Disclaimer: I don't own Scrubs.
Background Info of the Fic: This fic is set in season one, and some of it is taken directly from the episode (can't remember which episode and it's too late at night to check some crazy fandom site, so whatev). It's the one where all the interns get reviewed by someone and Dr. Cox keeps refusing to evaluate JD, so he keeps on bugging Dr. Cox to do it. I suggest you watch the episode or know of it, because the ending made me cry with joy! Lol, actually I'm a robot without emotions, so I rarely cry whilst watching TV...but if I COULD cry while watching that episode, damn it, would I cry that river Justin Timberlake sings about!
Well, enjoy!!
I creep into the ominously dark board room. This is where Dr. Cox said to meet him, right? Right? Oh, god, I can feel my heart pounding in my head. Is this really where I want to die?
See, a couple of hours ago I snapped like a twig and actually (misTAKE) yelled at Dr. Cox to give me an evaluation. Was that so much to ask? I mean, every intern got one, even Elliot, who drives half the people insane as it is! Stupid little miss A plus plus. That's right, two pluses. And here I am stuck with Dr. Cox.
Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm, I think to myself, eyes scanning the room. I breathe a sigh of relief. Oh, good, he's not here.
Just as I begin to relax a bright light blinds me. After wincing I look up to see the silhouette of a man, his hand on the button of an obnoxiously, painfully light objector. "Dr. Cox?"
"It's time. Sit down," his says, his voice deep and intimidating.
I pull out the chair and sit, suddenly feeling sick to my stomach. It was all fine and dandy when I was just evaluating myself, you know? All peachy keen. What the hell had I been thinking, getting Dr. Cox into this?
Dr. Cox becomes slightly more visible, stepping into the light of the objector. He jams his hands into his pockets and stares hard at me.
"Now, what do you want me to say?" he asks. "That you're great? That you're raising the bar for interns everywhere?"
I laugh nervously. Damn, this is going badly. How is this fair? Isn't it his job to evaluate me? He's torturing me with something he's expected to do. "I'm cool with that," I say tentatively, gearing myself up to make a get away.
"I'm not gonna say that," he tells me. "You're okay. You might be better than that someday, but right now, all I see is a guy who's so worried about what everybody else thinks of him that he has no real belief in himself."
I look up at the ceiling. I would have preferred being handed the evaluation form and never discussing it again. Was there really a question on the evaluation that had an answer as "in-depth" as this? Yikes, they really must have enforced the "additional comments" portion at the bottom of the form.
"I mean, did you even wonder why I told you to do your own evaluation?" he asks.
Because you have no time for interns, because you hate me, because you're too busy watching the "stories" you're addicted to, because you're jealous of my hair, because you hate me, because I forgot your coffee yesterday… "I-I can't think of a safe answer. I just figured—"
"Clam up!" he yells, cutting me off and making me jolt a bit. "I wanted you to think about yourself—and I mean really think. What are you good at? What do you suck at? And then I wanted you to put it down on paper. And not so I could see it, and not so anybody else could see it, but so that you could see it. Because, ultimately, you don't have to answer to me, and you don't have to answer to Kelso, and—you don't even have to answer to your patients, for God's sake!"
He takes a deep breath, his jaw clenching in anger. His voice gets eerily quiet as he says, "You only have to answer to one guy, Newbie, and that's you."
A few moments pass. I hope I'm not shaking, because I feel like I just may end up in the corner chanting fairy tales in a moment. It's not really fair, though, is it? None of the other interns had to go through this. Why the hell is he so mad? I haven't killed anyone. I guess I'm okay so far. I think I'm at least worth one checked out evaluation form.
Dr. Cox shakes his head like some weary old man. "There. You are…evaluated." He tosses the folder over in my direction, and it glides down the table until it lands in my lap. Stupid Dr. Cox with his good aim. I stare at the folder, wishing I could stab it repeatedly until it never existed. But then again, it would probably just be admitted into this hospital, where I'd be forced to treat as a patient…
His voice pierces the silent air. "Now get the hell out of my sight," he commands. "You honest to God get me so angry, I'm afraid I might just hurt myself."
I feel my eyes water slightly, but I'm so not going to cry about this. It doesn't matter. It's just Dr. Cox, after all. What the hell does he care about me, or anyone for that matter? He's probably going to burst out laughing the second I leave this room. I hang my head and walk towards the door, trusting myself not to start sprinting.
Once I'm outside of the room, I feel like everything around me is a flurry of activity and I'm just stuck inside my head, drifting in the halls. People keep bumping into me. Dr. Cox's words ring through my head with every "excuse me" and "sorry" I have to squawk out as I run into people.
You honest to God get me so angry…
I shiver, clutching to the patient's chart harder. I look up at the clock and realize my shift was over an hour ago. How long have I been here?
"Bambi, go home," Carla says, as if reading my mind.
I look over at her. Does she think the same thing Dr. Cox thinks? That I really care so much about what other people think of me? Because it's true. I do. But a lot of people are the same way! How is it a bad thing?
I nod at her. "Just have to finish a few things with patients," I say.
She cocks her head. "You okay?"
I fake a smile. "Yeah…it's just…" I shrug.
"Aw, c'mon. You can tell me." She puts down her chart and looks at me expectantly.
"I, uh, got my evaluation," I say, my throat still a bit tight, my fingers clenching the clipboard that the forms still clung to. "From Dr. Cox," I clarify.
Carla puckers her face at that, sighing sympathetically. "Poor Bambi," she says, holding her hand out. "Let me see it."
I open it up. "It's blank," I monotone before she can even look at it.
"Oh…"
"Dr. Cox decided to give a verbal evaluation," I explain, still feeling the initial shock of being yelled at. "He was…pretty mad."
"It couldn't have been too bad," she says warily, not sure if she believed her words of comfort.
I bite my lower lip. "Eh," I say, waving it off. "I'm not going to obsess. I mean, all I have to do is avoid Dr. Cox for the rest of my life, right?
Cut to JD, creeping behind Dr. Cox deftly in a ninja costume. He sticks what appears to be a tracker on Dr. Cox's white coat.
"Who's there?" demands Dr. Cox, swirling around.
The camera pans up and we see Ninja JD clutching to the ceiling, a drop of sweat on his forehead about to fall. He clenches his eyes shut, willing it to dissolve…
Just as Dr. Cox is turning to leave, the sweat drop hits the ground, causing him to look up and see Ninja JD. "Damn it, would you get down from there? There's work to be done!"
"Like Spiderman's blood," I muse, mulling over the possibility. Ninjas probably got paid more than doctors, anyway. Too bad I'd already wasted a couple hundred thousand dollars learning about medicine.
Carla ignores the comment and says, "That's right, Bambi. Try not to think about it," she says distractedly, filing charts into one of the metal cabinets. "He'll just act like it never happened, anyway."
"Really?"
She shrugs. "It's Dr. Cox," she reminds me. She looks up at the clock on the wall. "Now go home, it's past your bedtime," she joked, hitting me on the arm.
I grin. "Night, Carla."
She grins back. "Good night."
But it isn't enough, hearing her reassurance. I keep thinking about Dr. Cox's rant; I can't help it. It wasn't the typical generic girl's name paired with a few insults regarding my lack of testicles or gelled up hair kind of rant—he was angry. Really angry. After I thought that I was, at least, doing somewhat well.
I walk out to my car, feeling completely numb. The engine starts up, practically on its own. Then I see my hands on the key and realize I'm acting like a complete robot.
Why is Dr. Cox having such an effect on me? I mean, I know that I'm not the best of the best or anything. Hell, I'm just a lousy intern. Maybe that's why he yelled? No, probably not. There had to be an actual reason.
I take a deep breath, trying to leave my troubles behind me.
Cut to the back of JD's car as he drives, a string attached to his car. At the other end of the string, bobbing up and down on the street as the car keeps going, is a clanging can that has "Just Married!" crossed out of it with a sloppily written "JD's Troubles" in its place.
I wish that even that fantasy could make me smile, but truth be told, I'm upset about what happened back there. I probably wouldn't sleep tonight. The things Dr. Cox said to me—those were the types of things that just kept flashing back and forth inside your mind.
Finally I just sigh for the billionth time, focusing on the road. And that's when it happens. Honest to God, it's a green light as I approach the empty intersection, so I keep going. Then some guy comes out of nowhere, bolting across the street like a suicidal squirrel.
Back in college, I took a defensive driving course to avoid getting into accidents. It was hours and hours of drills and scenarios. But no one had ever prepared me for this—no one ever could.
Panic seizes me, and in a flurry of irrationality I swerve the car sharply away from the crosswalk. My stomach jolts as I feel the car tip. Oh, god. I learned how to deal with this, hadn't I? I should know. I paid three hundred bucks for that damn course!
Turns out it didn't matter. The car keeps tipping, then rolling, rolling…the noise is deafening in my ears. I hear my own screams, powerless to stop anything from happening. Glass is smashing; I close my eyes, too scared to see what's happening as I continue to fall.
Finally it stops. The car is on its side—at least, I think it is, because…because…
My eyes close. I can't tell…it doesn't matter, anyway…
Did I ever call Geico…? I wonder vaguely.
Then the pain hits. Oh, god.
Needless to say, this will be continued...or WILL it...? MWAHAHAHAHA. Lol I don't know what that was supposed to mean, but update because I just had the CRAPPIEST day. I've been sick sick sick for the whole week, like the headache-stuffy nose-ears ringing-sore throat-hacking like a dead duck-unable to talk at ALL kind of sick, but I've gone to school ANYWAY, because if I don't go to school I have to miss swim team/work. STUPID learning. I threw my math textbook at the wall today, teehee :D. My teacher never explains the homework till the day after its due. Bad battle plan if you ask me. SO REVIEW or my math teacher gets it (j/k!).
Good thing about being sick, though? You can just point to your throat and say in a strangled, dying animal voice "Can't talk" if you don't wanna converse with another annoying human being. Eh? EHH?? Except I can't resist talking, which only makes it worse, which is why I can't talk NOW...it's killing me! I TALK ALL DAY LONG! ALLLLL DAAAYYYY LOOOONNNGGG! (asterisk) deep breath (asterisk).
G'night.