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darklordofthesimp · 2 years ago

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Sanative (John Price x Reader)

Summary: As Captain Price attends your medical room more often, he manages to get you to open up to him.

A/N: THIS WAS DIFFICULT

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort || Fluff

Warnings: Graphic Language || Description of Violence

Captain John Price went from being an unseen legend to appearing everywhere you turned.

Obviously, you'd tended to him and members of his team before. Some of them were from the recent selection but the most memorable ones had carried through from the past. You just hadn't expected to see the leader as often as you did.

"Captain," you greeted, swallowing thickly as you found him leaning against your doorway.

"Doc," he replied casually, the crack in his voice telling you that he was injured. You rushed forward as he groaned through his teeth. "When are you gonna call me 'John'?"

"Well," you huffed, as you flew to prep your table and his seat, "probably when you call me Saint."

The Captain chuckled as he dragged himself further into the room, hand pressed to his stomach and his gaze firmly locked on you. The man had made sure the door stayed open, breaking the habit of closing it behind him. It made you uncomfortable and while it wasn’t entirely providing him with any privacy, he much rathered your medical attention over isolation.

He watched you move with deft fingers, unwrapping, sanitizing and somehow still maintaining a conversation.

"Come lay down, John," you murmured absent-mindedly, maneuvering the chair to lay out flat like a bed.

"There you go," the officer groaned with a tight-lipped smile, genuine but pained. “You do listen.”

“Or maybe I just pity you, Sir,” you offered him a sly smile, the addressing of his authority was a purr on your tongue. It was playful or meant to be, you hadn’t really thought twice about it.

But John? God.

His movements faltered, fingers digging into the bed until his knuckles turned white. He tried to clear his throat but it was more of a strangled choke and his cheeks burned bright with embarrassment. Or shame. His thoughts fell somewhere dirty, somewhere they shouldn’t have been.

Your name may have been Saint, but all you did was make him sin.

When your fingers dragged across his midriff, stroking over his hand to encourage it to move from the wound, John forgot how to breathe. You sucked in a sharp breath between your teeth at the blood drenching his shirt.

“You gonna take off your clothes or do you want me to do all the work?” You asked, leaning back with an amused smile. John swallowed thickly.

“I don’t think I can, love.” A strained grimace followed his chuckle and he clenched his jaw tightly. “Might have to cut it off.”

You hummed suggestively as you reached for the scissors, a small smirk playing on your lips. When the fabric of his shirt sat snuggly beneath the blades, John reached over to touch your hand lightly.

“Take it easy.” The statement was clearly a question, pleading with you to be soft on him.

“Don’t worry,” you laughed. “I’ll be gentle.”

The Captain groaned. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“I’m trying to distract you.”

“It’s working.”

The words were a growl as the disinfectant met his wound. You tried not to let the tables turn and attempted to block out the sound of his groans. He was unashamed in his grunting, red crawling up his neck as he gnashed his teeth.

You knew he was in pain and that you were breaking some ethical code by entertaining these thoughts. At the end of the day, John was many things- but he wasn’t a mind reader.

It was quiet between you both as you worked. Usually, you filled the space with small talk or casual flirtation but you’ve been running on caffeine and a chocolate bar for the past 19 hours and you didn’t have the energy to talk.

Thankfully, John was understanding. He watched you carefully as you worked, you could feel his gaze burning into your skin as you forced your eyes down. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to see the symptoms of your exhaustion. The minimal amount of flirtiness would have been the biggest indicator.

It was jarring for the Captain, he wasn’t exactly working in an environment that had much exposure to coquettish people. You figured that’s why he’d reacted so obviously to all your advances, subtle or brash in nature.

You wondered if he’d been struck with the question of whether you flirted with all your patients. Did he think that it was part of your medical practice? Something that you did with everyone who’d come through? You’d been out of the social scene for so long that you forgot how to interact with someone you were interested in.

Maybe you were just embarrassing yourself by trying.

“Saint.” A voice sounded from the doorway.

Both you and the Captain turned to see one of the nurses poke their head inside. You immediately offered a smile, acknowledging their call.

"You got another 141 boy waitin' outside for you," they said with a roll of their eyes. "Want me to send 'em in when you're done here?"

"Please," you nodded, "shouldn't be too long."

Price groaned as the nurse disappeared back into the hallway. "Fuck's sake."

The sound of the door clicking shut had your reply dying on your tongue. The room fell silent as you zeroed in on the now closed door.

Anger flushed through your body, heat licking up your spine as if someone had lit you on fire. Your fingers tightened on your equipment as you tried to steady your breathing.

The nurses knew better, they knew better than to close your office door. While it was common practice to maintain a private space, they fucking knew that didn't apply to you.

"Saint?" John's soft call barely registered, tugging you back to the situation at hand.

You cleared your throat. The Captain raised a brow.

"Lean back and brace yourself," you rasped, avoiding his gaze.

You wanted to throw your tools at him and clamber to your feet. Your blood buzzed with urgent anxiety, pressing you to open that door. You didn't want to be alone in here- you couldn't be alone in here.

So much could happen. It could happen again. It might happen again. What if it happened again?

You couldn't breathe, the replay of that fateful afternoon displayed across your vision like a fucked up movie.

Not again.

A hand clapped down on yours and you realised that John had been trying to get your attention. Your eyes snapped upward to meet his with a startled gasp, fingers shaking in his grip.

"You good there, love?" The Captain ducked his head to meet your dropping gaze.

"It's Saint," you stammered.

There was an amused huff. "Saint."

"Yeah," your vision blurred. "...Saint."

The man before you took in a sharp breath. Concern shone brightly in his gaze as he appraised you like he'd just dragged you from the battlefield- like you were a casualty. You wondered what he'd deemed your condition to be when his jaw set with resolve.

John raised his hands in front of him, showing you his palms as he stood to his feet. Your heart leapt into your chest at the movement but you forced yourself to remain still. Your eyes tracked him carefully until he reached the doorway.

When the door swung open it was as if your airway did too.

Dry but quick breath rattled in your chest, chasing the black spots from your vision. It was as if someone had taken their hands away from your throat.

"We ever gonna talk about that, sweetheart?" John asked softly, the words dulcet and comforting.

"Saint," you corrected with a whisper.

He shot you a discontented look.

When he finally reached the seat, his mouth twisted into a grimace. His hand shot to his stomach and you jolted, suddenly realizing that you hadn't finished patching up his wound.

John groaned as you pressed your hand against his chest, pushing him back onto the bed forcefully. His mouth twisted but he said nothing, no flirty comment, no subtle innuendo- the atmosphere was too serious for that.

Instead, the Captain opted to watch you as you worked. Ignoring the sting of his butchered skin and taking in your visage kept him occupied and had him laying still.

You could feel his gaze, it was hot and heavy and burned every inch of skin it passed over. Blue eyes turned to blue fire, forcing you to shiver beneath the intensity.

"It was a soldier," you offered suddenly. The words had fallen from your tongue before you could close your teeth around them.

Price went still.

"He'd come back from a bad mission," you took in a shuddering breath. "Real bad, John."

He didn't make a sound, afraid that you would clam up if you thought about his presence.

Your fingers shook as you worked, your eyes on his wound but seeing something else. You might have looked like you were in the room with him but you were galaxies away.

"He'd been through hell and clawed his way out," you rasped. "By the time he got brought to me, he was half deranged."

Hands closing around your neck, throwing you onto your own nursing bed. His body on top of yours. Rage smouldering in his gaze- tears burning in yours.

No one could hear your strangled screams and you watched in despair as the closed door stayed shut. There was no reprieve, there was no rescue- there was only the shell of a man above you.

You begged, he sneered.

You sobbed, and he gripped you tighter.

When you whispered his name, his real name, with your dying breath… that's when he stopped.

That's when he pulled away as if your skin had scorched him. That's when he scooped your crumpled and gasping body against his in a broken embrace, begging for your forgiveness.

Praying for redemption.

His body wracked violently as he wept, fingers digging into your skin. His face was pressed into the crook of your neck and his tears ran down your chest.

"I'm so, so sorry. God. Please help me. Please-" The words were strangled, choked even.

The door flung open hard to reveal the nurses you'd been screaming for earlier. You wondered if you hadn't said his name, would they be walking in to find you dead beneath him?

When the nurses and guards ran in to remove him, you threw a shaky hand over the man's shoulder.

A silent command.

'Stop.'

No one dared to disobey.

Not when your eyes burned with determined tears, not when your hands came to wrap around the soldier protectively.

You cradled the broken person in your arms, his wailing growing louder when he realized what you were doing. Your hand rubbed up and down his shoulder, your fingers stroking the back of his head- letting his body fit tightly between your arms.

He'd lost so much weight, his bones jutting into your skin. You couldn't imagine the horrors he'd been through. When you'd read the report briefly before they admitted the soldier, you couldn't believe your eyes.

None of this surprised you.

You would never blame him for his distrust.

It was your job to help him.

"You're okay," you soothed, trying to erase the shakiness of your words. Your heart still thrashed wildly in your chest, adrenaline pumping from the near-death experience. "I've got you. You're safe with me. I'll make sure you're okay."

The man pressed his face further into your neck, gnashing his teeth against your skin like the tortured soul that he was. He shook his head.

"You've gotta be a fuckin' saint," he rasped, sniffling between words. "No other explanation."

"Not a saint," you let loose a startled laugh. "Just a doctor."

"You're a saint to me, Doc."

A Saint.

Saint.

You blinked back to the present, realizing that John had been holding your hand throughout the entire conversation. Slowly, you let your thumb rest over his. The simple sign of affection had John drawing in a deep breath and leaning back in his seat.

"That's why you don't like the door being closed?"

You nodded.

"And that's why they call you Saint?"

"Yeah."

The Captain nodded slowly. There was nothing further for him to say, no matter how much he searched for the words. He wanted to commend you, you could tell by the way that he leaned forward- but the look on your face told him that you didn't want to hear it.

It was your job, not an achievement.

"You're all patched up now, John." You muttered, suddenly uncomfortable by the vulnerability.

You never thought you'd be sharing that story with anyone, you figured that if your soldier was ready he'd tell everyone about your connection. Maybe you'd overstepped by telling John although it was vague and non-descriptive.

Price stood to his feet, hesitant.

"You don't have to say anything, Captain," you said, sanitizing the nursing bed.

"I want to." He rasped.

You smiled as you stood up straight. "Take me to coffee and I might consider letting you talk."

The man blushed. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Wordless noises tumbled from his lips as he scrambled for an answer. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

With that John left the room, rounding the corner to uncover which one of his overgrown kids had injured themselves. Out of everyone, he hadn't expected to find Simon with his head laid back against the wall.

"Jesus," Price raised a brow. "You good?"

Simon grunted his affirmative. "Am I right to go in?"

"Yeah, mate."

John watched as the Lieutenant struggled to his feet, gripping the doorway to your office. He heard your voice trinkle through the hallway, inviting him in. The Captain waited, waited for Simon to inevitably close the door behind him- he would quickly open it and then leave. He didn't want to linger, didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable but he couldn't just let you go through that anxiety again.

Simon was known for valuing his privacy, and his need for concealment and isolation. It would only be natural of him to close the door behind him, unaware of Saint's history.

But, when Ghost walked through the threshold, John took in a sharp breath.

The Lieutenant slipped straight in, slowly and with his eyes cast downcast- though, that wasn't what caught Price's attention.

He didn't close the door.

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