// SAVING FACE //

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AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my first ever Scrubs fic. Please comment with con crit or kudos if you want! The prologue is written in Doctor Cox's POV, the rest will be written in JD's unless otherwise stated - I'll probably shove a few more Cox-perspective chapters in here too! This fic is pretty dark, but bear with it, it'll get a little fluffier toward the end! It's also a work in progress, so I'll try to update frequently. Enjoy!

WARNINGS: THIS FICTION IS RATED "M" FOR THE FOLLOWING SUBJECTS. Abuse, anal sex, angst, BDSM, bisexuality, bondage, dom/sub, fluff, handjob/fingering, hurt/comfort, humiliation, masturbation, non-consentual sex [RAPE], oral sex, sadism/masochism, strong language, violence. This piece of fiction contains dark, adult matter. Please use your discretion when reading.

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Prologue

Doctor Cox's POV

. . .

I don't know why he annoys me so much. I still haven't figured it out. There's just something about him – the way he comes pirouetting down the corridor at a quarter to eight in the fucking morning, all lavender hairgel and eighth grade cologne. And I can guaran-fucking-tee you he'll notice me no matter how hard I try to hide, like some kind of goddamn homing pigeon.

I just can't take those off-the-chart levels of shrill gossip and candy bracelets before I've had my coffee, and not to mention the camp way he wears his too-damn-long hair. And oh, God help me if I mention the grin; that insane fucking immature smirk he wears plastered across his face whilst blasting mind-numbing gangster rap from his iPod earbuds at five million decibels.

Just the thought of that... that sorry, tragic excuse for a doctor getting his hands on innocent patients makes me sick to my stomach every morning. Just the sight of him makes my chest tighten and my head spin with rage.

And yet, as if by some cruel, godforsaken twist of fate... I want him.

But don't go gettin' any ideas there, Shirley. I don't want him like you might think. It's not all rose-scented love letters and after-work hook ups and the ever-lingering promise of indiscretion on the air... none of that romantic, stomach-churning bullshit. If I loved him, not only would that make me clinically insane, but it would make me a goddamn fag. And if there's one thing Perry Cox isn't, it's a goddamn, ass-kissing, cock-sucking fag.

Actually, thinking about it, I should probably rephrase that. I don't want him. In fact, I'd be so overjoyed if he were to come up to me and gush in that high, pre-pubescent screech of his, 'Doctor Cox, I'm leaving tomorrow and you'll never see me again!' that I would probably top myself right there to preserve that moment for all eternity. I want absolutely nothing to do with that embarrassing excuse for a medical intern. In fact, I can't even begin to explain how much just the mere sight of him enrages me to a point where I can't control my temper anymore. And before you go gettin' smart, yeah, I do have a handle on my temper, but for some reason that kid's presence just takes away every single strand of self control I own.

Anger's always been the most effective way out for me. I guess you can thank my upbringing for that. Anger always had a place in my home growing up, from the anger my drunken old man felt when he knocked me and my sister from room to room, to the anger I felt for my mother when she just sat there, all glassy-eyed, and stared right through me as if I wasn't sitting there in the middle of the room bawling my eyes out. Sometimes I just get so damn mad that the quickest and easiest option is the only one I can damn well be bothered with.

And honestly, I don't care. If I cared, I'd go to one of those... head-shrinking, fake doctors who sap pathetic wasters for every penny they own, and beg him to make the bad, bad man inside of me go away forever... ugh.

I remember the first time I disciplined him. Properly, that is, as opposed to being put on bed pan duty for the rest of the day, or whatever other ridiculous punishment I had in mind at the time rather than just beating the stupid out of him. I don't remember what he'd done wrong, but I know that it must've pissed me off enough that I hadn't been thinking straight, because I'd literally dragged him by the scruff into the storage closet in the empty lower levels of the hospital, forced him inside, and slammed the door behind me.

I don't know what I was planning to do. Ha, I guess I'm more like that sick, sorry excuse for a father than I like to think I am, because all I can recall is being so enraged that I wanted to hit him until he was crying so hard his girly mascara was running. He was terrified too; he had that wide-eyed dear-in-headlights thing going on, and that only made me more determined to teach him a lesson.

I still remember clearly the noise he made the first time I socked him. It was a surprised, high-pitched shrieking noise, and it was like music to my ears. I felt that sound echo across every part of my body – from my ears to my chest, down into my stomach, before it tingled across my groin, shooting up and down my legs. It spurred me on, and before he could ask me what the hell I was doing, I'd hit him again.

I carried on for about a half a minute, which doesn't sound very long, but considering I was doing nothing but kicking and punching him it probably felt like hours. He begged me at one point, managing to scream it out in between kicks. The plea only made me angrier. That was the first time I let fly at his face, the ring on my left hand cutting his lip and splattering my knuckles with blood.

I caught sight of him with blood on his chin as he fell back against the stacks of nursing equipment, pain and fear and shock etched into his eyes as he cowered there. His hands came up defensively as he braced himself for another onslaught of attacks. His cheeks were wet with tears, and had I stuck to my original goal, I would've taken that moment to say a sweet hi-dee-ho about how I wasn't gonna tolerate his stupidity and disobedience anymore, wring my hand out, and leave.

But, for some stupid fucking reason, I didn't.

He looked so pathetic, sprawled against the back wall of the closet, blood dribbling down his chin and tears welling up in his eyes... he looked so helpless and afraid. This time, the feeling went straight to my groin. Something... something horrific deep inside of me wanted to prolong that moment I'd been waiting for, to make it last, to bask in it a little longer.

And, God help me, I listened to that sick voice.

He flinched as I moved toward him. I called him a girl's name, the first one I could think of, for 'crying' and 'not taking it like a man'. He begged me again, and I socked him hard in the mouth to shut him up. I didn't want to listen to him beg; the begging was making it harder than it had to be, when all I wanted was to justly punish him. To give him the beating he'd deserved since the first time he'd fucked up and got off scott-free because he was kissing Big Bob's ass. And, damn it all, I wasn't gonna let him get away by begging.

Maybe I felt bad for him, but I knew it had to be done. I'd spent too long bottling up this rage to just stuff it all back inside now.

The next few moments were a blur, but it ended with him crushed face-first into the door of the closet as he tried to escape. The doorknob clattered in his hand, and I grabbed his wrist. My fingers wrapped around, tight as a vise, and I hissed in his ear that I'd break it if he didn't settle down. He gave another of those pathetic whimpers and I felt myself shudder against him, pressing him hard into the door.

He gasped. It took me a while to realize why, and it was only when he shifted against me that I felt how hard I was against the small of his back. He moved, trying to struggle, and only succeeded in rubbing himself against me. Despite how hard I tried not to moan, it came out anyway, and he whimpered again.

"D-D-Doctor Cox..." he whispered. For some reason, instead of making me angry and resentful, hearing him say my name like that only made my predicament worse.

"Shut your fucking mouth, Sandra, or I'll shut it for you."

I... don't know what I was thinking. I don't wanna dwell on it, honestly. Whatever, it's fucking done with now, over with, and there's nothing I can do about it.

He yelped when I grabbed the waistband of his scrubs pants, and his free hand shot out to stop me. "No...!" he started, and I jerked him hard up against the door to shut him up.

"Newbie, keep your damn mouth shut, and I'll make it quick."

I don't know why he listened to me. I wish he'd fucking fought me off, punched me and kicked me and, God, I don't know, pulled my fucking hair for all I care. Suddenly, he was still against me, except for the... the stupid girly shaking and the pathetic little noises.

I kept my word, though. I made it quick. He was impossibly tight, and release came sooner than I'd expected. When I was done, I pulled out and tucked myself away as if I was ashamed someone might see, not looking down at him because I knew I my come wouldn't be the only fluid I'd see on the backs of his thighs.

"Get dressed, Angela. And get the fuck back to work."

I could hear him fighting back sobs as I left, having shoved him back behind me so I could open the door. I stood outside for a moment, listening to the pathetic girly noises he was making, before shaking my head hard and power-walking in the direction of the washroom.

I don't know why I headed to there; maybe my mind was anticipating my body's next reaction, because yeah, being the soft ass that I am, I spent a good minute with my head over the toilet bowl. My chest heaved, bringing up more, making me literally sick with guilt and rage. Realization of what had just happened, what I'd done, began to set in. I rested my head against the cubicle wall and closed my eyes, breathing hard and heavy.

I'm not gonna tell you what I was thinking about, 'cuz honestly it's none of your damn fucking business. Besides, I forced myself to forget most of it. All you need to know is that I'm not some kind of fucking heartless monster, and yeah, I felt some remorse. 'Course, I chose to ignore it. Instead of dwelling on it, I cleaned myself up, rinsed my mouth out, and headed back out onto the floor. I was a rock, stony-faced and ice-cold. People recognized the 'warning signs' of one of my 'bad moods', and by the grace of God left me alone.

Later that day, Newbie and I passed each other in the corridor. My heart leapt into my throat and my hands balled into fists at my sides as I braced myself for... well, whatever the fuck was gonna happen. However, he didn't shriek at me, or come after me with that annoying, 'Doctor Cox, Doctor Cox!' whine of his. He didn't even make eye contact with me. He just kept on walking.

I didn't see him for the rest of the day. He did a good job of keeping out of my way. I don't know how he explained the bruising around his lip, but his scrubs did a good enough job of hiding the rest. It was actually pleasant to spend a day without him yapping at my heels, and I used that as an excuse to justify what I'd done.

The next morning, however... yeah, you guessed it. He was back to his usual self, and at a quarter to eight, that piercingly high voice of his cut through my ears again as he came bouncing down the corridor at Ghandi's heels.

I don't really know if it was just a defence mechanism, acting like nothing had happened between us – I don't really care, either. I don't care about him, his mental health, his physical wellbeing, or anything else I might've trashed the first time I took him aside and punished him using a method I hoped he'd never forget. The beating, that is. Anything else that had happened in that closet I had forced to the back of my mind with the aid of an entire bottle of Jack that night. The beating was the punishment, and despite the images that had haunted me while I slept that night – because yeah, even the big bad Doctor Cox has nightmares, kids – Newbie had deserved every second of it.

It was probably that rationalization that makes it so easy to do it again. And again, and again. Every day, I find myself growing less and less patient with him, and less and less able to keep a handle on my temper.

But he never fights back. Part of me wonders why, the other part – the bigger, more controlling part – doesn't really give two craps, or at least likes to pretend it doesn't. I guess I try to justify it by saying he obviously knows he damn well deserves it, and that's why he doesn't bother putting up any resistance.

We both know when he's in the wrong, and we both know he deserves it.

And I think, deep down... we both enjoy it, too.

. . .

// FIN //