Story: The Healing Touch (Don't even tell me about how many times you've seen this title. I don't care.)

Pairing: TezukaXOC

Rating T: For sexual references and swearing. I figure you don't have to be 18 or older to be familiar with the word "Damn," and "shit".

Disclaimer: I do not own Prince of Tennis, or anything else in the fic besides Dr. Griffin.

Set right after high school graduation. We're pretending that he doesn't play tennis for a living. He still plays tennis (or this story would have no point), but doesn't travel around the world living the dream. Use your imagination. Also, keep in mind that I have absolutely no medical education other than what ER has taught me. I am making this up off the top of my head, so don't give me a hard time for it, please. You might have a PhD in medicine, but that doesn't change the fact that I…don't.

The Healing Touch

Chapter 1: Broken

I spent my entire life being careful, for the most part. Careful, in the sense that I wasn't a reckless maniac who walks around on the tips of my eyeballs on a gravel surface (is that even possible?). Either way, I wasn't a reckless person. Accidents happen every day. Fortunately, I was pretty lucky in the department of not getting hurt, and when I did get hurt, it was a scratch from holding a knife too tightly, or falling down and scraping my knee.

If I was so careful, like I thought, why was I sitting in a hospital room?

I wanted to throw up. I was attempting to fix the garbage disposal with the ever helpful Fuji. My arm is crammed down the drain, and Fuji is standing awkwardly behind me. For some reason which I don't even want to think about, the disposal roars to life. It was like, the life of my right arm flashed before my eyes, and I was suddenly being pushed to the ground. I could hear my mother screaming for my father to call an ambulance. And then I passed out.

I felt stupid now. It's not like I could have fixed the disposal anyways. I glanced around the small room. I had before submitted myself to extreme hospitalization, except to check up on my arm every once in a while. A needle was sticking in my other arm, monitoring my heart rate. If I had to guess, I'd say I wasn't in danger of dying.

The walls were a pale cream color, with a TV hanging from the ceiling. There was a small window seat, with a plastic chair in the corner. I bit my lip. Did I dare take a glance at my hand? I thought about it for several minutes, before turning my head slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that my hand was a shade a dark purple. I lifted my hand to my face, examining it. There was a black thread weaving in and out of my skin, holding my index finger in its place. The others were just bandaged up, with small amounts of "instant band-aid" oozing into my skin. I contemplated vomiting. I was not good with blood, or things relating to blood. Or things that referenced blood.

I could hear the slide of a door, and footsteps coming closer. I dropped my hand, glancing up at my visitor. My mom was there, along with a middle aged man with sideburns that didn't quite match color with the rest of his hair, and a drop dead gorgeous young lady standing next to him. She didn't look much older than I did, so I figured she must have been a nurse.

"How are you feeling?" my mother asked, her eyes glued to my hand.

"Fine," I mumbled. I was tired, and now that I thought about it, my fingers felt like they were on fire.

"They're going to burn, you don't have to lie," the young girl said, scowling. Her head was cocked to the side as she wrote something down on a clipboard that hung to the side of my bed. She was skinny, but not anorexic skinny, with long brown hair that was sloppily tied up in a pony tail. She had these glasses with clear frames that looked like they were going to fall off her nose if she moved a muscle. Her lab coat went to the middle of her thigh, where a blue and red sundress poked out from the end, showing off her beautiful legs.

I stayed quiet. They turned to my mother, talking quietly. After a few minutes, they turned to leave, but I decided that while they were here, they could get me a cup of water.

"Nurse," I called to the girl. But she didn't turn around.

"Yes?" the man asked politely.

"Uh, could I please get a cup of water?"

"Sure thing," he smiled. He left for maybe 30 seconds, and was back with a full paper cup of cold water.

"If that girl wasn't my nurse, who was she?"

"Your surgeon."

I nearly choked on my water. She hadn't been anywhere near old enough to be a professional surgeon, had she?

"How old is she?"

"21."

I stared.

"We really do get that reaction a lot. But not to worry, she's more qualified for that position that anyone in this hospital. Your hand was in good hands." I didn't want to ask him how on earth she had gotten a medical degree before she could drink. Then again, I was so tired, I probably wouldn't have minded if a hobo had sewed my finger back on. I would be angry later, of course.

He left shortly after, and I ended up falling asleep once again. I must have slept for hours, because when I awoke again, it was dark. My mother was poking my arm, saying something about having to leave. I rolled out of bed, put my clothes on, and before I knew it, we were waiting in line to check out with the clerk at the front desk.

That's when I saw her. She was walking towards me, with a paper and pen in hands.

"We need to schedule an appointment for you to come and get your stitches out." I could almost feel my heart sinking. For some strange reason, I had let my hopes rise a little too high, thinking that maybe she was coming to me for something. But she wasn't even facing me. She was facing my mother, who listed off days I could do it, which was pretty much every day. I wondered if this was the way you were supposed to act when you saw a pretty girl. Maybe I was acting weird and she was scared of me. This option didn't seem likely, because I hadn't said two words to the girl.

Maybe that was the problem. Should I have said something? Should I have asked for her phone number? I slumped in my chair as she continued talking to my mother. I was acting pathetic. Maybe it was time to just have a heart, and open up to a girl. I was tired of being lonely.

It was like magic when she turned to me, her violet eyes piercing. "Can I see?" It took me a moment to realize that she was talking about my hand. She lifted it up to her face, gently turning it in her grip. It burned as her fingers touched my skin, but I wouldn't say anything. "On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad does it hurt?"

"6."

"Hmm…" she murmured, placing my hand on my lap. "I might even recommend light physical therapy. You ground that thing up pretty badly. I'm scheduling a follow-up appointment for a week from now, with me." She scribbled something on her paper, and glanced up at me. She was knelt down, face to face with me. "I'm Dr. Griffin, by the way." She smiled, but didn't offer me her hand for understandable reasons. She had perfect, pearly white teeth that glinted in the pale fluorescent lighting.

My mother continued to ramble, but I let my mind wander. For once, I was glad, almost excited to be seeing a doctor.