Doctor, Doctor, a Birthday Story for Rachel
Written by Beth

Six-thirty a.m. and my shift was very nearly over. I was trudging exhaustedly through the hallway, clipboard in hand, making notes on the chart of the patient I'd just visited, when all of a sudden I was ambushed by one of the night nurses. I coughed and looked away in the hope that she'd think I was too busy to talk to her, but she ignored the gesture, began walking alongside me.

"Dr. Devilbliss," she said firmly. "The guy in 214 is insisting on seeing you. He believes he's having an allergic reaction to his painkiller. The one that he's been on for a week." Her voice was dry. "I tried to take care of it myself, but he insisted on talking to you."

"I'll be right there," I said, not breaking stride. She *really* shouldn't have been bringing these sorts of things to me--I contemplated finding out her name and making sure she got a review of hospital procedure (talk to your *shift supervisor* first--don't go straight to the doctor!)--but it wasn't worth pursuing. I mean, I was on the floor in question, and tired or not, this *was* one of my patients . . . although I couldn't remember exactly *which* one . . .

I reached the nurses' station, dropped off the chart, then addressed Jane, who was working the desk.

"214?" I asked, handing her the chart I'd been writing on and then stretching a little.

She consulted the patient roster. "Bayliss. The cop who got shot."

"Oh yeah," I said as it all came back to me. "What's this about the painkiller?"

"He's got a rash and he's itching all over," she said. "He's really not very happy right now. I think he's had all of us in his room at one point or another tonight."

"Ah," I said, then thought for a minute. I really, really didn't want to get involved with this--dealing with difficult patients makes me incredibly nervous. So much easier when they're still and sedated and on an operating table. *That* was where I did good work.

Sighing, I scribbled out a requisition for some lotion with cortisone and handed it to her.

"Would you mind taking a trip down to the pharmacy? The quicker we solve this, the sooner he'll stop bothering you."

She gave me a skeptical look, but nodded. "I'll try," she told me.

I nodded, ran a hand through my hair, rubbed my eyes, then walked down to Bayliss's room, stepped in.

"Detective," I said. "I hear you've been itching."

He was sitting up a little bit in the bed, wearing his glasses, his eyes a little wild looking. The itching must have kept him from sleeping. He looked miserable, and the skin on his forearms really *was* red, and streaked with blood in some places where he'd frenziedly scratched himself.

"You have *got* to make it stop," he said, voice fierce. "I--this is driving me fucking *insane*!!"

I stepped closer, took his arm in my hand and looked carefully at his skin. It wasn't hives . . .

"Have they changed the sheets on your bed recently?" I asked.


"Brought you a new hospital gown? Has anyone brought in a blanket for you, a robe, something you've been wearing?"

"No, no, no, no," he answered curtly.

"Have you eaten anything that you don't normally get? Can you remember your last couple of meals, any snacks that you may have had?"

He shook his head in aggravation, began scratching the palm of one hand. "Don't you people talk to each other?! Everyone I've spoken to tonight has been asking me the same damn questions. I *don't* have any food allergies, and it's *not* the fucking sheets!" He was getting rather close to yelling.

I nodded--inside, my stomach was beginning to churn. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry. We're just trying to figure out what's going on here, all right?" I raised my hands in what I hoped was a calming gesture. "Tell me exactly where you're itching, okay? I see the arms and hands, but where else?"

He sighed heavily. "Everywhere. Legs, tops of my thighs, my stomach, my neck. My feet and my calves. And my back," he said, grimacing. "And I'm still too fucking *sore* to reach behind myself and scratch there, and it's going to *kill* me--I swear it!" He began to scratch his arms again.

I stood motionless for a second, trying to figure out how to proceed. He had been on this floor for several days now but he hadn't really been a problem thus far. When he first arrived, it was straight from ICU, and at that point, he wasn't doing much of anything. Unfortunately for him, right now he'd reached the stage where he wasn't quite well enough to go home but not quite hurt enough to lie there quietly and bother no one. And cops really make some of the worst patients-- they always want to *move;* they're always getting bored; they always become incredibly peevish by the end of their stay. The expression in Bayliss's eyes right now was a harbinger of great things to come. He'd be a handful for the nurses-- and for me, I feared--this week.

He was looking closely at me. There was a doubtful expression on his face--he was probably deciding that none of us was going to be of no use to him. Shaking his head, he finally offered up his own diagnosis: "Know what I think? It's the stuff for the pain. See--I sit here, and since I'm bored out of my *mind,* I notice things. And this itching *always* gets worse right after they give me more pain medication."

"You've been on this same pain medication for the past week without any reaction. So the problem probably isn't the meds," I said bluntly.

"You don't think it's the meds, it's not the food, and it's not the sheets. What are you trying to tell me--that I made it all up?!"

I heard the challenge and the frustration in his voice and groaned inwardly.

Fortunately, Jane entered the room just then. "The lotion you requested," she quickly said, then left us again, ignoring the desperate glance I cast her way. I was clearly on my own with this one. I thought for a moment, then spoke.

"Look--even if we can't isolate exactly what's making you itch, we can still try to make you more comfortable. This is a topical lotion that should help," I told Bayliss, trying to sound encouraging. "Put this on wherever you're itching, but don't get it in your eyes or mouth."

"And this will work," he said skeptically as I approached the bedside, handed it to him.

*No.* I gave it to you as a joke.

"It should," I answered.

He looked critically at the label, then up at me. "Okay then. Thanks."

"No problem," I said, heading for the door, relief beginning to spread over me already. "You be sure to let someone know if this doesn't work."

Not *me,* but someone. I hoped he'd get that.

"Uh, doctor . . . wait," he said. "Please."

I gave him a pleasant if not enthusiastic glance, waited.

"I, uh . . . You see . . ." He shifted around gingerly in the bed, grimacing a little. "Would you mind helping me get some of this on my back? I don't think I can do it myself," he said almost sheepishly.

With some of the belligerence gone, he seemed more approachable. But I almost never touched patients in this way, almost never performed such small gestures of comfort. Bayliss's request was something a nurse or a family member would usually handle--to me, it seemed uncomfortably intimate, personal. My job was to cut people up, not rub them down.

For a long moment, I seriously considered sending for Jane, getting myself out of this. But as I looked at him and thought about it, something inside me gave.

"Sure. I can do that," I said, then walked toward him, took back the lotion, and unscrewed the cap.

"Lean forward," I said, squeezing the white cream onto my fingers.

He slowly did as I asked, groaning in pain.

"Good. You're starting to move a lot better," I said approvingly. "Just a few days ago you could barely sit up."

I was keeping it all very doctorly, all very professional. Good.

"It hurts like hell, he darkly said, then added, "But it is nice to be more mobile."

Good god. As I looked down at his slightly bent form, I suddenly realized that I'd have to help him open his gown.

"Uh, just let me untie this," I said uncertainly, embarrassed. I awkwardly extended my left hand and untied the laces, then slowly spread the gown apart, pushed it down his shoulders a bit, automatically stopping a moment to glance down at the dressing on the side where he was shot. Nothing going on there.

He was slender--really too thin, in my opinion-- but rather nicely formed. It was obvious that he took care of himself, probably running or swimming since his build was lean but not overly muscular.

The hospital gown and pillows he'd been propped up on had left soft red creases here and there on his skin, and I had a sudden urge to try and smooth them out.

Madness. Taking a deep breath, I touched lotion and fingers to his back. He shivered a little.

"Cold," he said, laughing a little self- consciously.

Hmmm. Maybe I should have warmed it up somehow-- Jesus. *Why* wasn't a nurse doing this again???

"Sorry," I said, then began to rub the lotion into him, using small circular motions. His skin felt soft and smooth against my fingertips and I breathed out slowly as I encountered the ridge of a shoulderblade, moved down his vertebrae one by one. It was . . . oddly comforting to touch him this way, almost hypnotic.

"Ohhhh," Bayliss groaned. "Oh. That feels so good."

Something in his voice struck a chord inside of me and I felt the beginnings of a flush on my face. I desperately sped up my movements as my brain screamed for me to get away from him and out of his room post haste. But my fingers kept moving.

I didn't want to stop--I didn't want to be a doctor. What I wanted to do at that moment was slide that gown further off of him. And god forgive me, because as I finished up with the lotion, I actually contemplated doing it.

"Okay," I finally said, voice firm. "I think that does it." I was talking to myself as much as to him.

He waited for me to close his gown and then slowly leaned back again. I looked right into his eyes. I'd grown to like his back--what did I think of his face? A perfect mouth with a ripe lower lip-- how had I not noticed *that*? And his eyes were framed with incredibly long lashes, and they seemed deep and warm and *possibly* also a little amused . . .

"Thank you for your help, doctor," he slowly said. "You've got magic hands."

Was he flirting with me? I couldn't speak for a moment.

He smiled at me, chuckled a little, and then reached out a hand for the lotion. I gained enough control to give it back to him, but not enough to stop myself from watching in fascination as he as he squeezed some of it out onto one of his forearms, then began to work the cream into his skin with long fingers.

The sound of someone's voice out in the hallway startled me. I straightened up, pulled myself together, washed my hands.

"All right then. Contact one of the nurses if you have any other problems," I said, then slowly headed back out into the hallway. A quick look at the clock on the wall told me that my shift was at long last over, and I exhaled in relief.


"Ohhhh," he groaned. "You don't know how *good* that feels."

I smiled a little, then slowly slid one hand down to the small of his back, leaned in and kissed his shoulder, my mouth slightly open so I could touch his skin with my tongue. He tasted wonderful.

He stiffened, and for a moment I was terrified. One word out of him and I'd be in court, sued from here to high heaven.

I waited, breathing hard, until I was fairly certain that he wasn't going to say anything, and then I kissed him again, rubbed my cheek against his soft, warm skin. I could hear his heart beating a mile a minute; I found it very sexy.

I gently rubbed the small of his back while softly kissing his shoulderblades. He sighed--it sounded a little bit like a moan--and I felt my own heart begin to beat hard.

"I think--" I began to say after a while, then stopped myself because my voice was embarrassingly rough. I coughed a bit. "I think," I began again, "that I might be better able to help you if we were both in the bed."

He was silent, and suddenly I was terrified again. Now I'd really gone too far. I began to move away, to pull his gown shut.

"Sure," he answered at the last minute. He sounded slightly breathless, and I felt the blood rise to my face, rush to my cock. Slowly, he scooted to one side of the bed.

"No. See--I think . . . I think I should sit behind you," I said, sure that my face was now scarlet.

He trained eyes on me, looking critically, closely. The force of his gaze was so strong I almost took a step backward.

"You look a little uncomfortable, doctor," he said a minute later.

Embarrassment flooded me, and I pressed a hand to my mouth in consternation. He laughed at me, then reached out and grabbed my arm, pulled my hand to him, captured it in one of his.

"Why should I let you sit behind me?" he murmured, twining his fingers with mine.

"Because if you do, I'll make it very much worth your while," I promised.

"All right, then," he said, and pulled me close.

And then I slowly got into the bed, gingerly situated myself behind him. I opened my legs, bent them a little, then urged him to scoot upward so that his back was pressed against my chest. I leaned forward to maximize the contact and then closed my eyes as desire rushed over me. It was so wonderful.

"Closer," I urged him, my voice shaking, then moved hands down to his hips, encouraged him to press his sweet ass a little closer to my cock, which was straining painfully for freedom. He was naked under that gown--I wished to god that I had fewer clothes on.

He moved just like I wanted him to, then quietly drew his breath in when I began kissing his jaw, an ear, the side of his face.

"This is good," he said, his voice so low I almost couldn't hear it.

I nuzzled his neck, then moved hands beneath his hospital gown, slowly slid them onto his chest. He was breathing hard, softly murmuring, "Oh" again and again as I traced fingers over his pectoral muscles, then down the middle of his chest, smiling a little as I figured out where his sensitive spots were. I looked down and watched the outline of my hands moving under the gown, slowly taking possession of his body. It took my breath away.

I found his nipples and he called out softly as I teased them, gently rolling them between my fingers.

"How are you feeling?" I asked in my Doctor Devilbliss voice, and he laughed a little. I pressed close, enjoying the vibrations emanating from him. The laughter stopped abruptly, however, when I began to slide my hands downward.

"Oh god," he whispered when I gently pressed fingers under the edge of his ribcage. I kissed his shoulder, then moaned into his hot skin as I went for broke, slid hands all the way down until I could feel his hard cock gently brushing the backs of my hands, my knuckles. And then, because I couldn't stop myself long enough to tease him, I quickly encircled him with my fingers, squeezed hard. It was so damned good to have him helpless in my hand like this, to hold him, to feel him trembling against my body.

I began to stroke him, then gently rubbed the pad of my thumb over the tip of his cock, moaning a little when I felt the ejaculate he released in response to my touch. I spread it all over the head of his cock.

"Yes, yes," I murmured to him, and then I began to move my hand again. Bayliss pressed himself into me, thrust his ass back, and I groaned a little as the intensity of my own unmet need registered.

But this was about him, and so I caught my breath, then continued to stroke him, at first lightly and then with increasing pressure and speed as he began gasping for breath, rocking his hips a bit. When he was very very close to coming I took just a second to glance at his face. Eyes shut, mouth open, expression of strained concentration--he was lovely.

When he finally did orgasm, Bayliss winced, then let out a low and harsh cry as he pumped hot bursts of come onto his stomach, my hand. I kissed his neck feverishly, then leaned back as he collapsed, pressing me into the pillows. For a moment we were silent, he breathing hard, I trembling and exultant.

Once Bayliss had pulled himself together, he laughed a bit.

I bit his shoulder.

He moved seductively against me and I groaned a bit. "Let me help *you* now," he said.

"Well, if you *wanted* to . . ." I began.

He laughed again, and then slowly turned around, got up on his knees, moved hands to the waistband of my pants.


"Fuck!" I sat up straight, then groaned as I realized that just like in the dream, I'd gotten a raging hard on courtesy of Tim Bayliss. I began to jerk myself off with fierce, rough movements, trying not to think about how Tim felt in my dream, about how wonderful it was to touch him, how very much I was longing to see him again.

So fucking inappropriate, this fantasy, but I wouldn't let it go. I couldn't. I cried out harshly as I saw him in my mind's eye, came all over myself, and cursed the world for putting me in such close contact with beautiful shot detectives.