Chapter Text
She hadn't meant to stop. At least, not completely stop—but really, how could anyone expect anything different when that caught her eye?
"Oh. My god," Sparrow whispered, leaning in to stare at the boutique's window display. There, sitting proud on a little hand-knit mat… "It's so cute—"
—was a round, squishy-looking stuffed bird. Pale eggshell blue all over its body, while its head sported a slightly darker shade and plush, rounded pink beak. It perched on two equally soft looking feet, toes sticking out and wings folded behind its back while it peered out at the world with its embroidered eyes.
She needed it.
She needed it now.
She needed it right. Fucking. Now.
Sparrow stared at it, breath misting the glass like a child peeking through a holiday shop as her nose just barely kissed the window. The cold seeped through her sleeves where her arms pressed against the display, but she didn't care. Not with that little round bird staring back at her like it already belonged in her arms.
She wanted to reach through and grab it, roll it around in her hands and feel it—would it be as squishy as it looked? Or firm but still huggable? Whatever it was made out of looked softer than clouds—was it fleece? Minky? Brushed flannel? What about its little pink cheeks and the sweeps of blue extending from its eyes—were they embroidered? The little marking almost resembled—
Parrotlet Plushie — £25. Inquire inside for details on B-grade plush discounts.
—a parrotlet. She'd heard of them before, knew they were sparrow-sized tropical birds with larger than life personalities, but to see one in plush form?! Her heart raced a little against her ribcage as she turned to look at Price over her shoulder.
"Daddy," she whispered urgently, beckoning him close while fighting the urge to literally bounce in place. "Daddy, look. It's so round."
A soft chuckle escaped Price as he stepped up beside her, wrapping a strong arm around Sparrow's waist to tug her closer. She instinctively leaned into him as he peered at the display, muscles loosening under the firm, familiar pressure. It made her feel… smaller. Not just short in comparison, but kept. Like she didn't have to make decisions or act big or think too hard—not when he was here to do that for her.
Sparrow glanced at him through the reflection, at his soft expression and how his eyes crinkled at the corners before he turned his head to smile at her. "I see it, little love," he rumbled, shifting a little further so his lips brushed her temple. "It's cute."
"Can we go inside? So I can… so I can touch it, maybe?"
The words were barely out before her chest clenched tight. Heat rushed to her face—not the good kind like it'd been earlier when Price was making her giggle over a cup of tea, but that awful, prickling warmth that bloomed up her neck and burned at the tips of her ears.
Stupid!
God, what was she doing? She was nearly twenty six, a trained combatant, a sergeant in the bloody SAS, and here she was—fidgeting at her Captain's side, voice going soft and squeaky like a toddler asking for a toy. Which, sure, okay, maybe she was a little bit of that in this moment, she could feel her thoughts going a little fuzzier, a little softer, like she was about to slip into littlespace—
Instead, shame curled low in her gut, thick and sickly sweet. Her hands twitched as she stood there, suddenly unsure what to do with themselves as the urge to run and hide and pretend this never happened threatened to topple her.
Her heart jolted—too loud, she'd been too loud! Panic slithered through her veins like something alive, curling around her spine and making her breath catch. Her eyes darted past Price to the street beyond, wide and glassy as she scanned the passers-by. Had anyone heard? Was anyone watching? God, what they must've been thinking—seeing a grown woman, a fucking soldier nonetheless, cooing over a child's toy like she was four years old.
"Sorry," she blurted, already trying to shift away from Price, ducking out from under the weight of his arm like she could vanish if she moved fast enough. "I don't—never mind, it's stupid—"
"Love," Price caught her arm before she could get out of reach. "Hold on a second." His hand curled around her wrist in a firm yet kind hold, stopping her near frantic fluttering. "Slow down."
Sparrow froze instead.
"Come here, little one."
"It's… it's fine, John, really—"
"Erin."
He tugged at her arm until she plodded the couple steps back to his side, head ducked low as tears stung at the corners of her eyes. She tried to pull away again when a warm, callused hand came to cup her chin, only to fold when Price gently nudged her face up. When she finally met his eyes, he smiled kindly, brushing his thumb across her cheek in slow, calm arcs.
Instinctively, she nuzzled into his palm, thoughts going a little softer, a little hazier before he spoke again. "That's better. Now… you wanna go inside? Reckon I've got a few extra quid in my wallet—might as well use it on something for my girl."
“Really, we don’t have to—“
“I know we don’t have to,” Price sighed, looking her up and down with fond exasperation. “I’m asking if you want to, poppet. Yes or no.”
Sparrow's throat clenched.
She hadn't meant to want it this badly, much less show it! Except now it was all bubbling up—the shame, the softness, that stupid flutter of hope in her chest…
Her mouth opened. Closed.
Did she want to go in?
“Yes,” Sparrow squeaked out before she could stop herself. Her eyes went wide—shit, too fast— “I—yes, please, Sir—“
Price’s lips twitched beneath his beard. “Don’t need to call me sir right now, love. Go on—I’m right behind you.”
Sparrow darted in before she could talk herself out of it, Price following at a slightly more sedate pace. Almost immediately, she bee-lined for the window display, stopping just short of the bird’s little perch, hands reaching out—
—but she froze just a couple centimetres away from the bird’s soft head. Was this really… allowed? She already had other plushies that her boys let her keep on the bed—treasured them, even—but another? This one? Did she deserve it, much less need it? It was just a toy, just a silly little thing with a round belly and pink cheeks, and she was an adult, too old too much too Sparrow—
“Erin,” Price murmured, stepping up beside her again.
His palm found her back, broad and warm, and Sparrow startled before melting into the familiar weight of it. It wasn't just touch, it was an anchor. It was Price holding her steady when she was convinced she would float away.
“You’re allowed to pick it up,” he murmured, low and certain.
“But it’s… kinda expensive, and I already have—“
“Love.”
He turned her gently, hands shifting to land on her shoulders. Not pushing, not scolding, just there. Like he always was. The heat of his fingers radiated through her coat, little tendrils of warmth curling over her like feathers folding over her skin.
Wings, that's what it felt like. Every time he touched her like this, it felt like being scooped into the shelter of his wings—a firm, warm, living barrier between her and the world. His little bird, safe in his plumage.
“You’re allowed soft things." He murmured. "Stop torturing yourself. Pick up the bird.”
Sparrow blinked up at him, mouth already opening to protest— “Only if you’re sure—“
But he was already moving. Price reached over with zero hesitation, plucked the plush from the stand, and dropped it into her hands with such smooth finality that she chirped in surprise and instinctively curled her fingers around it to catch it.
It wobbled in her grasp.
And the entire world stopped.
Oh. My. God.
The weight of it in her hands was suddenly everything to her. Like someone pressed pause on the whole world and handed her the only thing that mattered.
It was softer than she could’ve ever dreamed. The fabric yielded under her touch like brushed clouds—smooth and fine and impossibly warm, likely thanks to the heating vent above the display. Her brain went quiet in that way it only did when she was well and truly little—when all that existed was texture and softness. Sparrow brought her fingers up, tracing over the plush’s pink cheek with a thumb like it might blush harder beneath her touch…
It wasn't just soft. It felt… right. Like something had finally come home. Firm body, soft outer layer, not a single seam to be found… she could practically imagine it chirping at her.
Maybe she could fit it with a little voice box? Get the boys to record themselves, so any time they were away she could squish it and pretend they were home?
No, no… Sparrow shook her head. Cutting into the little friend seemed… sacrilegious, somehow. It was perfect as it was—big enough to hug, small enough to store in a bag when they traveled for things that weren’t mission-related…
“She’s so soft,” Sparrow breathed, eyes smarting with tears as she whipped around to face Price once. She clutched the bird with trembling fingers for a moment longer before shoving it toward him, almost pouting. “J-John—Daddy—feel her. She’s so soft.”
Price reached out slowly, letting his palm settle over the bird's fuzzy head. He stroked once, twice—steady and gentle—before his lips curled into that same smile that always felt like home. His cheeks lifted, beard shifting as he scratched idly at the side of his jaw.
“So she is," he agreed. "That the one you want?”
Sparrow hesitated. Her eyes dropped to the bird's stitched face, watching as those little black circles stared back at her—not mocking, not judging, just… soft. Accepting.
God, she wanted it. She wanted it so badly her ribs ached. But… it was just a toy, wasn't it? Something silly and childish and so far beneath her—
She could live without it.
She always had.
That's what being strong meant, right?
Except—
But that’s not what I asked, now is it, little one?
Her gut twisted as Price's voice rang in her thoughts, saying all the things she was too scared to admit out loud. Damn him and his stupid sensical nature…
Her gaze lifted slowly, meeting his eyes after a few moments. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes—the ones she not-so-secretly adored—deepened as he kept that patient, reassuring smile up.
Warmth spilled over her cheeks like honey.
"Y—Yeah," she finally managed to whisper. "I-I mean, yes, please, if…"
Her throat went tight, and she tried to swallow past the lump. Instinctively, she lifted the plush, holding it aloft so it was just about level with his eyes. Her head's almost the same colour as his eyes… "if it’s okay. I can pay for it—!”
Before she could say another word, Price plucked the plush from her hands.
And for a brief, panicked, aching second—she thought he was going to set it back on the shelf. Her heart sank clear to her feet as she imagined the moment playing out: how he'd shake his head and tell her that she didn't need it after all, that they should go, that it was cute but too silly and childish for him—
“Come on, then. Till’s near the door.”
Of course, he didn't. All he did was nudge her forward, one large hand settling gently at the small of her back, the other holding the plush by its scruff. Of course he didn't, he never would, and Sparrow mentally berated herself for even entertaining the possibility.
He didn't let go of her once, either. Not when they reached the counter. Not when he pulled out his wallet. Not even when the cashier handed over the receipt.
"A bag, sir?"
Price shook his head. “We’ll carry it. Cheers.”
And just like that, the bird was placed back in Sparrow's arms. Back where it belonged.
Together, they stepped outside into the soft grey light of late afternoon, the air smelling of soil and rain and the faint sugar-sweet pastry scent from the cafe down the road where they'd had lunch. Sparrow blinked up at him, her arms wrapped tightly around the plush now, as if she could squeeze the entire moment into its soft belly.
He bought it for me.
He bought me the bird.
He saw me. Heard me. Watched me panic. And gave me this anyway…
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Price drawled, nudging her back towards the car. “I’ve seen you less stressed helpin’ the lads diffuse a bomb. Thought you were gonna bolt for a second.”
Sparrow’s cheeks flared. “I was not! I was just… making a tactical decision.”
“Sure you were,” Price agreed, pulling her door open and ushering her in. “Well, I’d call that a success. Tea, a date, and a little something for my little bird. Suppose we’ll have to call it Junior.”
Sparrow wrinkled her nose, shaking her head hard enough that her curls flew everywhere around her face. “Not Junior. Peep. We’re calling her Peep.”
Price smiled again, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Peep it is, then.”
The entire ride back to base, Sparrow couldn’t stop staring at her newfound friend.
Peep.
She'd tucked the plush into her lap like something sacred, fingers dancing over her fuzzy sides. Her entire body felt warm all over—all soft and floaty and cotton-stuffed—as she squished Peep's little cheeks again. Every time, something fluttered in her belly, like a tiny little flock taking flight.
It was silly. Stupid. The kind of thing she would've hidden before—swallowed down and shoved away into the deepest parts of her heart like it didn't matter—but now?
Every little squish sent a fizzy, giggly feeling through her chest—from her heart to her breastbone to wrap around her ribs… and every little jolt made her want to laugh into the bird's soft head.
Speaking of head…
She pressed Peep's head down gently until it flattened into a squat little pancake. Potato mode, activate! Sparrow giggled under her breath before letting Peep puff back up again, smoothing her head with a thumb. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Price's mouth twitch again as he shook his head fondly.
Maybe he realized he'd created a monster with this? He didn't seem to mind, at least, but knowing that he bought this for her made her wiggle in her seat all over again.
The entire ride back, her fingers kept brushing over Peep's body—so soft it made her heart ache with something fierce and tender. Every stroke sent tiny pulses of calm down her arms, grounding her in the moment, reassuring her that this was real.
Sparrow lost track of how many times she traced Peep's embroidered cheeks. Nudged her little wings. Poked her cute beak.
It's mine.
Not something she only got to borrow for a time. Not a gift to feel guilty about. Not a childish weakness to be corrected.
Just… a plush. A soft, beautiful, pointless little thing that she could call her own and treasure and love without limits.
And the thought kept bubbling up—looping over and over, so giddy and full and sweet that it spilled from her lips in the softest little whisper:
"Daddy bought me a plushy…"
It wasn't just a statement. It was a declaration. A promise. A truth so warm and small it made her want to cry. So she said it again, a little louder, lips brushing blue fuzz.
"Daddy bought me a plushy…"
She hugged Peep tight to her chest, nose buried in her soft blue crown as her eyes fluttered shut—though in the second before she lost herself to the feeling of this wonderful little friend in her arms, she swore she saw Price's smile grow.
"That's right, poppet," he murmured, low and sure beneath the quiet hum of the engine. She sighed as his hand slid gently over her knee, anchoring her there like he always did. "Daddy bought her just for you. Now rest that sweet head. I've got you."
