When price has to take his sweet, beloved baby to be vaccinated, he cries more than she does.
"It'll be okay, sweetpea, just be strong for dada, okay?" He rumbles, baby tucked to his chest in the exam room. She's so small and excited, wide eyes taking in the new room, no idea what's about to happen.
But price does, and it tears him up inside.
The nurse has the needle out, and price has to fight the urge to tuck his little girl against his chest and hide her away. Instead, he nods with his face already red in upset and forces out "okay. Do it."
The reaction is instant, baby's hands curling into fists and face twisting with a cry. Wet, innocent eyes turning to stare at her papa as if asking why he did that to her.
The rest of the day, price is inseparable with her.
Keeps her cuddled up in his arms or right in front of him, eye's glassy with remorse. Even when you point out how your daughter has clearly moved on, smashing her toy trains together, he just furrows his brows.
Maybe this was the first reminder.
That some thing's he can never protect from pain. Not even his daughter. Not even you.
When he comes home to an empty house, gutted and trashed with bullet holes in the plaster and no signs of you or his kid, he will think of that exam room.
How he had to hold his daughter in his arms and hurt her, seeing the needle long before she knew what it was.
