needle!phobic!ftm! reader x price/implied poly!141 pt.2
Price brings you in for your yearly blood test like clockwork. It takes much wrangling, as if you were still a child being condemned to the doctor’s office. You make a break for the nearest window no less than five times, with Soap having to body-slam you to the floor that last time to keep you from getting away.
You thrash and protest all the way to the infirmary, slung over Price’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry, swinging with each step like a sack of wet rice. When you reach the infirmary, Price gives you a firm smack on the bottom that quickly silences you with a gasp.
You know he means business now, and he’s tired of your whinging. He may be patient, may be more like a tolerant father than a captain, but he won’t let you shirk off something that’s crucial to keep you healthy. If there’s even the slightest imbalance in your results, he wants to be able to take action immediately, not have to wait around until you’re showing symptoms.
Once you’re in the waiting room, you go quiet and deathly still, pale and shaking. You curl against the captain’s side, breath quickening, as if you were facing the executioner’s axe and not a mere needle.
Price pats your thigh reassuringly. “Easy, now. Not much longer. They’ll call y’ in any second now.”
“A-and you’ll come with me, right?” you croak out, horribly embarrassed that your voice, now deepened to a fine tenor-baritone by testosterone, cracks like a young boy’s.
Price nods. “I’ll be right there. Won’t leave your side. If y’ good, there’ll be a treat in it for y’ later.”
That’s the only way he can bribe you into behaving when it comes to the doctor— promises of a new game or trinket, or sometimes something to satisfy your sweet tooth. And plenty of cuddles later on, of course, when you and he meet back up with the rest of the team in the rec room.
“Sergeant Y/N L/N,” calls one of the nurses, popping her head out of the corridor. You jerk, hunkering down in your chair and eyeing the door like you might the to make one last run for it.
Price grabs you by the scruff of your uniform just as you’re about to tense and run. “Ah-ah. Don’t even think about it. Come on. Sooner we get this over wif, th’ sooner y’ get to relax.”
He steers you into the corridor. You dig in your heels every step of the way like a stubborn dog being dragged to the vet.
The nurse, one of the older staff members, knows this routine from past years, and she shakes her head in anticipation. You’re notorious around the infirmary for going AWOL from bed rest and managing to slip away at every turn. Even the security guard they placed outside your room once when you were injured on an op and had to stay overnight wasn’t enough to keep you from sprinting down the hall like a madman, dressed only in a hospital gown and grippy socks. That was how you’d earned your callsign— Flight Risk.
It wasn’t the worst callsign in existence, but it wasn’t exactly flattering when the whole story was told. Usually, you just let the rookies think it was because you’re some kind of badass wanted across the continents— when in reality, you’ve only left Europe a handful of times.
The nurse leaves to let you get settled in the back room used for blood draws and vaccinations. It’s a cramped space that smells like antiseptic and acrid fear. Price sits down in one of the chairs, pulling you down onto his lap. You’re shaking, your chest tight with anxiety, palms slick with sweat.
Price holds you close, gently bouncing you on his knee. “Shhh. Y’ alright.”
The nurse returns with the necessary equipment, and your eyes nearly roll up in terror. You’re stiff as a board as she rolls up the sleeve of your shirt, swabbing the soft inside of your elbow with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide. The tourniquet goes on next, that awful band that makes your arm go numb and tingly. Your breaths come in heaving shudders, your eyes tightly shut.
“Just a little pinch now, okay?” the nurse says soothingly, her hands steady as she prepares for the draw. “Deep breath in, and—“ There’s a sharp pain from the needle, making you flinch and whimper quietly. Price, now keeping you still instead of bouncing you, strokes your hair, letting you bury your face in the side of his neck.
“There we go,” the nurse says in satisfaction, taping the needle to your arm so it won’t get jostled by your tremors. “This won’t take long at all, I promise. If you start feeling dizzy or nauseous, let me know, okay?”
You feel both, but you’re not about to say so. You just cling more tightly to Price, hyper-aware of the throbbing in your arm. Your shaking has only gotten worse, and you’re just barely on this side of the cusp of panic.
Price kisses your cheek, his beard scratchy against your skin. “Hey, c’mon, lad. Look at me. Y’ fine, I promise. Halfway done. Breathe for me, jus’ like we practiced. In and out. In for five, out for five.”
You struggle to follow his example, your breathing coming in shallow hiccups. Your head is spinning, and you’re hot and cold all over. Realistically, you know that you’re barely having any blood taken out of your body at all, but your head thinks that you’re apparently being butchered.
Price thumbs over the hand of your left arm, the one being drawn from, distracting you from the pressure of the tourniquet and the aching of the needle. You feel shame curdling in your belly. You’ve just started getting used to your T shots, no longer dreading the days leading up to your dosage every two weeks, so why is a blood draw so much harder? You feel like a fawn caught in the headlights. You know that this isn’t how a man is supposed to behave, but you can’t force yourself to calm down. Everything is too much.
“All done!” the nurse announces, efficiently slipping the needle from your arm and holding a bit of gauze over the pinprick of blood there. The needle is disposed of in the biohazard bin, and you’re suddenly being given an array of bandaids to choose from, a novelty they usually reserve for soldiers’ children. Sniffling softly, you pick out an Avengers bandaid, and are rewarded with it placed carefully over the draw site. It makes you feel just a little bit better.
Price kisses your cheek again, murmuring praise as he lifts you up, helping you to stand. Your legs feel wobbly and you’re still lightheaded, blinking under the bright LED overhead lights. Price takes your hand, leading you back out into the waiting room and then down the hallway to the exit door. Your fingers curl around his own, staying close to his side as you quiver like a wet kitten.
He pauses to check that you’re alright before guiding you towards the BX. The next thing you know, you’re lapping at an ice cream bar bought from one of the freezers. The cold chocolate is a welcome mood boost, and you feel the tension in your body easing, the fog of fear gradually beginning to evaporate. Price is still holding your free hand, watching you lap at your treat with a kind of paternal pride. He knows that the last half-hour was hard for you, but you were his good boy, trusting him to know what was best for you.
