Disclaimer: Don't own scrubs.
A/N: Okay, so basically this is different for me. I was the pioneer of the term "JDA" (YES, I was the one who created that, er, "clever" acronym, back in my high school days, I'M IN COLLEGE NOW OMFG LEGIT, except not), so naturally all of my Scrubs fics have been JD-centric. HOWEVER, I am now obsessed with the new pairings on the show, so I decided to write a DenisexDrew fic. ET VOILA:
Shoebox Romance
Most nights were the same in that they were passionate, uninhibited, and brief. After a few crass words and people-watching at the bar they'd go to his place, expend whatever energy and frustration they had with an hour or so of romping, and then she'd leave without saying good-bye.
They messed up their routine one night by going to her place instead, and falling asleep afterward.
When Drew woke it occurred to him first that he was not in his own bed, and then that there was a half-naked woman laying tangled in the sheets next to him. He opened his mouth, prepared to rouse her, but the breath he took halted when he lost the bleariness of sleep and really saw her there.
He realized how stupid it sounded, even in his head, but she looked like an angel. The scowl on her brow was smoothed over. Her lips were parted and vulnerable. He could lean down and kiss her, or brush the hair from her face; it seemed to him that he would have to pick one carefully, because then she would wake up and the opportunity would be lost.
Asleep, she was someone else entirely. She seemed her age for once, or even younger. She looked like someone who had the capacity to love, and be loved. It was like seeing a snapshot of her taken off-guard: last night's mascara smudged under her eyes, the sun peeking through the window illuminating her face, her breathing soft and slow. He reached a hand toward her, but drew it back, still unwilling to wake her.
Instead he crept off the bed as quietly as he could manage, and stared at the walls of the tiny living space, seeing it for the first time in the light of day. The walls were bare, save for a whiteboard tacked onto the wall with her shifts written out in black ink. The room seemed as sterile and void of personality as the hospital. The only indication that someone even lived there was the clothes on the floor from their rush last night, and the closet that was slightly ajar.
He glanced back at her before he walked over to it, suddenly possessed by the idea that getting a better look might somehow explain her, might give some insight to why she was the way she was. The door didn't even creak as it opened—he braced himself for some change in the monotony of the room, but he was disappointed.
The inside of the closet was equally bare, and the clothes hanging just as lifeless and organized as the rest of her world. She owned more pairs of scrubs than she did jeans or t-shirts, which is what filled out the rest of the space. Just when he was about to shut the door and give up, he saw the little shoebox in the corner.
He might have never noticed it, except it was pink, and had a cartoon of a little girl wearing ballet shoes. It was shoved into a corner, barely visible. It was distinctive in that it was the only hot pink thing he'd seen since they'd left the bar last night, and it seemed so completely out of place in a hard-ass Denise's closet.
He hesitated before he reached for it. He realized that opening this little girl's shoebox was different than a closet door, somehow more deliberate and invasive. But he was too entranced by the mystery of it, and before he knew what he was doing, his hand was lifting the lid.
It was full to the brim with pictures and letters and paper. Her acceptance into medical school was at the top, followed by a picture of her at someone's wedding. A letter from her father that was choppy and short but not lacking in affection. An invitation to her friend's baby shower. He delved deeper, and found photos of her from high school—Denise at homecoming in a sheer purple dress, Denise making a face in the back of someone's car, Denise sprinting on the track with her trademark scowl.
When he reached the earlier high school pictures he started seeing the outfits—the recital leotards, the ballet shoes worn the nubs, the bright red, glittery cheeks and lips. Denise, with her small waist arched gracefully, her back leg extended so her foot touched the top of her head. Denise, lacing up her flats. Denise, smiling wide, legs extended in a leap.
It wasn't the Denise he knew, but it was her nonetheless. Some of the smiles looked forced and sometimes her eyes seemed strained, but her body was so perfectly captured and graceful. He looked back at her sleeping form on the bed and wondered how she had kept this whole part of her life from him, from everyone. But he supposed he wasn't big on letting her in, either.
The photos kept progressing until he was looking at a chubby-legged kindergartener in tap shoes, posing with her sister, who was a good ten years older than she was. There was a picture of her sitting on a woman's lap, a woman who looked almost identical to the Denise he knew today—with a start he realized that this must have been the mother she couldn't remember. There was a journal, a baby journal, that he assumed her mother had written before she'd died—he didn't open it. He felt that he'd already delved in too far, and if there was a definite line that shouldn't be crossed, this was it. He was about to set it down when the sheen of reflective plastic caught his eye.
At first he didn't understand, when he saw his own face staring back at him. At the bottom, at the very bottom of the small pile of Denise Mahoney's life, was an ID badge. Specifically the one he had lost last month and had to replace—there it was, tucked in so carefully in the deepest part of the box, safe underneath everything else.
He set it down without reacting, placed everything back in the box and closed the lid, putting it back in its dark corner. He had the sudden impression that he had been dissecting Denise, almost like he would a cadaver, and so when he shut the closet door he closed it as gently as he could, sealing her up so that the rest of the world couldn't interfere.
She was still asleep when he walked over, and this time when he looked, he didn't just see the vulnerable expression or the tangled limbs. He saw the girl who had danced, the girl who had smiled. The girl whose tough exterior hid more than he ever would have guessed. The girl who looked just like the mother she had lost, and swallowed herself because of it.
He wanted something more than to brush the hair off her face, or kiss those parted lips. He wanted to say the words he'd never meant until now. He wanted to lean in and hold her and promise, I'll never leave you. I love you for who you are, and everything you hide. You don't have to be afraid anymore.
But he knew better than to scare her away with promises. Denise would never be that kind of girl.
So he stole the moment he had with her before she woke up, and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pressing her against his chest. He felt her stir awake, gasping slightly. Her shoulders went rigid and she looked up at him questioningly.
"Good morning," he said.
Her reluctance gave way, and she relaxed in his grasp, returning a quiet, "Good morning."
They had messed up their routine that night by going to her place instead, and falling asleep afterward. But Drew was willing to suffer a million more mistakes so long as he could wake up in the morning with this woman lying next to him, the two of them broken, the pair of them whole.
SAP SAP SAPPY, but I was in the mood. Review if you dare! Mwahaha!