Hi! Thought I'd post these here. About a year ago there was a badwrongscrubs ficathon over on LJ. The goal was, you've probably guessed, to write the baddest wrongest scrubs fics and pairings out there. It is a challenge I jumped into with glee. Lots and lots of glee.
Title: Compulsion
Pairing: Kevin Casey/Perry Cox
Prompt: Can't Stop
You watch the steady pulse of his juglar vein as he watches the television. It's a soap opera, and you could probably write a whole paper on why that doesn't make sense.
Nothing about him ever makes sense. He's chaos in action. He's everything that makes your skin crawl and itch to flick the light switches.
You're not aroused by him, you're not you're not you're not.
He's attractive, you know in a pure aesthtical way. Not because you're attracted to him. He's even quite funny, in his own way you think (not because you're attracted to him). He's quite brilliant, not as brilliant as you, but then again he doesn't have the advantage of being compulsed to study the chart six times (not because you're attracted to him).
Maybe you're just jealous. He is what you could be: normal. He's not normal though, he's just a different kind of dysfunctional that isn't apparent on the outside (not because you're attracted to him).
You like that brokeness that he hides (not because you're attracted to him). You can remember when he was pestering you to help him with metabolic disorders, and you'd agreed (not because you're attracted to him) because what else were you going to do on a Friday night but read your textbooks?
Ever since the OCD started showing, people have been sympathetic and quietly patient as you go through your routines. You can tell they feel guilty for being impatient with you as your routine stretches into hours.
He wasn't though, that night, as he sits beside you on the couch. You cursed that you'd only bought the couch, figuring you wouldn't be doing enough entertaining to justify a chair too. Sitting on the couch together, almost touching, the smell of soap and clean warm body tickling your nose (not because you're attracted to him).
Part of you wondered, hysterically, how he can possibly be studying, as you sit next to each other. You could barely keep your mind focussed on the text as you tap the corners of the page repeatedly: top right, bottom left, top right, bottom right, top left, bottom right-- shit start again, top right, bottom left (not because you're attracted to him).
"Dammit!" He yanks the book away from your reach and you feel it's loss and begin to panic. "You have definitely got to stop the tapping or you're going to drive me insane!"
It was the first time since you've been diagnosed that someone's forced you to stop. You felt a sudden wave of calm rush over you and it was like the best high you ever had when smoking pot. The ritual is interrupted and for once you didn't care. The world wouldn't end, you knew, if you didn't tap that page one more time.
You watched as rusty flush crawled up his neck as he realizes what an insensitive thing he's said. You couldn't find the words to tell him that it didn't matter. Mostly because you were watching those capillaries fill with blood. You wanted to make those capillaries fill more often (Because you are attracted to him).
That is the whole crux of the problem, you think as you watch him take a drink of his soda. You watch his adam's apple bob as the fluid makes it's way down (not because you're attracted to him).
He can stop your rituals and not make you crazy. But you're not gay and neither is he; even if he were, you would be submitting to a whole different type of compulsion.
He's not stable, not like your routines. To follow him is to run headlong into madness.
You quit your residency twenty-one times the next day (not because you're attracted to him).
