing the older man as a significant enough buffer.

Simon stands to their left at the entrance of the living room, he has two backpacks in his large hands. The years away from the service have not dulled his strength. He continues his admonishment softer, "Watch your language with your sibling."

Siobhan's lips press into a thin line. Price would forever be in awe of how the adopted child physically matched Soap in her mannerisms. Of course they were learned, but still. The teenager snatches her bag from her father's hand and storms upstairs, making a show of not kicking her sibling. Lory, the younger one, sticks their tongue out. "Bawbag!"

They turn back around with wide eyes, the same stare exuded a mix of intimidation and fear. Practically stolen from Simon.

He holds the bag out to the thirteen-year-old. "Finish grabbing your things."

Lory pockets their phone and grabs their bag, sulking up the stairs behind their sister.

"Chaotic morning." Price closes the door behind him. He hadn't been invited in, but the likelihood of that not happening was null at this point.

"Siobhan's been a little aggressive since she started working at the arcade. She has her own money now, so she's an adult." Simon rubs his eyes, "Do you want coffee?"

"Do you have any to spare?"

Simon thinks to himself, "Shit, I'm sorry Price. Lory finished the last cup. I'd make you another pot but I need to get ready myself and get them to school." He pats his pockets, spinning around for whatever wasn't in them.

"Wasn't aware they drank it."

Simon tuts, grabbing his keys from a hook near the door, "It's new. Has her bouncing around all the time and getting on Siobhan's nerves."

"Where's the Mister to help?"

He nods upstairs, "Adding to the drama. The shower broke last night. Of course Siobhan blames Lory and Lory blames Siobhan. He's trying to get it fixed before it floods the bathroom."

"How about I take them?" Recently, Ghost found work at a counselling centre. He doesn't have the education to actually counsel but he's there for support and teaches self-defence. He's also sponsoring veterans in AA and NA. Price hadn't gotten a job after his retirement. He didn't need it, always either up in Glasgow or London. Frequently he's driven the kids to school.

"I'll pay for the petrol."

"I think you say that out of habit more than anything these days."

Simon nods saying, don't I know it.

"Siobhan! Lory! Price is taking you to school so hurry up."

The teenagers come thundering down the stairs, suddenly in much higher spirits. Siobhan rises to her tiptoes and kisses Simon's cheek. "I have ballet tonight, but Shawna said she'll drive me home."

"Shawna?"

"She only drove on the curb twice last week." She slams the door open, sprinting her way to Price's car.

Lory rolls their eyes, something that doesn't go unnoticed by their father. Simon sighs, pulling the younger child into his side, "Have a good day."

"I'll try."

Simon doesn't let them go.

"I will." Simon ruffles their hair, just like he does Soap's whenever his husband is in reach.

Something flashes in the sunlight as Lory bounds by, but they're gone before Price can see what exactly it was.

Simon watches after them, reacting softly even as the two fight for the right to the passenger seat. Despite a few choice words on Siobhan's part, she does acquiesce, letting her sibling take the front seat.

"You three better get a move on before Siobhan takes it for a spin."

Simon rests a hand on his bicep. The years, probably for the first time in his life, have been kind to him. The scars that cross his face would never fade, but they don't have as much of a presence, almost disappearing into the wrinkles and honest to goodness smile lines. He smiles now. He's greying faster than Soap, with silver and grey dotting his light hair and completely taking over the sparse facial hair he allowed himself. Price's hair colour change had been more severe, but it brings him some comfort knowing Simon was alive and following in his footsteps.

Price returns the gesture, "Hope dinner is worth the drive and attitude."

"Johnny's cooking so it will." He looks out the open door to Price's car, "And with you around they'll calm down. You spoil them so they're on their best behaviour."

"It's more than I got from any of you."

Simon rolls his eyes ready to retort when an alarm rings from his phone. He curses, grabbing the offending device from his pocket.

"Johnny!" He calls up one last time, "I've got to leave, love."

Soap is soaked head to toe. He literally slips on the last step from the water dripping from him. His hair, less grey than Price and Simon's hair, is plastered to his face. Odd to see that he's committed to the longer hair, the mohawk gone after serving him for many years. The ends flip out where they aren't glued to the base of his skull. Part of it even covers his forehead. But the soaked state of him doesn't stop him from grabbing onto Simon's face with a greasy hand, squeezing his cheeks and chin, and pulling the much taller man down to his lips. He pulls away breathlessly, "I'll have the shower fixed before noon."

Simon flushes with embarrassment, using his jacket sleeve to wipe the water from his face. But not, Price notes, his lips. "I'm sure you will. Price -"

"Will be taking the kids. I'll make sure Lory gets back and I'll help with the shower too. Probably need an extra set of hands."

"You don't have to do that," Simon says at the same time Soap says, "Appreciate it."

Simon, even though he's running late, and Soap, with the broken shower, stand on the front porch and wave Price and the kids off.

Lory has their boots on the dash. They're old and stained by a multitude of browns. The more notable stains are a rusty reddish brown and stiffen the fabric. Judging by the size (still much too big for someone of Lory's small stature) they were Soap's old work boots. The blood never seemed to come out.

Price pushes their feet down and motions for them to buckle up. Lory smiles sheepishly, ducking their head and sliding their phone into their pocket. That unknown object glints again as they reach for the seatbelt. It's a necklace – dog tags to be specific.

"Where'd you find those?" Price starts up the car with a growl of the engine. She had a lot of bark, but no bite. Her old age was a testament to her strength.

Lory looks down, grabbing the dog tags. They rub the metal disks between their fingers. "In Papa's desk drawer." Another thing of Soap's then. He always was the more sentimental of the two. They flip them up, "Simon 'Ghost' Riley and John 'Soap' MacTavish. What weird call signs." They drop them.

Not only Soap's then. Price smiles, turning onto the main road towards the school.

Siobhan enters the conversation then, leaning between the front two seats as far as her seatbelt will let her go. Like Lory, she also wears hand-me-downs, evident by the oversized sweater with the SAS logo on it. Very obviously Ghost's judging by the way the collar hangs off her shoulders. She'd made her own modifications, cropping the bottom. She wears a white tank top underneath. A collection of knicknacks, charms, and old friendship bracelets hang from her neck, moving with a cacophonous sound. They didn't need to worry about putting a bell on her.

"You still haven't told us how Papa got his callsign. Why are you guys always calling him Soap? Even Dad slips and calls him that when he's not calling him Johnny." She mocks lovingly in a crude replication of Simon's Manchester accent. She says it again, this time with Lory echoing in a falsetto.

Price chuckles, "I said it'd be a graduation present."

"Come on," She flops back, "It can't be that good."

"Few things in life truly are."

The kids put in earbuds, used to the times Price drives them to school. It isn't a special enough occasion to warrant constant conversation. Most people might be annoyed by it, but frankly, it's another reminder of the most important chapter of Price's life. Feels like only days since then, not years. Only a few days since the last time he sat in the back of a humvee. Ghost stares out the nearest window in silence while Soap, having finished greasing his face, shares an earbud with Gaz. They nod to music so loud that Price and Ghost can both enjoy it. It's warm.

At an intersection, Price pulls out one of Lory's earbuds. He signals for Siobhan to do the same.

"How are you all doing?"

They share a confused look, "Fine?" Siobhan offers.

"I mean what's going on? How're your fathers doing?"

Lory sinks into their seat, looking to the older Siobhan. She purses her lips.

"Not good?"

"No!" She throws her hands up, "Everything is awesome. It's just," she swallows, "Dad has been backsliding a bit. Papa helps when he can but…"

"But it's kind of hard when Dad pretends nothing is wrong," Lory continues, "He was great this morning but yesterday…he went to lie down as soon as he got home and didn't come out. Not even for dinner."

The siblings look to each other, reliving the moment in dancing silhouettes across their eyes. Price watches them in the rear view mirror.

"He's still adjusting and probably always will be." Price explains, "But when it happens and Soap can't help, call me."

They both nod.

"And what about Soap?"

Lory shrugs, "He's less obvious about it."

"Where Dad shuts down, Papa aggressively cleans and fixes things. He took apart the microwave because he insisted the clock wasn't working right, but he really just needed an excuse."

"He cleaned the grout in the kitchen a few months ago."

Price inhales, holding it for a few minutes. Then he breathes it out. He's helping. This is what he can do.

"What about you two?" He switches gears, "Have anything fun going on?"

The tonal shift isn't lost on them but it also isn't entirely unwelcome. Lory goes first, "There's an animal shelter looking for volunteers this summer."

"Get to play with dogs then?"

"More like shovel shit." Siobhan snickers.

Lory whips around ready to pummel their sister with their phone, holding it high like a club. But unfortunately, Price is there and that's murder. They return to their seat, "Yes."

It's unclear whether it's a response to Price or Siobhan.

"Simon worked in a butcher's shop when he was about your guys' age."

Their eyes light, "Really?" Siobhan practically lifts from her seat.

"No way!" Lory vibrates.

"Yeah. Anyway, Siobhan?"

"School, Work, Dance. Nothing's really changed since your last visit." She crosses her arms, blushing under the scrutiny. She always talked more with Gaz around. She could practically give her autobiography to Elliott even though he's still a bit too young to understand any of it.

"Entertain an old man." He prods.

"My final recital of the school year is in May. I've got a. Uh…" She scratches her ear, "A solo." She mumbles.

"Look at you!" He's going to gush, embarrassment be damned. "A prodigy like your pops!"

"Which one?" Siobhan leans forward again, catching herself on the seats as Price breaks hard.

"They're both great, but I'm talking about Soap. Youngest man to ever be accepted into the SAS."

"Wow," Lory tips their head, "You must be very proud." They flatten their voice, hanging their head until Price responds.

"I am."

They smile, hiding it behind their hand.

"I've known your fathers and uncles for a long time now and…you couldn't ask for a better family."

He stops in front of the school, watching teenagers slump inside. "I'll be picking Lory up and if Shawna doesn't come through-"

"I'll call, don't worry, grandpa." She grabs her bag and pauses halfway out the door, "Love you!"

"See you at dinner, kiddo." He grabs onto Lory's shoulder, "You too. Love you both."

They wave to him from the front doors, nowhere close to being embarrassed or ashamed of the open affection. Many students pass them by but a few stop and look at who the Riley-MacTavishes are looking at. He gives a salute and watches as the two head inside.

—

"How do you do this? Like, what is the logic? Who invented maths?" Elliott erases another messed up math problem.

And to answer his question, Price has no idea. He hates to admit it, but it's been a while since he's been in school and a while since he's had to do school-level maths. But he leans over the kitchen table, "I think you forgot to carry this number here." He points at the scratchy remains of the failed problem.

Elliott rewrites the problem, this time carrying the forgotten digit. He sticks his tongue out as he scribbles.

"It's going to get stuck if you keep doing that." Price points to his pink tongue, wiggling a finger at him.

"Daddy said that isn't true." Of course Alex would say it isn't true. Price shakes his head.

"If your Grandpa says it's true, it's true." Gaz says from the door to the garage. His hands are busy with a large box, office supplies, written across the side in marker.

"Well daddy-"

"Daddy hasn't seen what I've seen. I had a cousin…" Gaz shudders, "Her tongue is still stuck."

Elliott's eyes widen.

"That's what I thought." He drops the box on the kitchen table, "God, I swear there are more boxes than we started with. Do they usually multiply during moves?"

"Are you complaining, Garrick?"

"No, sir." He stands at attention, then relaxes. "It's my house, I can complain. How's the homework coming along?"

"It's stupid." Elliott drops his pencil.

"Yeah, but you need it."

Elliott stands, disappearing into the bathroom before Gaz can call to him. "He better come back and finish this."

"He will. One thing about him, he'll get the job done."

"I wonder who taught him that."

"Yeah. I wonder."

Gaz sits down in Elliott's abandoned seat, sliding the paper directly in front of him. He scans it.

"Am I doing this right?" He holds it up, "Sometimes I think I'm drowning him. Like actively holding him under." He drops the page, smoothing it out. "Alex seems like he knows everything."

"He doesn't."

"I know." He runs his hands down his face, "I know. How the fuck do Soap and Ghost do it?"

"Same way you do. Do you hold Elliott when he has a nightmare? Help him with his homework? Yada yada."

"Talk him through insecurities?" Gaz adds with a tilt of his lips.

"Yeah. And I know you're doing it right because you're going to live to a ripe old age with Elliott by your bedside."

Gaz had been right. Price had been talking about himself. Just last year Siobhan called, asking for help with Soap. Price showed up, talking to them both. Last month he'd driven in the middle of the night to help Gaz and Alex navigate Elliott's first bout with the flu. He'd help clean while the couple took turns holding the sick child in their arms.

He couldn't have done that if he stayed in the military. He wouldn't even have grandchildren to help if we hadn't been there for his kids. Without the 141, Simon would have stayed doing solo-ops until the day he died. Gaz and Soap…probably would have left but only after an injury forced them to, and only a terrible one. Soap still struggles with his knee brace. Gaz's back is fucked up from the multiple falls. But they're alive.

"Who would've guessed?" Gaz says.

Price laughs, "Not me."

"Thank you, Price."

He grabs a hold of Gaz's hand, taking in the wrinkles and scars. If they're getting old, what's happening to Price?

Well, he's getting happy.

—

Elliott is talking a million miles an hour, "Sleepover, sleepover, sleepover-"

"Settle down or I'm sending you to your actual bed." Price tosses a pillow at him.

"That's at a different house." He pouts.

Price stands, grabbing a hold of a pile of blankets, "I know."

Lory's already out cold, their blanket over her face. Price pulls it down. No one would be happy if he let a grandkid suffocate on his watch.

"I'll drive you!" Siobhan yells from the bathroom from where she's brushing her teeth.

"No!" Elliott drops to the couch, bouncing on the cushion. He falls back, kicking his feet as Price drapes a blanket over them. The tyke holds his feet up, making a tent of it till Price swats them down. Elliott giggles.

Siobhan tweaks his nose, ignoring the toothpaste still stuck to her chin. "Don't be naughty Ellie and I won't have to."

He ducks his head under the blanket, giggling some more.

Siobhan rolls her eyes. She tucks herself into the nest she'd made on the floor.

"Hey pa?" Elliott asks from his makeshift blanket fort.

"Who said that?" Price turns around, once again fixing Lory's blanket so they don't die.

"Don't know." Siobhan flips onto her stomach, also surveying the living room.

Elliott throws the blanket back. "I did!"

"Oh," Price shoves his hands in his pockets, "Didn't know you were here."

Elliott pouts.

"Go on kid. What's on your mind?"

"How come you don't have a husband?" His grandson tilts his head.

Price shrugs, "Never been my thing. Didn't need any spouse when I've got you all. Already grey enough as it is."

"So you're not lonely?"

"Not a bit. Now go to sleep or I'm not making you pancakes in the morning."

Elliott continues to toss and turn, making efforts to start a conversation. Price ignores him, snoring loudly whenever he does just to be earned with another laugh. Then he tries his cousin who does the same thing, but isn't quite successful at hiding her own laugh. Lory joins in with real snores, just to keep things interesting.

It's like an overnight mission Price had led over a decade ago. Soap had passed out almost immediately. Gaz had tried to talk, bored out of his mind. If the other sergeant had been awake, he would have indulged him.

And Simon and him had fucked with Gaz until he feel asleep. Simon put on headphones, pretending he couldn't hear a single thing only to respond to a question with one word and never speak again. Price kept offering to tell them all bedtime stories till Gaz finally huffed and turned his back to him.

What was it about history repeating itself?

—

Siobhan still dances, always supported by her romantic partners – two people who gave Soap a run for his money when it came to cheering at the end.

Lory works at probably a thousand different shelters for humans and animals alike. They followed Price's example, never settling down until the number of cats became too numerous.

Elliott graduates Uni, adding on a Ph.D. to his already long name. His partner is content enough to play house-spouse.

Most annoyingly though is that Price still can't accept the great in front of grandpa. Can't accept Simon's grimace at being called grandpa at all or Gaz being grey, or Soap pretending he wasn't. Because when he first met all of them, he didn't think any of them would get those silvers in their hair or be sitting around with children and grandchildren. He thought he knew everything about them, but there's always something new.

Soap hates dogs.

Simon's allergic to cats, but he makes do. (To be fair, Simon didn't know either).

Gaz, while a great driver himself, can't teach it for shit. Alex did most of that.

But one thing he never struggled with, was knowing they'd be there.

Price is old. He accepts that now. And it's not in the way other soldiers often joked about behind his back. He's grey and wrinkled and tired. But by God, he's not alone.

Another thing he knows, his time is coming. Everyone else knows it too. It's why they're all here, as if they were celebrating Christmas. In their line of work, going in your 90s isn't too bad, especially when you've got plenty to show for it.

Who needs a magazine when you've got real-life?