Note: This story is already completely finished. It is madly AU, as in totally AU. I'll be posting chapters as I finish editing them (read: every time I have homework for Chinese Lit). It was co-written by myself and Thesilentquill. Co-writing is very, very fun.
Disclaimer: Rent was created by Jonathan Larson. Someone else now has the rights to it; I'm not sure who, but not me. I'm only having a bit of fun. Please don't sue me... pretty please?
Mark Cohen looked at the clock on his office wall for the fiftieth time that afternoon.
His office hours were dragging by. The flu season was upon them and every case of the sniffles sent patients streaming into his office for a cure to what they were certain was a deadly disease. Coupled with the geriatrics with digestive troubles, he was ready to scream.
Roger had been waiting outside the office for some time. He had stopped biting his nails when two of them bled. If he could have, he would have paced, but he'd done the fuck out of his arm and Roger liked to count on his fingers while he paced. He knew what the doctor would think, looking at him. He'd see a boy covered in bruises and scars and think he understood anything, make assumptions... how he hated doctors!
Roger took a deep breath to calm himself of the fervor. There was no need to approach defensive, it would help nothing. He knocked on the door with the arm that was still working. It had been three days, and the left wasn't healing. Only this had driven him to the doctor.
Mark sighed. He didn't want to answer that knock. Why had he gone into private practice? Sure the money was fairly good, but he didn't really feel like he was helping anyone. When he entered medical school, he had dreams of bringing people back from the brink of death or saving lives by inventing a cure for some dreaded disease. Instead, he had to deal with the aftermath of Mrs. Smith's home remedies for hemorrhoids. He wished he could genuinely make a difference.
To his surprise, the person on the other side of the door wasn't a sniffling child or complaining old lady. It was a young man, just a boy really. Even with all his medical training, the first thing Mark noticed wasn't the awkward way he was cradling his arm or the numerous bruises on his face. It was his eyes. They were piercing and green and looked like they could peer to the depths of Mark's soul.
Roger waited a moment. He tried not to notice what the doctor looked like-- not how tired he looked, nor the fact that he was probably twice Roger's age anyway, but that he was attractive. He was a sort of pale that made him seem young and old at once, pale even in his eyes and lips. Roger watched him for a moment, his stomach churning with the knowledge that he found this man extremely attractive and he was all but fantasizing about being held by him, after.
"A-are you Dr. Cohen?" Roger asked. "I had an appointment..."
"Yes, I am Dr. Cohen. I apologize I don't have your file ready. What's your name and have you been here before?"
"No, it's my first appointment. Roger Davis." Roger waited, wanting to step into the office and privacy, but he had never seen a privately practicing doctor before. Maybe this was normal? Far be it from him to question. Dr. Cohen knew what he was about.
"We'll just have to start a file for you." Mark shuffled some papers around on the receptionist's desk and frowned. "I can't find the blank forms. I'll jot down your information as I examine you and I'll start the file later. Follow me, please."
Roger followed. He liked this doctor, he decided, despite the discomfort of being very attracted to him. He was professional, matter-of-fact, and Roger liked that. This man was in control.
Mark watched as Roger climbed onto the examination table. He moved gingerly, but there was more to his movement than just the physical pain of his injuries. There was a heaviness to the way he moved, as if something were dragging him down. Mark's heart ached for him. He wanted to heal him physically, but also protect him from the cruel world.
"Now, how did you hurt your arm?"
"I slipped on the stairs." Roger unbuttoned his coat clumsily. He gritted his teeth: as soon as his right arm came out of his coat, the weight of the wool shifted to the injured left arm. He eased it off. Under his T-shirt was a set of bruises ringing his arm which anyone could see came from a hand holding too tight for too long. Roger hoped the doctor would ignore that. After all, his left arm was sort of just dangling there.
Mark carefully took the damaged limb in his arms and started to feel along the bones to see if there was anything out of place. He let his fingers linger a little longer than was absolutely necessary, but tried to cover it with his explanation.
"I don't think it's broken, but I'll need an x-ray to be sure. There's some obvious damage to your tendons. A fracture would complicate healing those."
Roger kept still as possible, listening to the explanation, nodding. He would do what the doctor said, he knew that much. Tears rolled down his cheeks. It hurt when the doctor touched him, but only because his arm hurt so much, because it'd been done so wrong. He swallowed and forced his tears back for a moment. "You can... fix it?" he asked.
Mark fumbled around for his handkerchief and handed it to the young man. "I'm not going to lie to you. This is a serious injury. The only reason that I'm even attempting to treat it myself is because I interned as an orthopedist before deciding to go into private practice. You may need surgery to get full use back, but I'll do my best before we explore that option."
Roger touched the handkerchief to his eyes, but that didn't stop them welling. "Wouldn't surgery mean staying in the hospital? Could you do a... a cast, maybe?" he asked. "It's been okay, I can do without it a few days."
"It's not okay. You can barely move that arm. Yes, generally surgery does require some time in the hospital. It really depends on the damage that was done. You're lucky, my office shares an x-ray machine with some of the other doctors in the clinic. Let me call down to see if they can take you. In the mean time, I found a copy of that form. Are you able to fill it out?"
"I... yes, I can fill it out," Roger said. He wanted to argue, say that his arm would be fine, he'd rest it and it would get better and that would be that, but conditioning and reason warned him to cede to the doctor. He took the pen in his right hand and began scrawling information on the page.
Just for fun, he kept a count of the times he lied.
to be continued!
Reviews would be very much appreciated