I saved this Medic & You (included the author's notes too). _ Medic & You: A Prelude Anonymous 09/07/07(Tue)20:40 No. 1314 I'm going out on a limb here and posting something for the first time. If I'm stepping on the toes of the established "___ & You" writers, feel free to say something. A little background: My pediatrician for the larger part of my childhood was an old Austrian man with a very thick accent. He was a great doctor, but for a little kid, that strange tonality of speaking was always a bit intimidating. A lot of that feeling came back to me writing this. ___________________________________ You have just decided that musical accompaniment for a routine medical examination is in fact a very bad idea. It's not that you aren't a music lover, your copy of Pet Sounds with grooves worn down close to non-existence attests to that. It's just that if you had the choice, you'd really prefer something other than the howl of German opera. But the immaculate gleam of the medical office is firmly the realm of the Medic, and judging from the scratch and hiss of the record, Der Ring des Nibelungen is on permanent rotation, and not likely to be displaced for anything short of Ragnarok itself. So you grit your teeth through another earsplitting aria and hope to get this over with as soon as possible. It's not that you don't appreciate the Doctor and what he does, oh far from it. He's saved skins more times than you can count. It's just he's a little... what's the word ... intense? Something about him makes it difficult for you to relax. Maybe it's that his accent is a little intimidating. Maybe it's the fact that his eyes are a shade of blue so deep that it doesn't seem entirely normal. Or it could be that just last week you saw him disembowel an enemy spy using nothing more than a repurposed bonesaw. Whatever the case, sitting on a cold steel exam table in your unmentionables sure isn't helping matters. In the meantime, the Medic seems unnaturally cheerful today. While he's certainly at home in a skirmish, this office is where he's most comfortable. From the crisp click of his immaculately shined boots on the laminate floor to the flawless white of his jacket (how the hell DOES he get those bloodstains out every time?), every inch of him exudes confidence and energy. You fight off a wave of goosebumps, cursing inwardly. He examines a clipboard, adjusting the round glasses on his nose, humming quietly. “Now, how are ve feeling today, hn?†“Well no extra holes as of late, so pretty good I'd wager!†Your weak smile wilts into a chewed lip under the ultramarine gaze. The levity shoots right by him. He scribbles briefly on the clipboard. “Yes, yes. Good. Now hop on the scale, bitte.†He starts putting you through the motions of the standard physical. Weight, height, visual observation, all that. Even with the melodramatic howling in the background, you think you're finally beginning to ease up. Then a rubber gloved finger artfully traces the alignment of your spine. Goddamnit, ANOTHER wave of goosebumps. You're praying he doesn't notice as you hop back up on the table, but oh goody here comes the stethoscope. At least now you can blame it on the little cold metal pad. He places the stethoscope pad onto your skin in the hollow of your chest, and you just manage not to startle when it makes contact, but before you can congratulate yourself on not looking like a complete idiot, you can see his brow furrowing. He pauses, makes a little doubtful noise in his throat. And just when he lifts the device away, and you think he's moved on, you realize he's just going over to turn down that stupid record player. In the silence of that examination room, the cacophony of Wagner was never more missed than now. He returns and listens again to your pulse, and tells you what you're already painfully aware of. “Your heart rate is elevated.†Before you can respond, he's reached the pad around to your back, arm nearly curled around you. “Breathe deeplyâ€, he orders. He's focusing on you intently now, as you try your damnedest to inhale normally. A few gasps and rattles later, and his brow has dropped even lower. “You are very tense.†He announces as he returns to his clipboard. “Perhaps the conditions here are beginning to tax you.†He pauses as he finishes his scribbling. “Or, is there another reason, possibly, vhy you could be so nervous?†His expression indicates that he clearly suspects the latter. “I-I'm sorry... I guess I'm just not that good with... doctor's appointments.†You blather. The statement is ALMOST true. You'd probably be a lot more relaxed if you didn't have those eyes bearing down on you, like you were some sort of specimen to be dissected, opened up to have all your secrets revealed. He sucks his teeth in vague irritation, a soft sharp little noise that makes you check slightly. “Basic medical examination is intended to detect and diagnose problems BEFORE they become serious. There is no reason to be so high strung. But if you do not relax, I cannot check you properly.†You attempt to hide a pout as well as you can manage (not very), and try to focus on something else. Maybe if you can just get your mind off it, you can get it over with. And that's when your eyes land on a little black case in the corner of the office, almost hidden by another jacket on the rack. “Wait, you brought that to field operations?†“It alvays comes vith me.†He replies tersely, marking a few notes. “Huh, so I guess you play, right?†“Mmm.†He makes a noise in affirmative, and tries to get back to his poking and prodding of your flesh. “Then how come I've never heard you?†Now it's his turn to look uncomfortable. To be honest, it's a little unusual. You've never seen that kind of expression on his face. “It is not important. Now hold your arms out in front of you.†You follow his directions, but continue your interrogation. “Come on. If you love that thing enough to bring it with you into a war zone, then you must be really good at playing it.†“A true musician is never fully satisfied with his skills.†He partially mutters, slipping a pressure cuff around your arm. “That's not really an answer.†As the cuff tightens around your arm, it occurs to you suddenly. “Waiiiiit. You're embarrassed about it, aren't you?†“I have NO idea vhat you're talking about.†He snatches the pressure cuff off, and sulks over to the jars of medical supplies on the shelf. It is eminently clear that your positions have been inverted. “It's not a big deal to be embarrassed by something. I mean, look at me.†You try to be as pleasant as possible, but he marches back and jams a tongue depressor into your mouth. “Pah, nonsense. I have nothing to be embarrassed about.†He growls as he shines a light onto your tonsils. “Ehn ay or eee.†You mumble around the mouthful of popsicle stick. “Vhat vas that?†He removes the popsicle stick from your mouth and you repeat yourself. “Then play for me.†He freezes, in mid notation. You can't help but smile a just a little. “Come on. Play something for me. Just me, nobody else. I promise I won't tell anyone else about it.†You can see the expressions on his face changing, as his train of thought gathers steam. Finally he glares at you. “I vill play for you, but not now. Later. Tonight. After Call to Quarters.†He snaps. It takes him a moment to comport himself. “Now can ve continue vith the YOUR examination, bitte?†“Yes I think so.†And your curiosity and anticipation does indeed make the rest of the appointment go much smoother. ---------------------------------------------------------------- TBC! ---------------------------------------------------------------- And now the conclusion! I'm thinking of calling this "Eine Kleine Nachtmusic", because I am THAT UNCREATIVE. Before we begin, a few notes and musical selections to aid your enjoyment... Greifswald: The University of Griefswald, Germany's oldest and most respected Medical University “Air on the G Stringâ€- JS Bach, from Orchestral Suite No. 3 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOVwokQnV4M “Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungenâ€- Johannes Brahms, from Ein Deutsches Requiem http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Johannes_Brahms_-_Op.45_Ein_Deutsches_Requiem_-_(04)_Wie_lieblich_sind_deine_Wohnungen.ogg _________________________ You realize you've never seen the Medic out of uniform before. In these later hours of the evening, in the golden-lit comfort of his quarters, he has dispensed with the white overcoat and the constricting tie, leaving him in his shirtsleeves, rolled up to his elbows and collar opened. He's also, oddly enough, barefoot, a token of casualness that nearly takes you aback. But he seats you on his bed with that familiar air of definitive action. The violin case is set on a small table, along with the record player. In the corner of the room he rifles through a box full of records, and selects one. You can't make the title out from where you're sitting, and he notes your craning to see. He turns the sleeve over, and tsks quietly. “Now. You asked to hear me play, and you vill. But none of your prying beforehand. Just sit and listen.†He sets the vinyl onto the turntable and takes up the violin case. When he opens it, you catch the gleam of amber wood. But as he draws it out, the instrument appears clearly scarred: there are superficial scratches and burns, the blister of a patched bullet hole, and splattered haphazardly across the entire object, the maroon glare of what can only be dried blood. You make to ask a question, but catch yourself as he starts twiddling the pegs and checking the tune. He has that look on his face that tells you interruption is out of the question. When he's finally satisfied with the sound, he sets the needle on the record player. The record must be a recorded audio accompaniment, and the track ticks rhythmically for a few beats, the sound of a metronome counting in the time signature. After one measure, it fades to silence, and the Medic draws the bow across his violin. The quiet, chill tone of piano on the record, is a distant contrast to the warm, rich voice of the instrument played before you in the here and now. His eyes close as he focuses entirely on the music, which is all the better for you, because you don't realize that your mouth is hanging slightly ajar until the piece is almost complete. There is a familiarity in his posture, his expression, that same intensity that made you pause before, but now, in the intimacy of his room, with his music, it draws you in like a moth to a flame. You raise your hands in quiet, heartfelt applause, and struggle for the right praise. After a moment or two you manage to settle on “That was AMAZING, what was it?†He turns his face away slightly, but not soon enough for you to miss the slight rosyness on his face. He clears his throat in a businesslike manner and mutters. “J.S. Bach, Air in G. It was adequate. My vibrato lacks clarity, however.†“Will you quit the modesty act? You're incredible! The best I ever heard!†He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, somewhat flustered by the praise, but he doesn't take it badly. “Thank you... but I feel I lack interpretive skill. Anyone can become passably proficient vith enough practice, but true art takes years of development.†“It's more than I could do, I doubt I could get one squeak out that didn't sound terrible.†You inch over to one side of the bed a little self consciously as he sits beside you. “Nonsense. Everyone loves music in some form. So everyone can be taught. In some form.†His voice is slipping into a softer register, and he is watching you intently again. Not the surgical, scruitinizing stare of earlier today, but something entirely different. It makes you shift slightly as you sit. He takes the inch you've given and presses closer by another half. “I don't know...†you start, but trail off. “It is not so difficult,†he murmurs. His arms bring the violin up towards you, and he tucks it gently under your chin. One broad hand takes yours and delicately presses your index finger down onto the fingerboard. His other arm brings the bow around and he draws out the note. “E. And now to G.†He moves your fingers again, and the calloused pads press one down into a new position. “A,†he breathes against your cheek, and draws again. This continues for a while, but soon your hands are laid gently aside as he takes up the melody, chin hooked gently over your shoulder. He is murmuring something softly, actually singing, right into your ear, something in German... <i>“Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen...â€</i> Your hands, now free, have slipped down by your sides, and one rests on his knee. You can't stop it from gripping slightly as his lips brush across your ear as he continues, <i>“Meine Seele verlanget und sehnet sich...â€</i> And then, he presses a kiss to it. Your gasp carries more voice than expected, but he laughs softly, and goes along with it. “Such a sound. Those who cannot play can always sing. I have played for you, vill you sing for me, Kleine?†His mouth, warm and insistent, inches its way down your cheek to settle in the hollow of your neck. You can only manage a soft moan, and you realize he's set the violin aside and enfolded you entirely in his arms. One hand reaches up to graze against your throat while the other presses low on your belly. “Vhere talent is lacking passion vill aid, for vithout passion, all is mere clockvork,†he rumbles against your neck. The lower hand dips under fabric, seeking skin. You burst out with another little sound of surprise, and you hear his amused hum. “The racing heartbeat again. Vas this the reason all along?†The thickening haze of arousal is momentarily cleared by the realization that he can actually mark your pulse from merely pressing his mouth against that swelling vein in your throat. He growls, as his hand dips lower, pushing clothes out of the way on the journey down inbetween your legs. “They vere leery of my 'passions' in Greifswald. But how can I deny them? <i>Mein Lieb und Seele freuen sich,â€</i> he intones, and a cool even line of teeth graze against your skin. “Oh god,†you can't help but gasp out, as he finds you, deep down, and begins to stroke, deft surgeon's hands working with diabolical skill. You note helplessly that he has pulled you fully onto his lap by now, and his other hand is working to rid you of your shirt. “And it appears I am not alone,†he laughs gently, inbetween nibbles. When he has managed to pull the shirt off, he tilts your face towards his with his free hand, and kisses you fully. His lips are soft compared to the rough trace of stubble that lies as a shadow under his skin. The press of dark, wet velvet takes over your mouth, and leaves your moans muffled. He breaks the kiss, gradually, and fixes you with those eyes again, and they are dark, dark blue, almost black in this low light. “Now tell vhat you vant...†His fingers inside of you twist out another wave of pleasure and you're about to moan for him to hurry up and make love to you before you lose your senses but he presses a finger to your lips first. His smile is the like brief gleam of a concealed knife, and he purrs. “Ah ah... <i>in deutsche.â€</i> You flounder desperately, trying to remember any of the little snippets of German he has attempted to ingrain in you, but his warmth and his stare and the imperative hardness of him pressing into you makes it nearly impossible. You whimper plaintively the only thing you manage to hold onto even now <i>“...bitte.†</i> His smile softens in mercy, and he cups your chin. “Ah, schwach kleine. I should not be so cruel.†His thumb traces the line of your lower lip. “You vould say: <i>Eroberst mich.â€</i> <i>“Eroberst mich.â€</i> You repeat. “What does it mean?†“It means, 'take me.'†Your eyes widen, and his mouth falls over yours again, muting any further commentary. He keeps you on his lap somehow in the frenzy of movement and the tangle of limbs, while he strips the rest of your clothes, and bares his own skin as well, leaving only his white shirt open and flung haphazardly around his shoulders. His strength startles you as he lifts you up, one arm under your legs, and eases the blushed length of his erection into you with infinite care. Enthroned on his lap and full to the point of ecstacy, you claw fruitlessly behind you to get more of him in your grasp, and settle for looping your arms up and behind, to thread through his hair. He rocks forward and up, with a little moan, fingers on your chest grazing roughly across a nipple. The other snakes down your front again, more free without the constriction of clothes, to work its magic. You wish you knew German, because he is saying such terrible, wonderful things in your ear inbetween the nips and the licks, things that sound both elegant and profane at the same time in that guttural tongue. But you settle for the sound of his voice getting higher and louder as he presses into you again and again, and your near wordless moans are accompaniment enough. You can feel the heat of him as his stomach and chest press up against your back, and one hand splays over your chest, a cage to catch your pounding heart. He nips at your earlobe and slides back into english just long enough to growl, “Sing, sing for me!†You can't help but oblige him as he presses in again, and his hand between your legs circles insistently, pulling an aching soprano cry out of your throat. He matches it with a wail of his own, before urgently bringing your face around to kiss you again. Under the hood of your half-lidded eyes, you can see his face, blushed with abandon, hair slightly askew, fine dark brows knitted in rapture. Even in this madness of pleasure, you take care to remember it, for he has never looked more beautiful. He gives a harsh little shout, and tightens, all around you, as he slips over the edge. Then, a shuddering moan slips out and he drapes himself over your shoulder, as you follow after him, breathless and dewed with perspiration. In his completion, he eases backwards onto the bed, taking you with him. Rolled onto your side, he curls around you, one arm flung haphazardly over your body. When the rattle of both your breathing has finally dwindled and he has slipped delicately out of you, you hear his soft, musical laughter on the back of your neck, as he presses a final kiss there. “A fine performance, don't you think?†He muses. You nuzzle back against him as he reaches over and sets his glasses down on the table. “I'd say a standing ovation is in order, but I don't think either of us can at the moment.†His short bark of laughter makes you smile as much as the fingers that flicker up your side. “Vell put, Kleine. Vell put.†---------------------------------------------------------------- (There is a part 2! Please wait patiently while I retrieve it.) ----------------------------------------------------------------