DISCLAIMER: Scrubs is owned by the fantastic Bill Lawrence and the ABC network (as of Season 8). I own nothing, except an overactive imagination and a fondness for angst, slash and men in lab coats. This story was based off nothing, equals nothing and is probably a waste of your time to read. But aw hell, I'm going to post it anyway. I like the way it flows. Lyrics are owned by their respective artists, and are credited underneath the A/N.

AUTHORS NOTE: This was originally going to be a preface to a much larger, multi-chapter story exploring a new edge to the JDA theme that seems to be sweeping the Scrubs scene. I wanted something that was a little less conventional and a little more Science Fiction. A little more futuristic, maybe? My Trigger was born, but the end was so neatly summed up—even though it revealed virtually nothing—that I wanted to leave it as a one-shot. At least, for now, while I'm still in the brainstorming the idea of actually writing a longer, more detailed and, admittedly, more confusing fanfiction. If you read this and you like it, tell me what you think. Should I continue?

Lyrics by Cruxshadows.

MY TRIGGER

So bury fear, for fate draws near,
And hide the signs of pain.
With noble acts, the bravest souls
Endure the heart's remains.

His hands shook. His heart was pounding in his chest; his body was covered in sweat. The entire world faded in and out of focus in front of his eyes, a sure sign that the virus was spreading, manipulating his sight. He frowned at this knowledge, the first real tendrils of fear creeping up on him then. Of course he was scared, who wouldn't be? But it was all alright, in the end—he had been assured there was a cure, a way . . .

But if it saved everyone else destined to die from the same damn disease, then he'd gladly go in their place.

For this was what it was about, wasn't it? Sacrifice? It was what it had always been about. Everyone played their part; everyone made a sacrifice . . . all for the hope that the world would become a better place if they did.

His mind flitted over the few that had sacrificed the most and he shuddered—not from the virus, but from the knowledge that they risked everything that they ever had to come back and save him. They risked the safety of their families, of their future careers, of the world order, even. But most of all, they risked their own lives and undoing everything they had achieved since this moment in time.

Jack had explained it, somehow. Something to do with alternate realities, personalities and universes. He remembered his thoughts being filled with amazement, for it was so hard to believe how much Jack had grown in twelve years—from a tiny child sitting at the crook of his mother's arm, laughing and giggling with only a basic grasp of English to this . . . this adolescent prodigy, for that was surely the only word to describe someone so smart.

Jack Cox, he breathed. Wow.

The part he was having the hardest time wrapping his head around would probably be that—that it was Jack who had volunteered to come back. It was Jack who was risking it all to save him.

Him—someone on the verge of death who should have, for all intents and purposes, died a long time ago. He once asked him how he could do it—risk everything for one person—and Jack had smiled and said: "Our future isn't worth living if you're not there." The gratitude that swelled in his chest at that moment was enough to take away the fear, the pain, all of it . . . but not quite. The seizures still took him, and his hands still shook.

Yet another thing in life that was out of his control.

When he asked Perry about what those words meant—"Our future isn't worth living if you're not there"—the older Cox would simply smile at him. Not grin, or smirk, but smile. It was only a small smile, full of sadness, but it was the most beautiful expression he had ever seen flit across the older man's face. Neither Jack nor Perry would talk about it, other than to mention equally as cryptic statements, and he knew what it was all about, he really did. It was the whole less-you-know-the-better thing, but he couldn't help but be curious. So he asked and asked and asked until he finally got a plausible answer.

In hindsight, he was certain it wasn't worth it. All that work, just to know something that would chill him to the bone every single time he thought about it.

Still, he would hear them again and again if it meant preserving what they all held so dear.

It had been a simple question, said with cheek, yet with the underlying curiosity they had noticed in him from the very beginning. He was sly, as he spoke: "What's the future like without me, huh?" The two of them shared a glance, something only father and son could identify with, and turned back to him. It was Perry who spoke—Perry who said those five, damning words.

"It's gone to hell, JD."

He remembered, in that moment, turning his eyes back to Perry and Jack and seeing, probably for the first time, what sort of a toll that this had all taken on them. Jack looked nervous, subdued, but so ready. Perry looked so old and so tired, but so knowledgeable. There were new lines that framed his eyes, and others that formed what looked to be a permanent frown across his mouth.

For some reason, those lines always reminded him of the first time he had seen the curly-headed doctor use his gun. It was almost an outrage, seeing it for the first time, for they had spent there entire careers trying to help people, not to kill them. But in that moment, when those words were spoken, he saw the memory in an entirely new light—Perry wasn't a doctor when he wielded that gun, but he certainly was no murderer, either.

He was a father, a concerned citizen . . .

A protector.

And it was then that he knew he'd do anything it took to help them. Anything. Even if he sacrificed his own life, in the process.

For that was all it was about, wasn't it? Sacrifice, family . . .

Love.

Despite himself—despite the situation, the sorrow and the anger—JD smiled. Because it would be all alright, in the end . . .

Of course, that's when everything went to hell.

And in the fury of this darkest hour,
We will be your light—
You've asked me for my sacrifice,
And I am winter born.

AUTHORS NOTE II: I found the Winterborn lyrics by complete and total luck, even though I have the song on my iPod and actually really enjoy the Cruxshadows. It fits perfectly with the type of story I wanted to achieve—either as the one-shot, or as a multi-chapter story—and in the event that I do write more, will probably be the story's main theme. So . . . Like it? Hate it? Want more? Tell me.

-- Exangeline.