This is for S. J. Smith, again, as a pick-me-up.
She never has to ask him to stop squirming. He lies still as a mannequin while she works, unless she induces a galvanic reaction. If only all her patients had such self-control, she muses as she tinkers with his shoulder. His constant complaints (about the exam table or an imaginary draft or her perfectly reasonable disquisition on proper self-maintenance) seem little enough to endure in exchange.
Until he grumbles, "Are you done playing doctor yet?"
Stung, she bends and whispers in his ear, "Oh, I haven't even started."
And steps away, grinning, until that galvanic reaction runs its course.