Julien

my poor angel!! omggg

It’s always “hi shark” or “good morning parkie” every time he sees you walking into the hospital.

You’re attentive, bright eyed, kind no matter how many of your colleagues have definitely told you to treat him colder than normal.

You simply don’t, have never even tried to dim your warm demeanor.

That’s what he likes about you, your inability to be cruel or mean, even if it means getting teased for it by the other residents.

You simply shrug it off and keep swimming.

And to say he doesn’t play around with it a little would be unfair.

Christmas Eve is upon us, as Christmas lurks around the corner; so does Captain Price.

“I can help, you know.”

Price doesn’t even look up from under the hood of your car, one grease stained hand reaching for a wrench. “You are helping, love. By staying right where you are.”

You’re not staying where you are, though. You’ve already circled around to his side, watching the way his shoulders flex under his tight black t-shirt as he leans deeper into the engine. His jeans are riding low on his hips, and you’re having thoughts.

“I’m very handy,” you insist, stepping closer.

“Mmhm.” He’s not paying attention. Big mistake.

You slide your hands around his waist, ostensibly to peer over his shoulder at whatever he’s doing. Your palms flatten against his stomach, feeling the warm, solid muscle there. Price pauses mid-reach.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping,” you say innocently. “I’m… stabilizing you. For safety.”

“Stabilizing.” His voice is flat, but you catch the hint of amusement.

“Yep. OSHA regulations.”

Your hands drift lower. Then lower still. Then they’re very firmly on his ass, giving an appreciative squeeze.

Price straightens up so fast he nearly hits his head on the hood. He turns to look at you, one eyebrow raised, wrench still in hand. There’s grease on his forearm, a smudge on his jaw, and he looks absolutely delicious.

“Love.”

“Yes?” You bat your eyelashes.

“That’s not helping.”

“Isn’t it though?” Your hands are still exactly where they were. You give another squeeze for good measure. “I’m boosting morale. Team building. Positive reinforcement.”

His eyes narrow, but his mouth is twitching. “Positive reinforcement.”

“You’re doing such a good job,” you coo, patting his ass like he’s a prize show horse. “Such a strong, capable man. Very impressive.”

“Christ,” he mutters, but he’s definitely smiling now. He turns back to the engine, and you take this as permission to continue your “assistance.”

You press yourself against his back, arms sliding around him again. This time your hands roam more freely, tracing the lines of his obliques, smoothing over his chest, dipping teasingly toward his belt buckle.

“You’re a menace,” he says, but his voice has gone a bit rougher.

“I’m helpful,” you correct, rising on your tiptoes to kiss the back of his neck. Your hands slide down to grip his hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. “Very, very helpful.”

Price sets down the wrench with deliberate care. “You know what else would be helpful?”

“What’s that?”

In one smooth motion, he turns and lifts you onto the edge of the car’s frame, stepping between your legs. His hands land on either side of you, caging you in, and suddenly he’s very close, all blue eyes and barely contained amusement.

“If you stopped distracting me so I could actually finish this,” he says, voice low. But his thumbs are stroking your thighs, and he’s looking at your mouth.

“But this is so much more fun,” you murmur, looping your arms around his neck.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet you love me.”

“Unfortunately.” But he’s kissing you now, slow and thorough, tasting like coffee and that hint of cigar smoke that always clings to him. When he pulls back, there’s a smudge of grease on your jaw from his hand.

“Oops,” he says, not looking sorry at all.

“John Price, did you just- ”

“Just getting you back, love.” He pats your thigh and steps away, returning to the engine with infuriating composure. “Now, are you going to actually help, or are you going to keep fondling me like a stress ball?”

You hop down, moving to stand beside him. “Can’t I do both?”

He hands you a rag. “Hold this. And keep your hands where I can see them.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m loads of fun. After I fix your bloody car.” But there’s warmth in his voice, affection in the way he glances at you.

You behave. For approximately forty five seconds.

Then your hand finds its way back to his ass, and Price just sighs like a man who knows he’s fighting a losing battle.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he mutters.

“I know,” you say sweetly, giving him another pat.