Pink Mugs And Painful Expressions
Warnings: You go to the gym regularly
Summary: While on leave, Price gets fixated on a girl at his gym with a painful running face
A/N: Price seems so domestic, this premise is so silly but so soft
AO3 Link: Pink Mugs And Painful Expressions
The first thing Price noticed about you when he saw you the first time, sweat covered and finishing up his gym routine, was the immaculate look of pain on your pretty face. You were running on the treadmill at a steady but punishing pace, and the expression on your face reminded him, oddly enough, of a baroque painting of a martyr being tortured. Eyes cast up, eyebrows tight, your mouth slightly parted and aggressively downturned. He'd seen that same look of agony on men who had lost limbs. It jarred him enough that he openly stared for almost two minutes before coming back to himself and quickly leaving.
You went to the gym at the same time everyday, he realized, seeking out the striking expression on your face everytime he came to train. Leave made him restless, antsy, often resulting in multiple gym trips a day. He adjusted his schedule to match yours, because the tortured look on your face gave him something to focus on outside of the combat he was itching to go back to. He wondered why you ran so often if you loathed it so much. He wondered if you were just a particularly expressive person. He wondered if you were constantly miserable and not cognizant of the face you made at the gym. He wondered if this fixation was inappropriate.
It was one of your usual gym days, and John had just finished up his last set, head turned over his right shoulder to look back at the treadmills when he knocked into someone. His head snapped forward as he instinctively grabbed onto the person's wrist, steadying them before realizing who it was he bumped into.
"I apologize," he said, looking down at your slightly red face, "I wasn't watching where I was going."
"It's alright," you replied, your voice clear and slightly breathless, "I wasn't paying much attention either."
There was a beat. John realized he was still holding your wrist and snatched his hand back with another apology. You smiled at him shyly and he felt the world shift. Your eyes were lovely.
"I'm John Price," his hand shot out almost reflexively. You shook the offered palm gently and introduced yourself as he marveled at how small your hands were compared to his. "I apologize for knocking into you, love." You smiled again, laughing away his apology, ducking your head and gently detaching yourself, turning to leave. He was too caught up replaying the sound of you laughing to realize you were walking away before you were already gone.
The quiet was the worst part of being home. In the field, there was always noise. Gunshots. The murmur of his men conversing. Even when silence was required you could hear the shift of a uniform, the quiet footsteps. His flat had no noise. Price was a man accustomed to company, and his empty flat was silent as the grave. He forced himself into the shower, letting the water wash over him for over an hour. He'd go out tonight, he decided. Go get something to eat, maybe go to a pub. Hear the clinking of glasses and the sounds of conversation. He'd get his mind off your sweet voice and the feeling of your tiny wrist in his hand. He just needed to breathe. He got out of the shower and smoked a cigar.
The pub turned out to be a brilliant idea. With good food to fill his stomach and good bourbon to dull his senses, he felt himself unwind slightly. The bell over the pub door jingled and he looked up reflexively before he caught his breath. Of all the gin joints in all the towns, he thought. You're haloed in the doorway, leading a group that must be your friends. John feels a distinct pleasure at the cheerfulness of your expression as your eyes survey the room, zeroing in on an empty table. He watches you order food and drinks, watches your cheeks flush and your smile widen with every sip and every comment. It delighted him, your overly expressive face being so brilliantly cheerful outside of the gym.
Eventually, you volunteer to grab the next round, slightly stumbling as you rise from the table. You beeline for the bar and land next to his elbow, anchoring yourself against the corner of the bar as you wait for the bartender to take notice of you. You smell incredible. John can feel it when you see him, really see him, because you startle like an animal. He waits a breath before hearing a small throat clear. His eyes meet with yours.
You smile, embarrassed, and blurt, "I don't want you to think I'm a stalker," eyes wide with sincerity. "I've just noticed you at the gym before and then I bumped into you today and now we're at the same pub…" you trail off. "I like your hat." You duck your head and a quiet laugh bubbles in John's throat.
"I'd never accuse you of stalking me outright," he said, his eyes twinkling.
You reward him with a giggle that would bring him to his knees if he wasn't already sitting.
"Buy you a drink?" John asks, but your eyes dart towards your friend and his heart sinks.
"Maybe not tonight," you say, regret coloring your tone, "maybe we could go another time? I'm free Friday," you say shyly, "I can give you my phone number?"
He pulls out his phone embarrassingly fast, swiping past his home screen (the entire team dogpiling Gaz, laughing harder than a man with several very heavy grown men on top of them should be able to.) and opens the new contact page before sliding it to you. You type your info in quickly before gracing him with another one of your shy head bobs and breaking off, completely forgetting the drinks you were supposed to retrieve.
John calls the bartender over and asks him to send your group another round on him. He can see the bewildered baby deer eyes you give him all the way from across from the room. He tips his hat, unable to completely drop the smirk on his face, and settles his tab before heading out, the bell tinkling merrily behind him, sending him into the night.
The gym was now the focal point of John’s day, eagerly waiting for Friday, drinking up every interaction he had with you. You’d stop to say hi to him now, and he could feel your eyes on him when he was lifting. On Thursday, he could’ve sworn he caught you staring at his ass, your guilty eyes rising up to meet his. He wanted to laugh, settled for a grin, just to watch the way you flushed, a slight crease in between your eyebrows.
He asks you for dinner instead of drinks, decides a meal is the proper way to do things, not entirely trusting himself to be a complete gentleman with liquor running through him. He picks a quiet restaurant, something he knows, a place with all the exits mapped out in his brain. He offers to pick you up, and is rewarded with a line of smiley faces that would irritate him from anyone else. He thinks of the time he made Soap do push ups for slipping an emoji into an official report, and the memory of the Scotsman’s indignance makes him laugh, carrying him lightly out the door and towards your flat.
You open the door with a flourish and it takes all of John’s self restraint to keep his jaw from dropping. You’re in a sundress, soft and flowing, shoulders bare and your hair down. You smell like peaches. Price freezes, staring at you silently until you bite your cheek nervously.
“Do I look alright?” You ask, and it’s John’s turn to flush.
"You look lovely,” he says, remembering his manners, “are you ready?”
You nod, and he offers you his arm, leading you out to his car, opening the door for you. You smile at him in delight as he shuts the door, and he uses the walk around to the driver's side to try and recover some composure. He needed to pull himself together, couldn’t spend the entire time just staring at you. In the car it’s worse, the radio playing quietly, the scent of peaches stronger. He had lost his advantage, a feeling he disliked on principle, but fumbling for conversation like this hadn’t happened to him since he was a teenager.
"So what do you do?” You ask into the silence, pulling John out of his thoughts. He pauses, trying to decide what he could reveal.
"I work in the military,” he says vaguely. “What about you? Professional marathon runner?”
You let out a snort, and Price smiles at you, eyes creasing at the sides as you launch into an explanation of your job. He likes the way you talk, he decides, the way that you constantly move your hands, your face changing, becoming more expressive the more you speak. He’s only half paying attention to the road now, relying on muscle memory to get you two to your destination, trying to memorize the way your nose crinkles, the quirk of your lips when you say something you think is funny. When you get to the restaurant, you wait patiently for him to come open your door, taking his offered hand with a small smile as he pulls you out of the car. When he orders a Bourbon, he laughs out loud at the look of disgust on your face.
“Not a fan of the finer things, are you, love?” Price teases.
"Not a fan of the taste of jet fuel, more like it.” You respond with an eye roll. John wonders if he’s ever smiled this many times in a day before. He loses himself in you, doesn’t realize the night has grown long until the candles on the table have burnt low. The energy shifts on the way back to your flat, and Price finds himself covertly stealing glances, trying to decipher your thoughts. He can feel your stare branding his skin, turns to meet your eye to find you’ve conveniently turned away just in time.
"May I walk you up?" He asks, watching the streetlights shift and change your face.
"You're quite the gentleman," you respond, smiling softly.
Price didn't realize he was capable of loving a flat before yours. It was full of life, posters and photographs covering the walls, brightly colored mugs cluttering the sink, your clothing shed haphazardly around, the bed unmade and stuffed to the brim with pillows.
You make nervous apologies for the mess, clear him a place to sit down. He takes his hat off and thinks of his own flat, bare and cold with the bed made to army regulation every day, clean but dusty, an empty shell. He likes it here, in this cluttered, lively place, more than he thought he would. He would help you keep it clean, he thought to himself, make the bed in the morning, do the dishes. His chest got tight at the idea of waking up next to you, of being allowed in this sacred, private space. He dug his nails into his palms and cleared his throat. For God's sake you'd only been on one date.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" You ask, rustling around in the kitchen, and John wonders what mug you'll pick out for him.
The mug is pink and heart shaped, ridiculous in his large, rough hands, and you're laughing at him.
You're laughing at him and the tea is warm and strong and perfectly made, and your eyes shine in the low light as you sip from your own mug, a perfectly respectable blue, shaped like a normal mug. John sends you the disappointed look that normally sends people running, and you let out a delighted squeal, nearly spilling your perfectly made tea in your efforts to mock him.
"If I'd have known you were gonna be funny, I wouldn't have walked you up," he grumbles, but the twitch of a smile underneath his mustache gives him away, sends you into another round of laughter.
It's late when he finishes the last sip of tea, and he wonders if you can feel the switch. You're closer than before, heads leaning together unconsciously, nearly whispering. It's been a long time for Price, longer than he'd like to admit, but he still knows the game, leaning down towards you, his eyes on your lips. He places one of his large hands on your knee, feeling the soft material of your dress. It stings his ego more than he'd like to admit when you pull back, eyebrows pinching together.
"I have an early day tomorrow " you say softly. Your eyes drift towards the door, then back to Price, apologetic and regretful. He wonders if he's spooked you and pushes down the impulse to touch you again. He pulls back, shifting out of your space.
"Don't let me keep you up then, love. I'll just get out of your hair." Price says, standing up and grabbing his hat. He places it back on his head and turns towards the door, wondering if this is goodbye. You trail after him.
"I'd like to see you again John." You say quietly, your voice suddenly shy again.
He pauses, one hand on the doorknob before turning to step closer to you. You let him enter into your space, but John wonders if he placed a gentle hand on your throat if he'd feel your heart humming. Instead, he reaches out, gently tilting your chin up. Your eyes slip close instinctively.
"I had a really nice time, love." John's voice rumbles low from his chest.
Then he leans in and captures your soft lips with his own, and he doesn't need to feel your pulse to know it's fluttering like a bird. He pulls back and smiles softly, before turning to leave your flat.