2dozenowies: 20. sleep disorders [insomnia] (cox/jd, NC-17)
Title: Sleep Disorders [Insomnia]
Rating: NC-17. Oh, baby.
Pairings: Cox/JD.
Notes: For 2dozenowies.
Word Count: 2418
Warnings: Boys fucking! Yum.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: You try to decide whether you can get your hands on some stimulants from the pharmacy to get you through this, because you're going to need something or else sooner or later you're going to end up killing someone.
The first night you can't sleep, you don't think too much of it. This happens to everyone sometimes, where there's too much on your mind when you go to bed, so that every time you close your eyes another thing occurs to you until you're sitting up in bed, your forehead resting on your knees, thinking.
This time, it's Ms. Morrison, going in for surgery in the morning. Her epilepsy's gotten so out of control that you've decided it would be best to sever her corpus collosum, and your neurological and surgical consults agreed with you. You don't know why she's gotten to you, when you've got a man in his early fifties with early-onset Alzheimer's disease, a sixty-year-old woman who needs a trach ring implanted who swears she's not going to quit smoking, and several other patients who are dying, leaving spouses and lovers and children behind. But Ms. Morrison is the one who gets to you, even though she gets to live, and she'll probably even be fully functional after therapy.
But for one reason or another, you can't get her out of your mind, even though the best you can do in her case is actually pretty good. All you can do for Mr. Flannery, the Alzheimer's patient, is tell him about support groups, tell him there are memory exercises he can do to slow the progression of the disease. All you can do for Mrs. Lassiter, the trachectomy patient, is tell her that it's never too late to quit, yes even though she has to get her trachea removed because of throat cancer, because next it could be her lungs or her heart and that really could kill her and what about her husband and her daughters - how worried must they be now? All you can do for Mrs. Sorenson and Ms. Whitman and Mr. Chamberlain is tell them you'll make them as comfortable as possible.
So maybe they're all on your mind, and maybe Ms. Morrison's sticking out so much because there's so much that can go wrong with her surgery. But it doesn't matter now, because there's nothing you can do from here, because it's up to the surgeons, isn't it? So maybe you should forget about it and get some sleep.
You know those kinds of thoughts are only going to make things worse - only a few hours left to sleep, I'm going to be a zombie tomorrow and that can't be good for my patients, and how hard can it be to close your eyes and relax, anyway? Et cetera. But you can't stop them. So you're nodding over your coffee in the caf, trying to remember what day it is and what time Ms. Morrison and Mrs. Lassiter are getting out of surgery, trying to listen to Elliot talking about how she burned the oatmeal this morning, trying to decide whether you can get your hands on some stimulants from the pharmacy to get you through this, because you're going to need something or else sooner or later you're going to end up killing someone.
The second night you consider drinking to help you sleep, and the third night you try it but it doesn't do anything except send you to work with a hangover the next day.
The fourth night is even worse, because you can't even remember anymore how long it's been since you've slept, and you know you were just lucky that Dr. Cox was hanging over your shoulder today when that patient crashed, because your interns are still paralyzed with fear every time they hear those alarms, just like you were once.
The morning of the fifth day, Dr. Cox gives you a bottle of Ambien and tells you that you're not helping anyone by being here like this and if you need some time off then you need to take it because what happened yesterday shouldn't have happened and if it happens again you'll be in a lot more trouble than you've ever been in with him, because next time could be the time you kill the patient with the family with the high-priced lawyer, who will come after you without hesitation.
You've been listening, but you guess you haven't really heard him because you just start babbling on about how it's been five days now and even though Ms. Morrison is doing fine and Mrs. Lassiter listened to you and Dr. Cox was there to save your ass yesterday, you just can't relax the way you should and you've had problems sleeping before but it's never been this bad, you've never fallen asleep in the shower before, like you did this morning, and all the coffee in the world isn't helping you with anything except dehydrating you, and you've done everything you're supposed to to try fix it but nothing is working, nothing at all and maybe there's something really wrong and all of your thoughts are running together lately and you lose track of the time and your files and even your damn coffee, and you don't realize Dr. Cox has pulled you into a supply closet until his hands are on your face and he's looking you right in the eye and saying, "Listen, Josephine. If you need to have your breakdown, do it in here where no one's going to watch you," and he kisses you and tells you he's taking you home.
The fact that he kissed you doesn't really hit you until you're in his car. "Why did you do that?" you ask him, your words sort of blurring together, and you think that everything seems blurred lately, even your own reflection in the mirror and Dr. Cox is talking again.
"Newbie," he's saying, "Do you know what it's like to be someone's hero?" You shake your head, but you don't think he sees you. "It is only the biggest ego trip possible, and you just don't know what that does to me, Sandra, I mean, really." He runs his hand down over his face. "We'll divide up your patients for the rest of today and tomorrow." You're still in the passenger seat of his car, your hands in your lap, the bottle of Ambien clutched loosely in your fingers, looking over at him.
"You kissed me," you mumble, and he sighs, growling a little, and unbuckles your seat belt, gets out of the car and hauls you out of the passenger side door, leading you up the stairs to your apartment. You give him your key when he snaps at you to give it to him, and he pulls you into your bedroom, pushing you down on your bed.
"Here," he snaps, shaking out a pill from the bottle and giving it to you.
You've barely had time to swallow it when he's kissing you again, a little less rushed this time but just as forceful, one of his hands gripping your jawbone and the other one on the back of your head, pulling you in. You try to kiss back but you're not sure if you're successful, but either way Dr. Cox doesn't seem to mind. "I'll be back after my shift is over," he tells you, "Get some sleep, Annabelle."
You pull your covers back and lie down, and soon enough shadows are playing with each other and you feel a pleasant weight on your limbs and soon you can't even keep your eyes open.
On the fifth night, you wake up to Dr. Cox shaking you, asking you how you're feeling and if you slept okay and you say yes, and he says good and then he kisses you, and it sends your head spinning again but this time it's not the sleep deprivation getting to you, and he's pulling your shirt over your head and moving his mouth against your neck, biting and sucking the flesh there, and you're sure he's leaving marks but you don't care too much right now as his hands are moving down your body, warm and a little rough, teasing and tweaking at your skin. He grumbles impatiently when you have to get up and search for condoms and lube, and you figure there's no question about who's going to be screwing whom here and you really don't have much of a problem with that, so you give them to him and he tosses them aside while he pushes you back down on your bed, pulling your scrub pants off (you didn't bother getting undressed earlier) and teasing you through your boxers, making your hips and your back arch up toward him. He snarls at you, telling you to stop making those girl noises or this is off, get it?, so you choke on sighs and moans while he drags his palm across the head of your dick, making you twitch and shiver.
The pill you took still hasn't really worn off, and you feel drunk when you sit up and get down on your knees in front of him, unzipping him and feeling a little shy when you see his erection. You tentatively run your tongue up the length of him, reveling in his hisses and the low moans you hear. His hands are in your hair, urging you on, and now you're not really sure whether the pleasant haze everything seems to be filtered through is the aftereffects of the Ambien or whether it's something else.
You vaguely remember doing this before, a few times, back when you were still an undergrad, and you figure you must have been a little drunk when you did it, because you think it might have been Turk you did it to, but you're not sure. You wonder if you're doing this right, but judging by the noises Dr. Cox is still making - that same low moaning, rumbling in the back of his throat - you've got little to be nervous about. You graze the head of his cock with your teeth, applying just enough pressure, making him careful with the way he lets his hips buck toward you or the way he presses on the back of your head. You relish the feeling of control, while you still have it - which, it turns out, is not much longer.
You grunt as he hauls you up toward him, pushing you back down on your bed and pulling off your boxers. Through the haze you feel a little too exposed, a little uncomfortable, watching him unrolling a condom over his cock and slicking it with lube. It's not like you haven't done this before, either, but last time you slept with a coworker ... well, that didn't turn out well, and thinking of Kim brings back those painful memories again for just a second, and before that it was Elliot, and you guess that could have gone worse. But Dr. Cox isn't like Elliot, and if something goes wrong here, you're pretty sure things aren't going to just eventually right themselves again. Then again, if you push him away now, things won't be able to right themselves anyway, so you might as well enjoy this while it's happening.
"Alright there, Newbie?" he's asking you, and it takes you a moment to nod. "I'll go slow," he tells you, and you're in awe of that for just a moment, because that's pretty weird behavior for someone who's giving you what's basically a mercy fuck. So you ignore the fact that he mistook your apprehension for something else entirely and nod again, relaxing the best you can when you feel his cock pressing against you. It still hurts, kind of really hurts for a second, but he's going slow, like he said he would, and he's stroking you while he draws in and out, and soon enough you're trying to stifle the noises that are threatening to creep out of you, and oh fuck that's so good and you don't want it to ever, ever stop. You squeeze your eyes shut and your fingers grasp at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto. "Fuck," you whisper, and the tension and the tightness is building up, and he leans down to put his mouth to yours, and you want to tell him to stop, to slow down, because you realize that you really don't want this to ever stop, but it will, and as soon as it does he's leaving, walking out the door, and if you ever try to say anything about it ... well, he'll probably punch you in the mouth.
So you try to speak, but it doesn't really work, because when you try to say "Stop" what comes out is "Oh, God" and when you try to say "Wait" what comes out is "Please."
"Oh, God, please." There's really only one way to interpret that, and Dr. Cox moans and shudders above you, and the sound hits you, pooling in your groin and you can't hold back anymore, shivering and pushing your hips up toward him.
He falls next to you, head landing on the pillow beside yours, and his harsh, ragged breath is in your ear, one arm resting casually across your hips. And there's that stupid hope again. When he closes his eyes and dozes off for a moment, you really think he's going to stay, and it'll be nice having someone sleeping next to you again, even if it's only for a night.
But it looks like you won't even get that. He wakes up after a few minutes, and looks over at you with that impassive expression on his face, and really, that look says it all. This doesn't leave this room. Say anything and I will kill you.
He sits up, finds his clothes and starts getting dressed. "You don't have to leave, you know," you mumble, and you wince, because that sure was a stupid thing to say. Of course he has to leave. Or at least he doesn't have to, but he's definitely going to.
"I'm not that guy, Newbie," he says, and you know it.
"Yeah," you reply, under your breath, and you watch him go.
"Good night," he says, and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
After a few minutes of watching the ceiling, you grab the bottle of Ambien off your nightstand and swallow another one. Stupid, you know, but you don't care, because now you won't have to deal with the thoughts that are threatening to keep you awake for another night.
LOL Ambien. Also, second-person point-of-view FTW.
The next story is one I'm nervous about posting, because it involves the old JD-being-forcibly-raped chestnut. It's also the last one I've already written.
Rating: NC-17. Oh, baby.
Pairings: Cox/JD.
Notes: For 2dozenowies.
Word Count: 2418
Warnings: Boys fucking! Yum.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: You try to decide whether you can get your hands on some stimulants from the pharmacy to get you through this, because you're going to need something or else sooner or later you're going to end up killing someone.
The first night you can't sleep, you don't think too much of it. This happens to everyone sometimes, where there's too much on your mind when you go to bed, so that every time you close your eyes another thing occurs to you until you're sitting up in bed, your forehead resting on your knees, thinking.
This time, it's Ms. Morrison, going in for surgery in the morning. Her epilepsy's gotten so out of control that you've decided it would be best to sever her corpus collosum, and your neurological and surgical consults agreed with you. You don't know why she's gotten to you, when you've got a man in his early fifties with early-onset Alzheimer's disease, a sixty-year-old woman who needs a trach ring implanted who swears she's not going to quit smoking, and several other patients who are dying, leaving spouses and lovers and children behind. But Ms. Morrison is the one who gets to you, even though she gets to live, and she'll probably even be fully functional after therapy.
But for one reason or another, you can't get her out of your mind, even though the best you can do in her case is actually pretty good. All you can do for Mr. Flannery, the Alzheimer's patient, is tell him about support groups, tell him there are memory exercises he can do to slow the progression of the disease. All you can do for Mrs. Lassiter, the trachectomy patient, is tell her that it's never too late to quit, yes even though she has to get her trachea removed because of throat cancer, because next it could be her lungs or her heart and that really could kill her and what about her husband and her daughters - how worried must they be now? All you can do for Mrs. Sorenson and Ms. Whitman and Mr. Chamberlain is tell them you'll make them as comfortable as possible.
So maybe they're all on your mind, and maybe Ms. Morrison's sticking out so much because there's so much that can go wrong with her surgery. But it doesn't matter now, because there's nothing you can do from here, because it's up to the surgeons, isn't it? So maybe you should forget about it and get some sleep.
You know those kinds of thoughts are only going to make things worse - only a few hours left to sleep, I'm going to be a zombie tomorrow and that can't be good for my patients, and how hard can it be to close your eyes and relax, anyway? Et cetera. But you can't stop them. So you're nodding over your coffee in the caf, trying to remember what day it is and what time Ms. Morrison and Mrs. Lassiter are getting out of surgery, trying to listen to Elliot talking about how she burned the oatmeal this morning, trying to decide whether you can get your hands on some stimulants from the pharmacy to get you through this, because you're going to need something or else sooner or later you're going to end up killing someone.
The second night you consider drinking to help you sleep, and the third night you try it but it doesn't do anything except send you to work with a hangover the next day.
The fourth night is even worse, because you can't even remember anymore how long it's been since you've slept, and you know you were just lucky that Dr. Cox was hanging over your shoulder today when that patient crashed, because your interns are still paralyzed with fear every time they hear those alarms, just like you were once.
The morning of the fifth day, Dr. Cox gives you a bottle of Ambien and tells you that you're not helping anyone by being here like this and if you need some time off then you need to take it because what happened yesterday shouldn't have happened and if it happens again you'll be in a lot more trouble than you've ever been in with him, because next time could be the time you kill the patient with the family with the high-priced lawyer, who will come after you without hesitation.
You've been listening, but you guess you haven't really heard him because you just start babbling on about how it's been five days now and even though Ms. Morrison is doing fine and Mrs. Lassiter listened to you and Dr. Cox was there to save your ass yesterday, you just can't relax the way you should and you've had problems sleeping before but it's never been this bad, you've never fallen asleep in the shower before, like you did this morning, and all the coffee in the world isn't helping you with anything except dehydrating you, and you've done everything you're supposed to to try fix it but nothing is working, nothing at all and maybe there's something really wrong and all of your thoughts are running together lately and you lose track of the time and your files and even your damn coffee, and you don't realize Dr. Cox has pulled you into a supply closet until his hands are on your face and he's looking you right in the eye and saying, "Listen, Josephine. If you need to have your breakdown, do it in here where no one's going to watch you," and he kisses you and tells you he's taking you home.
The fact that he kissed you doesn't really hit you until you're in his car. "Why did you do that?" you ask him, your words sort of blurring together, and you think that everything seems blurred lately, even your own reflection in the mirror and Dr. Cox is talking again.
"Newbie," he's saying, "Do you know what it's like to be someone's hero?" You shake your head, but you don't think he sees you. "It is only the biggest ego trip possible, and you just don't know what that does to me, Sandra, I mean, really." He runs his hand down over his face. "We'll divide up your patients for the rest of today and tomorrow." You're still in the passenger seat of his car, your hands in your lap, the bottle of Ambien clutched loosely in your fingers, looking over at him.
"You kissed me," you mumble, and he sighs, growling a little, and unbuckles your seat belt, gets out of the car and hauls you out of the passenger side door, leading you up the stairs to your apartment. You give him your key when he snaps at you to give it to him, and he pulls you into your bedroom, pushing you down on your bed.
"Here," he snaps, shaking out a pill from the bottle and giving it to you.
You've barely had time to swallow it when he's kissing you again, a little less rushed this time but just as forceful, one of his hands gripping your jawbone and the other one on the back of your head, pulling you in. You try to kiss back but you're not sure if you're successful, but either way Dr. Cox doesn't seem to mind. "I'll be back after my shift is over," he tells you, "Get some sleep, Annabelle."
You pull your covers back and lie down, and soon enough shadows are playing with each other and you feel a pleasant weight on your limbs and soon you can't even keep your eyes open.
On the fifth night, you wake up to Dr. Cox shaking you, asking you how you're feeling and if you slept okay and you say yes, and he says good and then he kisses you, and it sends your head spinning again but this time it's not the sleep deprivation getting to you, and he's pulling your shirt over your head and moving his mouth against your neck, biting and sucking the flesh there, and you're sure he's leaving marks but you don't care too much right now as his hands are moving down your body, warm and a little rough, teasing and tweaking at your skin. He grumbles impatiently when you have to get up and search for condoms and lube, and you figure there's no question about who's going to be screwing whom here and you really don't have much of a problem with that, so you give them to him and he tosses them aside while he pushes you back down on your bed, pulling your scrub pants off (you didn't bother getting undressed earlier) and teasing you through your boxers, making your hips and your back arch up toward him. He snarls at you, telling you to stop making those girl noises or this is off, get it?, so you choke on sighs and moans while he drags his palm across the head of your dick, making you twitch and shiver.
The pill you took still hasn't really worn off, and you feel drunk when you sit up and get down on your knees in front of him, unzipping him and feeling a little shy when you see his erection. You tentatively run your tongue up the length of him, reveling in his hisses and the low moans you hear. His hands are in your hair, urging you on, and now you're not really sure whether the pleasant haze everything seems to be filtered through is the aftereffects of the Ambien or whether it's something else.
You vaguely remember doing this before, a few times, back when you were still an undergrad, and you figure you must have been a little drunk when you did it, because you think it might have been Turk you did it to, but you're not sure. You wonder if you're doing this right, but judging by the noises Dr. Cox is still making - that same low moaning, rumbling in the back of his throat - you've got little to be nervous about. You graze the head of his cock with your teeth, applying just enough pressure, making him careful with the way he lets his hips buck toward you or the way he presses on the back of your head. You relish the feeling of control, while you still have it - which, it turns out, is not much longer.
You grunt as he hauls you up toward him, pushing you back down on your bed and pulling off your boxers. Through the haze you feel a little too exposed, a little uncomfortable, watching him unrolling a condom over his cock and slicking it with lube. It's not like you haven't done this before, either, but last time you slept with a coworker ... well, that didn't turn out well, and thinking of Kim brings back those painful memories again for just a second, and before that it was Elliot, and you guess that could have gone worse. But Dr. Cox isn't like Elliot, and if something goes wrong here, you're pretty sure things aren't going to just eventually right themselves again. Then again, if you push him away now, things won't be able to right themselves anyway, so you might as well enjoy this while it's happening.
"Alright there, Newbie?" he's asking you, and it takes you a moment to nod. "I'll go slow," he tells you, and you're in awe of that for just a moment, because that's pretty weird behavior for someone who's giving you what's basically a mercy fuck. So you ignore the fact that he mistook your apprehension for something else entirely and nod again, relaxing the best you can when you feel his cock pressing against you. It still hurts, kind of really hurts for a second, but he's going slow, like he said he would, and he's stroking you while he draws in and out, and soon enough you're trying to stifle the noises that are threatening to creep out of you, and oh fuck that's so good and you don't want it to ever, ever stop. You squeeze your eyes shut and your fingers grasp at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto. "Fuck," you whisper, and the tension and the tightness is building up, and he leans down to put his mouth to yours, and you want to tell him to stop, to slow down, because you realize that you really don't want this to ever stop, but it will, and as soon as it does he's leaving, walking out the door, and if you ever try to say anything about it ... well, he'll probably punch you in the mouth.
So you try to speak, but it doesn't really work, because when you try to say "Stop" what comes out is "Oh, God" and when you try to say "Wait" what comes out is "Please."
"Oh, God, please." There's really only one way to interpret that, and Dr. Cox moans and shudders above you, and the sound hits you, pooling in your groin and you can't hold back anymore, shivering and pushing your hips up toward him.
He falls next to you, head landing on the pillow beside yours, and his harsh, ragged breath is in your ear, one arm resting casually across your hips. And there's that stupid hope again. When he closes his eyes and dozes off for a moment, you really think he's going to stay, and it'll be nice having someone sleeping next to you again, even if it's only for a night.
But it looks like you won't even get that. He wakes up after a few minutes, and looks over at you with that impassive expression on his face, and really, that look says it all. This doesn't leave this room. Say anything and I will kill you.
He sits up, finds his clothes and starts getting dressed. "You don't have to leave, you know," you mumble, and you wince, because that sure was a stupid thing to say. Of course he has to leave. Or at least he doesn't have to, but he's definitely going to.
"I'm not that guy, Newbie," he says, and you know it.
"Yeah," you reply, under your breath, and you watch him go.
"Good night," he says, and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
After a few minutes of watching the ceiling, you grab the bottle of Ambien off your nightstand and swallow another one. Stupid, you know, but you don't care, because now you won't have to deal with the thoughts that are threatening to keep you awake for another night.
LOL Ambien. Also, second-person point-of-view FTW.
The next story is one I'm nervous about posting, because it involves the old JD-being-forcibly-raped chestnut. It's also the last one I've already written.