Title: "Physician Heal Thyself"
Rating/Classification: adult language, sexual situations, Robin/Patrick.
Disclaimer: I do NOT own these characters and somebody took over my brain to write Patrick's dialogue. I swear.
Summary: Every six seconds, Patrick thinks about...
He thinks about sex every six seconds. He's not sure if that's more or less than the average, but there's probably research out there that could tell him. Maybe he'll have Tina at the nurses' station Google it on her lunch break. But, yes, from a neurological standpoint, he can easily diagnose himself with "sex on the brain." It's a perfectly harmless condition that most sufferers can live with. Since he's particularly talented, he can even operate on others while maintaining at least four different sexual fantasies *and* blasting one of his favorite movie scores. Well, except for that time he used the theme from "Deliverance." Nobody in the OR found that funny. Not even the cute scrub nurse who was slapping on the gloves in fantasy number two and had given him a non-regulation prostate exam in real-time just two hours before.
As if on cue, Robin Scorpio tenses, clutching her file to her chest with one hand while the other hovers inches above the wrinkled hospital-issue sheets. She can probably sense it in the air. Not that she's being watched, but that somebody, somewhere, is daring to think dirty thoughts. She's wound so tight that she'll probably snap if he tells her that her beloved Jason is doing some very particular motor skill testing in the MRI chamber with Sam.
He steps into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. The "oh, where art thou, Jason?" look on her face is automatically replaced by the "I just shoved a stick up my ass" look that she seems to reserve just for him. Aw, he's touched. In fact, he can guarantee he gets touched way more often than she does. Maybe if somebody touched her, she wouldn't be sniffing Mr. Personality's sheets.
Maybe if *he* touches her...
"What do you want, Patrick?"
*To see what you look like when you come*. "Morgan's chart," he says out loud, adding, in a particularly obnoxious tone, "Unless you're planning on snuggling with it."
"That's so mature." She slaps the file at his chest and he catches it, wincing as the metal rings make contact with the bare skin at the V of his scrubs. Oh...oh, no, his skin is bare! Maybe the good Dr. Scorpio will faint from shock?
"I'm just lowering myself to your level," he tells her, biting his tongue so he doesn't laugh. "Since it's physically impossible for me to shrink to your size."
She bristles. Like a cat puffing up against a threat. "Oh. Is size an issue for you?"
He blinks. A sex joke? Will wonders never cease? He almost wants to pinch himself. Instead, he just smirks at her. "I know you're dying to find out."
Robin huffs and sputters and it actually puts color in her cheeks, makes the dusting of freckles stand out. She looks about sixteen. Acts it, too. Like a sixteen-year-old Amish virgin -- he's done too many Catholic schoolgirls to make *that* analogy. She probably thinks about sex only when she's doing neuro consults on fetal distress cases. No...no, not even then. She probably assumes that the stork dropped the bundle of cells and nerves inside the mother's uterus.
"Please." She rolls her eyes, smoothing out the wrinkles in the sheets like she had a former life as a hotel chambermaid. "Half of Trauma has already been there, done that, and circulated the post-op report. I just hope you practiced safe sex."
She makes this entirely too easy. "You don't want to find out firsthand?"
"No." She flinches. She actually flinches. Her lips tighten into that prim schoolteacher line and she stumbles back exactly two steps. Like he suggested she eat nails or shoot puppies. "No, I don't."
Jesus. All the color the righteous indignation put in her cheeks disappears.
He's fascinated. He can't help himself.
The girl has a nose ring. It's unsanitary and distracting and a total indicator of rebellion. That has to mean she had fun *once* in her life, right? "What are you? Militantly anti-sex or something? Or do you just resent people, in general, having a good time?"
He counts the seconds before the reply. The Big Reveal. Exactly forty-six. Less than a minute. He's impressed. "I have HIV," she says, quietly.
"So?" He doesn't blink. *He* doesn't flinch. "If you expected to shock me, get over it. Office gossip runs both ways and I wanted the Chief of Staff to sign liability insurance the second you decided to assist in my OR."
Robin's jaw drops. And she's back to sputtering and turning red and looking alive.
He prefers it that way.
"You have HIV," he says, while she scrambles for words. "I've heard. I get it. I wasn't aware that being stuck up, repressed, and freakishly obsessed with your patient were common symptoms."
"Screw you!" she spits, coming back two steps and shoving him. "Where do you get off--?"
"Maybe you should! I'd recommend both screwing me and/or getting off," he prescribes, interrupting. "You'd lighten up."
Her mouth keeps working without any sound coming out, opening and closing like a fish's. And she still manages to look as cute as an underage button. It seems he's finally found a way to silence her holier-than-thou pontificating. Well, aside from the obvious one that would probably kill her if he even suggested it.
"Do you...what...I mean..." She shakes her head, violently, whirling away from him to tug at one of the leather restraints hanging from the bed. "How can you even *joke* about this, Patrick? I just told you I have a virulent sexually transmitted disease that has no cure."
"Who's joking, Robin?" He moves up behind her, covering her hands. Everything about her is tiny, including her fingers. He wonders how she wields a scalpel. If she has to buy special surgical apparel or stand on a box. If she's so afraid to feel that all she's done for years is keep warm on memories of sex with somebody too brain-damaged to process what her disease really means. "I think your fixation on Jason is way more virulent than your HIV. I think the fact that you don't laugh and you don't flirt and you act like anybody who does is some kind of degenerate is a bigger death sentence."
She wrenches out of his grip, but she can't move away. Not with him pinning her to the safety rails. "You're an asshole."
"I'm making an honest diagnosis," he counters.
She's holding herself stiffly, as far from as she can manage. "You're delusional."
"And you're a frigid bitch." He feels her flinch again. He keeps his hands a safe millimeter from her body but floats them threateningly above her hips as he leans down and whispers in her ear. "Or at least you'd like people to think you are. But that's not true, is it, Robin?"
"I don't need to explain myself to you," she hisses, and he swings his hips out of the way just in time to avoid an elbow to the Drake family jewels.
"Explain it to yourself, Robin." He really wants to touch her. Every six seconds has stockpiled into several minutes worth of quality sex thoughts. "How do you deny yourself basic human contact? How do you survive without kissing, without making love?" She arches against his lips as he keeps whispering and he knows she'll never admit it, but she's listening. More than listening. "Aren't you passionate? Isn't it in your blood?"
"Where's the fun in that, Dr. Scorpio?" He pushes her hair aside, not-quite nuzzling her neck. Just exhaling on the skin and watching the goosebumps rise. "Remember fun? Remember what it's like to let yourself go? To give yourself to somebody? Do you remember foreplay and during-play and afterplay and orgasms?"
Her tiny little gasp tells him she does. And the tent in his scrubs tells him he's not going to forget.
"Have you ever been on top, Robin? That's the way you like it, right? So you can be in control?" he accuses, going husky and choked at the thought of it. "So you can be in charge of every second, every minute? And god forbid you go over the edge before him, right?"
"This...this is sexual harassment," she murmurs, not sounding all that harassed. Sounding... turned on. Human. Female. No...woman. She sounds like a woman.
"Uh uh." He clenches his fists so he doesn't give in and yank her into his arms. "This is a course of treatment," he assures, "an expert in the field recommending touch therapy."
"Then why aren't you touching me?" The question tears out of her like a moan and if she were anybody else, seriously anybody, he would be throwing her down on the bed, tying her up with those leather restraints, and finding six thousand ways to make her whole body blush.
"But, Dr. Scorpio, that would be too easy..." He steps back. Two steps. Then more. Glad he has Morgan's chart so he can hold it strategically over his erection as he heads for the nearest on-call room and coldest shower.
She turns toward him, shaking. But not with indignation. Not with fear. Oh, no. "Your bedside manner needs work, Dr. Drake," she tells him. And he knows...he knows she'll be thinking about sex. About him. About him and sex.
Her eyes are sparkling and her breathing is shallow and her pulse is erratic. She's way more than cute. She's actually beautiful.
He was wrong.
He really didn't want to know what she looks like when she comes.
From a neurological standpoint, he can easily diagnose himself with "sex on the brain." It's a perfectly harmless condition that most sufferers can live with.
Cardiologically speaking...he might just be fucked.
December 14, 2005.