2dozenowies: 03. broken bone (slight cox/jd, R)
Title: Broken Bone
Rating: R.
Pairings: Cox/JD-ish.
Notes: For 2dozenowies.
Word Count: 1752
Warnings: Violence (of the homophobic kind). :(
Spoilers: None.
Summary: He's actually afraid they're going to kill him.
He's never heard the word faggot so many times at once. He's never been in so much pain before, asphalt tearing at his skin and blood running in rivers from his mouth, and they're still kicking him, so hard his kidneys hurt, his head smacking against the rough brick wall next to him.
When one of them spits in his face he's actually afraid they're going to kill him. Stab him, shoot him, or maybe just beat him to death.
But they don't. They leave, and as they do, Doctor Diagnosis steps out to assess his condition. Ribs - probably broken. Cheekbone - probably broken. Teeth - definitely broken. He looks around on the ground to see if any teeth are actually missing, but it's too dark to see and there's too much blood in his mouth to really tell if any teeth are gone. He spits out some more blood and gets off the ground as carefully as he can, minding his ribs. He has to brace himself against the wall for a moment while he tries to figure out what he should do. He's past tears now, at least, only really able to choke out a few sobs while he coughs and spits up some of the blood that keeps running down his throat.
It's only a few blocks to the hospital, so calling an ambulance would be stupid. The walk won't kill him, and after letting him sit in the ER for a couple of hours they'll wrap him up and give him some painkillers and he can sleep on an extra bed and maybe tomorrow he'll be able to make sense of this.
He really is lucky they didn't rape him. Or kill him.
He knows he must be a gruesome sight to behold, and on top of it all, he's still in his scrubs. Sitting there covered in blood like this is one thing, but when you're wearing scrubs people have a tendency to assume you're on duty.
He probably should have called the police. They smashed his cell phone against the pavement, throwing it down and shattering it, so he couldn't have called from the scene anyway. He fills out forms, keenly aware of all the eyes on him. He's rarely on night shift, and never in the ER, so he doesn't recognize any of the staff here, but the nurse working in triage noticed his Sacred Heart badge. She tells him the same thing she tells every other patient - we'll get to you as soon as we can.
He could call Turk or Carla or Elliot, but they'll just fuss over him and beg him to tell them what happened and call the police and then he'd have to tell it a hundred times over and he doesn't even want to tell it once.
He laughs at himself when he thinks he could call Dr. Cox. "Somebody took your dolls away, Loreena?" He can just hear it now.
Still. It would be better than nothing, right?
Right?
So he finds the courtesy phone in the lobby, calling Dr. Cox's number, tapping his fingers nervously against the wall of the small metal cubicle. He feels like he's just been arrested, using his one phone call. Would he call Dr. Cox then, too?
"Yeah."
JD is silent at first. What should he say? "Dr. Cox?"
"Newbie. What do you want?"
He checks the clock on the wall above the cubicle. It's almost midnight. Shit.
JD could tell him he's been attacked. That he's waiting in the ER for them to call his name and put him in an exam room to wait some more.
"C-could you come to the ER?" he says instead, sounding every bit like the girl Dr. Cox thinks he is.
"C-could you come to the ER?" he repeats, mockingly. "God almighty, Newbie, if you're asking me for help now -"
"Not for a patient," JD interrupts him. "For me." Dr. Cox pauses, and JD thinks that it's a hell of a time to render him speechless.
"Newbie. What happened?" he asks, his voice serious.
"I got attacked on my way home. I stopped for a drink with Turk, and then he left and I left and I guess they followed me."
"Why didn't you call Gandhi?"
JD's been hoping he wouldn't ask that, that he wouldn't have to say that he never really considered calling anyone else, that he would be the only person JD would want around during something like this. "He'd make me feel too much." Ridiculous. He wishes his internal filter would work sometimes, instead of letting him say things like that.
Dr. Cox still seems to be at a loss. "Give me a few minutes," he says, and hangs up.
JD shuffles back to the waiting area and waits, the back of his head resting against the cool stone wall and closing his eyes, waiting for Dr. Cox to show up and struggle on deciding whether to help or to laugh. JD's heart sinks as he realizes that he'll probably do both, at the same time.
"Let's go, Priscilla," Dr. Cox says to him, startling him. "You didn't have to wait, Newbie."
"I couldn't have treated myself, could I?"
"Treat yourself for what? A few bruises?"
"Broken ribs. Broken cheekbone. Broken teeth," Doctor Diagnosis replies, and JD notices Dr. Cox's expression turns considerably darker.
"X-rays. Come on," he says, taking a stray wheelchair and gently pushing JD into it. More gently than JD thought he'd be capable of. He doesn't like the feeling of being pushed in a wheelchair, particularly not by Dr. Cox, but it beats walking.
Dr. Cox isn't laughing, and JD's not sure if this is a good or a bad thing as he pushes him to Radiology, X-rays his abdomen and his face and injects him with Demerol while he looks at the films.
"Hairline fracture on the cheekbone, two broken ribs," Dr. Cox finally says to him. "Whatever reason they did this, it must have been a good one." He looks up at JD, expectantly, and JD knows he wants an explanation, because people don't just do things like this without a reason. It's hardly ever a good reason, but there's always a reason.
"Not really," JD replies, shifting uncomfortably in his spot on the X-ray table.
"Did they at least tell you?"
"They thought I was gay."
"And are you, Buttercup?" His tone is forced, trying to pass for nonchalant and not really succeeding.
"Does it matter?"
"It does if you were stupid enough to make a pass at them."
JD shakes his head. "They must have seen Turk and me."
"Well, that's just as effective," Dr. Cox says, urging him back into the wheelchair. "How many?" he asks as he pushes JD down the hallway.
"Two." Dr. Cox grunts, hitting the elevator call button rather viciously.
"I need some wrapping for your ribs," he says, "and I'll give you some Demerol for the pain." JD nods, mumbling his thanks. "Do you need a ride home?"
"No. I was just going to stay here, take an extra bed."
"Don't want to face Barbie or Gandhi or Carla?"
"Not really," JD admits.
"They'll find out sooner or later."
"Later sounds good to me."
Dr. Cox doesn't say anything else as he wraps JD's abdomen, tightly enough to keep him from moving too much. For a minute JD wishes he had called Turk, because at least he wouldn't feel this exposed and vulnerable. He winces as Dr. Cox pours some antiseptic over the abrasions and lacerations on his hands and arms and forehead, and expects another girl's name, but Dr. Cox still doesn't say anything, only bandages the injuries when the liquid has dried.
As he writes the prescription for the Demerol, he says, "There's an extra room at my place. If you want it, take it."
"Really?"
"The offer expires in -"
"Okay." The injection from earlier is making him drowsy, and his head droops forward a little, his eyes sliding in and out of focus, and he just wants to sleep. "Thanks."
"Sure. Now," Dr. Cox says, "Call the police." He shoves his cell phone at JD.
JD is awake in an instant. "What?"
"The police, Newbie. Generally, hate crimes are frowned upon in this jurisdiction." He raises an eyebrow. "You think I didn't know what you were doing, Scarlett?"
"No police," he pleads, "Not tonight."
"Then I'll call. I'm bound by law, Evelyn."
"Fine. Could you leave, though?"
"No," Dr. Cox replies simply, and JD knows it's pointless to argue.
The police come. They ask a million questions a million times. He gives them descriptions of the men who did it, tells them when and where it happened, what he did when they left, and they tell him that the best thing to do in situations like this - what he should have done - is to call the police immediately. They go. By the time Dr. Cox takes JD to his car and helps him up the stairs to his apartment it's past three in the morning. The investigator will be back tomorrow but at least JD can sleep for now, a bed in Dr. Cox's apartment and a bottle full of Demerol on the nightstand.
"Think you'll be able to sleep okay?" Dr. Cox asks him.
"Sure," JD replies, shaking the bottle of Demerol slightly. "Thanks," he says again.
"Kelso will see your file in the reports from last night. I'll tell him you need a few days."
JD could kiss him.
Actually, JD does kiss him. Again, his internal filter has failed him, and what a time to fail, too.
It's just a stupid chaste corner-of-the-mouth kiss. A fifteen-year-old-girl kiss. It could be because of the Demerol, or because it's the closest thing he'll get to physical comfort, or maybe it's something else. JD feels drunk, and he can hear himself mumbling, "I guess they were right. You know. About me."
"I think it's real cute that you needed to tell me that, Rebecca," Dr. Cox replies, "because I sure never knew." He pauses, studying JD for a moment. His voice softens as he says, "Look. There's a better time for this, alright?"
"You won't -"
"I won't forget. And I certainly won't let you forget," he says, standing and turning off the lamp. "Good night."
"Night," JD mumbles after Dr. Cox has left the room.
I'm not sure I got the characterization very well with this one. Comments?
Rating: R.
Pairings: Cox/JD-ish.
Notes: For 2dozenowies.
Word Count: 1752
Warnings: Violence (of the homophobic kind). :(
Spoilers: None.
Summary: He's actually afraid they're going to kill him.
He's never heard the word faggot so many times at once. He's never been in so much pain before, asphalt tearing at his skin and blood running in rivers from his mouth, and they're still kicking him, so hard his kidneys hurt, his head smacking against the rough brick wall next to him.
When one of them spits in his face he's actually afraid they're going to kill him. Stab him, shoot him, or maybe just beat him to death.
But they don't. They leave, and as they do, Doctor Diagnosis steps out to assess his condition. Ribs - probably broken. Cheekbone - probably broken. Teeth - definitely broken. He looks around on the ground to see if any teeth are actually missing, but it's too dark to see and there's too much blood in his mouth to really tell if any teeth are gone. He spits out some more blood and gets off the ground as carefully as he can, minding his ribs. He has to brace himself against the wall for a moment while he tries to figure out what he should do. He's past tears now, at least, only really able to choke out a few sobs while he coughs and spits up some of the blood that keeps running down his throat.
It's only a few blocks to the hospital, so calling an ambulance would be stupid. The walk won't kill him, and after letting him sit in the ER for a couple of hours they'll wrap him up and give him some painkillers and he can sleep on an extra bed and maybe tomorrow he'll be able to make sense of this.
He really is lucky they didn't rape him. Or kill him.
He knows he must be a gruesome sight to behold, and on top of it all, he's still in his scrubs. Sitting there covered in blood like this is one thing, but when you're wearing scrubs people have a tendency to assume you're on duty.
He probably should have called the police. They smashed his cell phone against the pavement, throwing it down and shattering it, so he couldn't have called from the scene anyway. He fills out forms, keenly aware of all the eyes on him. He's rarely on night shift, and never in the ER, so he doesn't recognize any of the staff here, but the nurse working in triage noticed his Sacred Heart badge. She tells him the same thing she tells every other patient - we'll get to you as soon as we can.
He could call Turk or Carla or Elliot, but they'll just fuss over him and beg him to tell them what happened and call the police and then he'd have to tell it a hundred times over and he doesn't even want to tell it once.
He laughs at himself when he thinks he could call Dr. Cox. "Somebody took your dolls away, Loreena?" He can just hear it now.
Still. It would be better than nothing, right?
Right?
So he finds the courtesy phone in the lobby, calling Dr. Cox's number, tapping his fingers nervously against the wall of the small metal cubicle. He feels like he's just been arrested, using his one phone call. Would he call Dr. Cox then, too?
"Yeah."
JD is silent at first. What should he say? "Dr. Cox?"
"Newbie. What do you want?"
He checks the clock on the wall above the cubicle. It's almost midnight. Shit.
JD could tell him he's been attacked. That he's waiting in the ER for them to call his name and put him in an exam room to wait some more.
"C-could you come to the ER?" he says instead, sounding every bit like the girl Dr. Cox thinks he is.
"C-could you come to the ER?" he repeats, mockingly. "God almighty, Newbie, if you're asking me for help now -"
"Not for a patient," JD interrupts him. "For me." Dr. Cox pauses, and JD thinks that it's a hell of a time to render him speechless.
"Newbie. What happened?" he asks, his voice serious.
"I got attacked on my way home. I stopped for a drink with Turk, and then he left and I left and I guess they followed me."
"Why didn't you call Gandhi?"
JD's been hoping he wouldn't ask that, that he wouldn't have to say that he never really considered calling anyone else, that he would be the only person JD would want around during something like this. "He'd make me feel too much." Ridiculous. He wishes his internal filter would work sometimes, instead of letting him say things like that.
Dr. Cox still seems to be at a loss. "Give me a few minutes," he says, and hangs up.
JD shuffles back to the waiting area and waits, the back of his head resting against the cool stone wall and closing his eyes, waiting for Dr. Cox to show up and struggle on deciding whether to help or to laugh. JD's heart sinks as he realizes that he'll probably do both, at the same time.
"Let's go, Priscilla," Dr. Cox says to him, startling him. "You didn't have to wait, Newbie."
"I couldn't have treated myself, could I?"
"Treat yourself for what? A few bruises?"
"Broken ribs. Broken cheekbone. Broken teeth," Doctor Diagnosis replies, and JD notices Dr. Cox's expression turns considerably darker.
"X-rays. Come on," he says, taking a stray wheelchair and gently pushing JD into it. More gently than JD thought he'd be capable of. He doesn't like the feeling of being pushed in a wheelchair, particularly not by Dr. Cox, but it beats walking.
Dr. Cox isn't laughing, and JD's not sure if this is a good or a bad thing as he pushes him to Radiology, X-rays his abdomen and his face and injects him with Demerol while he looks at the films.
"Hairline fracture on the cheekbone, two broken ribs," Dr. Cox finally says to him. "Whatever reason they did this, it must have been a good one." He looks up at JD, expectantly, and JD knows he wants an explanation, because people don't just do things like this without a reason. It's hardly ever a good reason, but there's always a reason.
"Not really," JD replies, shifting uncomfortably in his spot on the X-ray table.
"Did they at least tell you?"
"They thought I was gay."
"And are you, Buttercup?" His tone is forced, trying to pass for nonchalant and not really succeeding.
"Does it matter?"
"It does if you were stupid enough to make a pass at them."
JD shakes his head. "They must have seen Turk and me."
"Well, that's just as effective," Dr. Cox says, urging him back into the wheelchair. "How many?" he asks as he pushes JD down the hallway.
"Two." Dr. Cox grunts, hitting the elevator call button rather viciously.
"I need some wrapping for your ribs," he says, "and I'll give you some Demerol for the pain." JD nods, mumbling his thanks. "Do you need a ride home?"
"No. I was just going to stay here, take an extra bed."
"Don't want to face Barbie or Gandhi or Carla?"
"Not really," JD admits.
"They'll find out sooner or later."
"Later sounds good to me."
Dr. Cox doesn't say anything else as he wraps JD's abdomen, tightly enough to keep him from moving too much. For a minute JD wishes he had called Turk, because at least he wouldn't feel this exposed and vulnerable. He winces as Dr. Cox pours some antiseptic over the abrasions and lacerations on his hands and arms and forehead, and expects another girl's name, but Dr. Cox still doesn't say anything, only bandages the injuries when the liquid has dried.
As he writes the prescription for the Demerol, he says, "There's an extra room at my place. If you want it, take it."
"Really?"
"The offer expires in -"
"Okay." The injection from earlier is making him drowsy, and his head droops forward a little, his eyes sliding in and out of focus, and he just wants to sleep. "Thanks."
"Sure. Now," Dr. Cox says, "Call the police." He shoves his cell phone at JD.
JD is awake in an instant. "What?"
"The police, Newbie. Generally, hate crimes are frowned upon in this jurisdiction." He raises an eyebrow. "You think I didn't know what you were doing, Scarlett?"
"No police," he pleads, "Not tonight."
"Then I'll call. I'm bound by law, Evelyn."
"Fine. Could you leave, though?"
"No," Dr. Cox replies simply, and JD knows it's pointless to argue.
The police come. They ask a million questions a million times. He gives them descriptions of the men who did it, tells them when and where it happened, what he did when they left, and they tell him that the best thing to do in situations like this - what he should have done - is to call the police immediately. They go. By the time Dr. Cox takes JD to his car and helps him up the stairs to his apartment it's past three in the morning. The investigator will be back tomorrow but at least JD can sleep for now, a bed in Dr. Cox's apartment and a bottle full of Demerol on the nightstand.
"Think you'll be able to sleep okay?" Dr. Cox asks him.
"Sure," JD replies, shaking the bottle of Demerol slightly. "Thanks," he says again.
"Kelso will see your file in the reports from last night. I'll tell him you need a few days."
JD could kiss him.
Actually, JD does kiss him. Again, his internal filter has failed him, and what a time to fail, too.
It's just a stupid chaste corner-of-the-mouth kiss. A fifteen-year-old-girl kiss. It could be because of the Demerol, or because it's the closest thing he'll get to physical comfort, or maybe it's something else. JD feels drunk, and he can hear himself mumbling, "I guess they were right. You know. About me."
"I think it's real cute that you needed to tell me that, Rebecca," Dr. Cox replies, "because I sure never knew." He pauses, studying JD for a moment. His voice softens as he says, "Look. There's a better time for this, alright?"
"You won't -"
"I won't forget. And I certainly won't let you forget," he says, standing and turning off the lamp. "Good night."
"Night," JD mumbles after Dr. Cox has left the room.
I'm not sure I got the characterization very well with this one. Comments?