knock-out, tag: Jillian!

March 5, 2012
3:30PM

Preston had to do something with his time. He was growing impatient with himself lately, and he needed something to temper the boredom. Where usually, Preston would go out and find a pretty lady to take home, he just couldn't do that anymore. He was in a relationship now. An honest to God relationship. He was married for fuck's sake, and he couldn't hide behind the fact that she wasn't really a "wife" anyway anymore. She was. Hailey had quickly become everything to Preston, and though monogamy was still a struggle, it was a struggle he was willing to make.

Beating people up seemed like the logical next step. Devin and Shane were working through their bullshit, and Preston knew that he needed to give Devin the space to do that. Besides… the fact that Preston spent so many bloody hours over there at the Moran household made Hailey uncomfortable… and wasn't he trying to make things better with her? Not worse. He needed a hobby of his own.

Enter the gym. It had come as something Preston found unnecessary at first. Why the hell would anyone go to the gym when they had perfectly good "weights" built into their own body? Push-ups, sit-ups, cardio (with sex and running, when he felt up to the taste) proved to be enough to keep fit… it wasn't like running on a treadmill like some hamster in a wheel and lifting a bunch of weights, grunting around other guys, was going to make him feel like a man. But he went, mostly, for something to do. And he could only go on so many walks and smoke so many cigarettes before Hailey began to question his sanity.

And so he went to the gym. He ran on the treadmill like a hamster. He lifted weights. He watched two blokes fight, exchanging blows, kicks, abuse.

Now, that was something he could get behind.

Preston asked one of the trainers to explain the rules. He'd spent so long as a "spoiled little rich boy" that he didn't really put much stock into sports. He played a bit of football in his day, but there were only so many times you could kick a ball around before it got old, fast. He began to train, small at first (punching bags were far more therapeutic than he'd known before… if only he'd known sooner, perhaps he would have gotten in far less trouble). But finally, Preston was allowed into the ring. Just for a little at a time.

It started minimally, mostly to keep the true fighters "warm." He'd serve as a punching bag, maybe get in a few swings himself. But after a while, Preston got the hang of it. There was something so invigorating about slamming your fist into a guy's jaw, and not getting dragged off of him. Today, however, had been something more of an off day.

Preston, rather than getting in his swings, had wound up in the hospital, head concussed, consciousness biting in and out. Fuck. And then, a vision. Blond hair, blue eyes (there were only two of them, right?) and everything he would have wanted to fuck, were he not wed. He didn't remember going to the hospital, but he must have… he didn't remember waiting in the doctor's office. He did remember refusing to put on the gown, which was now settled nicely beside of him, in a crumpled up ball. Preston could feel his fingers press into the side of the bed, praying that she was just some figment of his imagination, because otherwise… he was going to have a very difficult time extracting certain thoughts and images from his mind.

"So what is it, then, love?" he asked, wetting his lips. "Have I got the clear or what? Look, I don't mean t'be difficult, you know that, yeah? Just tryin' t'get home to my wife." The first time he mentioned Hailey. It was, he hoped, a step towards "inspired birth control."

Having worked in only hospital environments in the past, Jillian could easily recognize the fact that working at Evergreen Family Practice was, most days, a dream. Sure, there were fewer staff, which meant it was harder to get someone to cover a shift when needed, but that also meant that she knew everyone in the practice at least well enough to make polite chitchat about the weather on the way out to the parking lot. And it meant that their patients were a lot more familiar, too. She was coming to learn the ins and outs of Evergreen, to predict how long it would be until the next time Jimmy broke a finger trying to play baseball with a bowling ball or Mrs. Carlssen came down with another cold she was sure would turn into pneumonia, and she knew how to handle it.

Key phrase in all that: most days. Today, however, was not most days. It wasn't genuinely chaotic, true, and her patients hadn't been that difficult, but whatever the cause, Jillian just had not gotten out on the right side of the bed that morning. By mid-afternoon, she wanted nothing more than to go home, order some dinner in, and curl up with Ryan to watch a movie while Ox drowsed at their feet. All she had to do in the meantime was survive the next hour and a half, and she'd be home free. Literally. (Except that, god, it was only Monday!)

Grabbing the next client file on her clipboard--no tablets here, which she found surprisingly refreshing, having never been a huge fan of the 'hi-tech' updates to her previous hospital--she headed to Exam Room #3 and rapped her knuckles on the door, waiting two or three seconds to give the current occupant--a Mr. Wallace--the chance to protest if necessary, before sliding in and closing the door behind her. She glanced up when he addressed her, giving him a small, professional smile somewhat akin to what a kindergarten teacher would give one of her students. She was a little bit surprised to hear a British accent coming from her lips; for some reason, she'd assumed her husband was the only Brit in Evergreen. Apparently not.

"Well, that depends on a number of things, Mr. Wallace... my name's Jillian, and I'm just goin' to take down your basic history and do a quick examination, okay? Then the doctor will be right in, we'll get you fixed up, and you'll be home to the missus in no time." Her blue eyes slid away from the man's face and back to the paper on her clipboard, which he'd been given when he first arrived. "I see you were... fightin' at the gym? Was that boxin', kickboxin', or brawlin'?" she asked with a slightly more genuine smile this time, looking back up at him. "And how would you rate your pain, on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst?"

Preston could feel his head spinning. While normally, this wouldn't surprise him when a gorgeous blonde walked into the room (no surprises there, really… she was sexy, and he was definitely the type who appreciated beauty like hers. But all signs pointed to a more… localized and physical reason. He'd been knocked out cold, and sent to the fucking doctor, like he was a child or something. At least, he thought, he'd been able to avoid the emergency room. What a nightmare that would have been. And expensive. Not that it would have put a strain on Preston financially or anything… but with all of these new expenses he was incurring (for reasons he had yet to reveal to his wife), medical bills were kind of the last things he wanted to pay.

She introduced herself. "Jillian." Not "Doctor So-and-so." That was surprising. Most doctors, as far as Preston was aware, were a little more formal than that. Maybe she wasn't actually a doctor, and he was going to die a long and painful death. What the fuck was going on? Preston wasn't afraid of dying, per se… but the thought wasn't exactly something he wanted to deal with at the moment. And with Miss Blondie-pants over here, introducing herself by her first name, and speaking with an accent that could only be defined as "Southern," if not "redneck," Preston had the sinking suspicion that he was completely, and utterly fucked.

"…the doctor will be right in," she continued, and Preston couldn't help but let out a breath of relief. Okay, good. So he was going to be checked out by a doctor, not just some nurse or intern or whatever the hell she was named Jillian. What kind of a name was "Jillian" anyway? It was the kind of name of the kind of girl that Preston used to tumble between the sheets with. It was the kind of name of the kind of girl who liked things like "sucking dick," and "talking dirty." It was the kind of name of the kind of girl that was going to get Preston in a world of trouble.

Well. In the past. Preston sucked in a slow breath through his nose, trying desperately to keep his wits about him. Why was he such a fucking hornbag? Why couldn't he hold himself together for three fucking seconds? At least the pain radiating through his temple was keeping him distracted enough not to pop wood, but still. "I started Mixed Martial Arts," he answered, sniffing once and rubbing his hand briefly over his mouth. He felt his heels beating against the side of the table, and he truly felt like a child now.

Jillian smiled. She smiled, and Preston -- for reasons unknown even to him, was furious. Why the hell would she smile? What did she have to prove? God damn it… she was acting like they were best bloody friends, and they'd only just met. Preston could feel his jaw clench, could feel the frustration spiraling through his body, and he cleared his throat. "Four," he answered, mostly out of desperation to escape from this sterile near-prison.

Jillian made a note of his reply on his chart, then set it down and moved next to him. "Good. Four is good. We can give you somethin' to help with that, no problem. I'm just goin' to take your blood pressure and pulse now," she said; it was generally a good idea, as she'd found (and been taught), to announce one's intentions before touching a patient--particularly one who didn't look all that happy to be here. Then again, she couldn't blame him; it looked like he already had a bruise forming to the side of one of his eyes, along his cheekbone. Looks like he got the worst of that fight, she thought as she felt for the pulse in his wrist, then raised her other arm and timed it for fifteen seconds.

She jotted down the result on his chart before moving to grab the blood pressure cuff; she strapped it around his upper arm, murmuring an apology as it tightened to the point of discomfort. She took the readings as quickly as possible, not wanting to draw out the discomfort, especially given the fact that he was already in rough shape, and had apparently lost consciousness a couple of times before even arriving.

"Mixed martial arts, hm?" she said, long after the fact. "Looks like you had a bit of a rough lesson..." she gave him a small smile, putting the sphygmomanometer away. "I'm goin' to give you a quick neurological exam, now. Shouldn't take more than five minutes. First of all, remember these three words: blue, pencil, and hippopotamus. Now, can you tell me what your name is, where you are precisely, and what the date and time are?" she asked, sitting down on a stool at the little table and picking up his chart again and making a couple of quick notes before turning her blue eyes back up to him.

Although Preston certainly appreciated the thoroughness of his exam, the fact of the matter was, this was the last place in the world he wanted to be right now. He'd gotten punched in the face and knocked unconscious… his head wasn't severed. He felt weak, having to see a bloody doctor. Like, somehow he was insufficient as a man. He may have been spoiled, and privileged, but he was no god damn child, and he could handle his own. But there was no need to consider his own insufficiencies… not when he could project them. So his annoyance at Jillian's thorough examination began to grow by the moment. He set his jaw as the cuff tightened around his arm, and watched Jillian as though it was somehow her fault.

For someone who hadn't worked out at a gym for long, Preston was relatively muscular. He'd never seen the point in running on a treadmill for hours when there was a perfectly good sidewalk outside. Why drive miles to do chin-ups on a bar in a room with a million other men when it was just as reasonable to drop to the floor and do push-ups on your own? Preston had prided himself on his appearance, but that meant effort… not money slammed down to pay yearly. But the size of his arms made the cuff's swelling even more uncomfortable, and Jillian's muttered apology did little to quell that. "Bloody pointless," he muttered to himself, though it was barely audible.

And she was still talking. Dear God, her accent was annoying. Preston reached up to rub his temple in frustration… but that was a mistake, and he flinched in pain. Could he amend his numeric value or was it too late? No. He wasn't going to be weak. Was he seriously going to have to follow what this woman was saying? Mm. Maybe, if he just listened to her, he could get out of there quicker.

"Blue, pencil, hippo," he repeated, though the exasperation was more than evident in his tone. He let out a breath through his nose, attempting to calm himself, and answer the banal questions she'd demanded. "Preston," he said, and ran a hand over his mouth. "I'm at the bloody doctor's office, and I don't have a watch on me, so I can't very well tell you the time, then, can I?" His hand dropped back to the table beneath him, and he heard the paper hiss a little with the brush of his fingers. He tightened them, feeling the pads of his fingers crinkle against it, and wondered what would happen if he just lashed out. Pulled out all of the paper, rip it into tiny shreds.

She had been looking at him, so expectantly. Preston lifted his own eyebrows, looking her over, as if to say, "What the hell else do you want?" His nerves were fraying quickly with his patience, when all he really wanted to do was throw her over the edge of the table and pull her scrubs over her perfectly-shaped ass. God. She was making it very hard to think. What were those words again?

Jillian was fairly used to being around people who weren't in the greatest of moods. Generally speaking, aside from the occasional physical or flu shot, people didn't come to a doctor's office unless they were in some degree of bad shape, and feeling like crap physically quite naturally left people feeling like crap mentally and emotionally, too. And really, the fact that nurses come in for most of the brunt of those bad moods wasn't exactly a trade secret; she'd seen it played on enough times in shows like Grey's Anatomy or ER. Not that she watched Grey's Anatomy or anything.

Still, there was generally a noticeable difference between "acting out because of physical discomfort or pain" and "being genuinely unpleasant." Or, as Jillian preferred, "being a dick." At the moment, Preston was definitely starting to toe the line between the two. Sure, he'd been knocked unconscious, but for fuck's sake--he hadn't lost a limb. Snapping was one thing, but the venom in his tone--and the rather unsettling look in his eye when she met his gaze--left Jillian feeling that there was something a little more at play than just a nasty headache.

For a moment she pondered his chart, pretending to look at the information while she weighed the consequences of leaving the rest of the examination up to Grant. He might be in a wheelchair, but the man was undoubtedly more intimidating than a five-foot-nothing, petite blonde woman with what she'd been informed was a (misleadingly, obviously) "friendly face," and he commanded more respect, too. Not to mention, Jillian was starting to feel those instinctive prickles that women so often develop at the onset of adulthood, the ones that say, 'This is not a good situation to be in.' She hated the fact that she was more vulnerable because of her sex and comparative physical weakness, and that made her feel grumpy too, but there was nothing for it.

"Right, of course... All right, Mr. Wallace. I'll pass your information on to Dr. Holmes. He should be in in just a couple minutes. In the meantime, just try to relax." She gave him the most convincing professional smile she could (with a limited degree of success and headed out into the hall, drawing the door shut behind her. When she found Grant, she gave him a rundown of how the appointment had gone so far, and the three words from the neuro exam. Hopefully he'd have more luck with Preston Wallace than she had. She was just glad she was done with the man.

Or so she thought at the time.

She was so. fucking. perky. Preston couldn't help but feel uncomfortable by her mere presence. He didn't hate her outright. He didn't have any reason to. He didn't even know this woman. But she was absolutely devastatingly obnoxious just because she was pleasant. How could she work in a place like this and keep so fucking positive? There was nothing in the world that was positive. Even the self-proclaimed "good" things had shitty outcomes sometimes.

God. His head was spinning. That final knock-out punch really left him reeling. But it wasn't like he had any sort of serious condition. He needed to go home, suck down the rest of the liquor he had in their liquor cabinet, and call it a day. That was it. He didn't need any of this bullshit. But the gym didn't want to be sued. He got that. Not that he would. He had enough money, that was the last thing he wanted to waste his time doing. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And yet, Jillian very pleasantly informed him that she would "pass his information on" to another doctor (was she even a doctor? He forgot… maybe he did need an examination), and he would be in in a few minutes. So what was the point of her coming in? What was the whole big deal about the questions she'd asked, the examination she'd haphazardly done, if he was just going to have to suffer it all over again? What the hell was the point? Preston could feel a bit of fury welling up in his chest as he bit his tongue.

At least the blonde would be out of his hair for a while. At least she would be out of the room and Preston wouldn't feel tempted to turn on the charm, like he was doing now. He felt borderline physically ill, like he was going to vomit, and all he wanted to do was fuck her.

What was wrong with him? He had Hailey back home, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with her. She enjoyed fucking him. They had amazing sex together. But there was just a piece of Preston that existed from his past that he couldn't quite shake off. A piece of him that he wanted so badly to obliterate, but in all honesty, had no reason to. There had been no repercussions to his cheating ways… none. So what was the point in fidelity?

Jillian was gone, and Preston let out a breath of relief. He almost hugged the dude in the wheelchair. No physical attraction at all.

But the exam was over all too quickly, and the man wheeled right back out of the room. Yes. Preston had a concussion. He could have told him that. And again, he had to "wait right there" for a moment. Oh great. Was there someone else who was going to come in and tell him what he already knew? Almost like a little boy, Preston kicked his feet idly, heels beating gently against the table.

Fuck. This was just not her day. No sooner had she traded off the creepy asshole in room three for paperwork, than her pen exploded on her, leaving her thumb, the heel of her hand, and the tip of her index finger stained blue even after she excused herself to scrub the skin raw. Then, to make matters worse, Grant passed Creepy Asshole back off to her when he was done with the examination, letting her know that he'd been perfectly pleasant if a little gruff, and that he did have a pretty severe concussion. She sighed, but accepted the paperwork back, and after spending another ten seconds attempting to scrape the stained skin right off her palm, she headed back into the exam room, fake smile in place.

"All right, Dr. Holmes informs me you do have a concussion, so I'm here to give you a quick run-down on post-concussion care." She sat down on a stool by the little table built into the wall; it was low enough that even someone as short as she was could tuck her feet underneath its rungs. She opened up his chart again, and plucked from it a pamphlet labelled 'Concussion Care' in bright teal letters, against a painfully 90s-esque backdrop showing a cartoon man with a bandage around his head. They really needed to update their handouts.

She turned on the stool and leaned up--they were within arms' reach of each other now--to offer him the pamphlet. "One of the most important thing is to watch for unusual sleepiness, or difficulty wakin' up. It's best if you can keep yourself from sleepin' for too long, or have someone wake you up at random points during the night," she explained, delivering the same spiel she had a few hundred times in the past, both in Savannah and here. "Is there someone at home who can help you? You should probably give 'em a call to pick you up, too; you blacked out a few times, so it's not safe for you to drive."

Preston wasn't exactly looking forward to having someone else pop up in his room to look him over. He was even less pleased when he found out that the woman who was coming back in, disturbing his peace, was her. Blondie. Dear fucking God, he was going to hell very soon. The thoughts that whizzed through his head weren't exactly innocent… and they were worse this time around than they were the first. This time, they were pressing to be let out… she was a thing of fantasy, hardly of the "real world." When Jillian left the room, Preston allowed himself to indulge in that fantasy a little. He allowed himself to think about her without clothes, what it would be like to bend her over and make her whimper.

Thinking, as far as Preston was concerned, was not cheating. He couldn't help what he thought, so it's not like it was preventable. Besides, considering how damn far he'd come, as far as Preston was concerned, he deserved a fucking medal. The fact that he was just thinking about it, and not trying to see it through, was totally indicative of the progress he'd made as a husband, and as a man. A man could be loyal. He'd given Hailey his fidelity, and damn it, if he wasn't going to see that shit through to the end now.

Except, now with Jillian back in the room, all of that was going to hell, and quickly. Preston could feel himself growing a little hard, though thankfully, not enough to actually notice. He shifted from his place on the table, paper crinkling under him, and tugged on the leg of his shorts a little, giving himself more room. He needed her to get out of the room before he actually acted on this, and tried to go for it. She confirmed that he had a concussion. He fucking knew that already. She eased onto a stool and tucked her feet under, and all Preston wanted to do was part her legs and dive between them. Fuck. He told her he couldn't sleep for very long. That he should wake up during the night. He should watch out for drowsiness. What about arousal? Fuck. Someone needed to pick him up. Preston shook his head firmly.

"No," he said, plainly. "No one's gonna bloody pick me up. I've got to fuckin' feet and I can carry myself from one place to the other, thanks." This was dragging on far too long. Preston could feel his nostrils flaring in anger, and he demanded, finally, "S'that all? Can I sodding get out of here now? I've wasted enough time getting passed 'round like a whore."

It was clear that Preston's time with Grant hadn't done much--if anything--to improve his temper; just the way he held himself indicated tension. He wasn't a scrawny man by any definition of the term, and he seemed almost to be leaking testosterone from his pores, to have every muscle taut and ready to move. Just the way he shifted and tugged at his clothes made Jillian feel... what? Threatened? A little bit, the way society had taught her to when she was in the presence of a man she didn't know who could, potentially, do her harm. It was that feminine instinct that she hated so much. She didn't want to be weak, dammit, and she wouldn't show it.

She made a point of looking at him directly this time when he spoke, forcing herself to fix her blue eyes on his. What was he--was he insane? Her lips parted a fraction of an inch in disbelief at his attitude, the obvious aggression in his manner, and though she'd fight to hide it, her heartbeat sped up too. He wasn't bothering to try to hide his irritation anymore. Fuck, she hated it when patients got angry. Jillian wasn't a nonconfrontational person, but she was in a nonconfrontational occupation, which meant that she just had to take the abuse and not respond--which wasn't her style at all. It pissed her off.

Though she tried not to let it, she was almost certain that when she spoke, her voice was a little sharper than it had been before, a little more critical, though she kept it to a conversational volume. "You can 'sodding' get out of here when you have someone come and pick you up. Do you want to pass out halfway home?" she asked him, keeping her gaze on his face. "If you don't have anyone, I'll call one of the boys at the fire station to give you a lift."

Then, against her better judgment--but totally in line with her intuition, which was telling her this guy was generally an ass, she added with a small professional smile, "You might also want to watch for mood swings. Excessive anger can be a sign of a more severe concussion and possible brain damage."

Jillian parted her lips a little, and Preston could feel his breath catching in his throat. If only she could part those beautiful lips a little farther… he could press his cock between them, feel her tongue, silky, gliding over him… fuck. He looked away, feeling the tension in his shorts get a little more… uncomfortable. He tried to think of anything he could to distract himself. Dying animals. His parents. Hailey. Dear God, that was a sobering thought. If Hailey knew the thoughts that were whizzing through his mind right now, he would be forced into hiding. Or at least forced to sleep on the sofa, which was almost worse than the other option. He would be castrated. Fucking castrated. Though he would almost accept castration at the moment, if it meant that he could get rid of this raging hard-on.

She attempted not to let it all bother her. He could see that. She was showing incredible restraint that Preston, in no way, possessed. But then again, she did try and sneak in a few little prods here and there. Her voice was a little more tense, which wasn't helping Preston at all. Though he loved a woman who would bend to his will, after being married to Hailey for so long, he was growing accustomed to a woman who would fight back. Show him a little sass.

And sassy was exactly the description that Preston would give Jillian, though he tried not to let it influence him quite so much. Jesus, if he wasn't in too deep. He needed to get out of there as soon as possible, but that didn't seem like it would be happening anytime soon. His phone was still back at the gym, and it wasn't looking like she was going to get him back to it, so instead, he just cleared his throat. "Don't need to call the bloody fire department. Jesus. They've got better things to do. I'll call a cab." Something. Anything to get him out of this office. And then, the final nail in the coffin. "Excessive anger can be a sign of a more severe concussion and possible brain damage." Preston let out a slow breath through his nose, attempting to force himself not to explode. He didn't feel particularly well as it was, and this was not helping things.

"You really think you're something, don't you, blondie?' he asked, humorlessly. "But I'll tell you right now, I'm not bloody impressed."

Well, even if he was being a smart-ass about it, at least he'd accepted the fact that he wasn't going to be getting out of that office on his own steam. A cab was better than nothing, though as a medical professional Jillian would feel better passing him off to a friend or family member who she could feel confident would keep an eye on what she was fairly certain was a pretty nasty concussion. Of course, as a human being she couldn't give a flying fuck, and barely caught herself in time to stop uncharitable thoughts about how maybe she SHOULD let him make his own way home and hope that he'd--

But no, that was below her. At least, sober her. Drunk her could get pretty bitter and aggressive, and she was known to have a mean streak when provoked, but generally speaking she tried hard to be (generally speaking anyway) a good person. Not necessarily a saint, just not a bitch. And it would be a bitch move to hope that he'd--

"You really think you're something, don't you, blondie? But I'll tell you right now, I'm not bloody impressed."

...Okay, maybe not as bitchy as she had previously thought it would be. Maybe it was at least a little deserved, since this guy seemed to be hellbent on being a complete and total fuckwad. Her eyebrows raised in matching, skeptical arches as he finished his little (and totally unnecessary) dismissal of her character, and she capped her pen and tucked it into her pocket. "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Wallace, but my name is not Blondie and I am not married to a man named Dagwood. I'm also not paid to care if you're impressed with me. I'm paid to make sure you don't die in a ditch somewhere because you oh-so-brilliantly decide that you're macho enough to beat a concussion. The receptionist will be able to help you call a cab. Unless you have any other questions, you're free to go."

If he wanted dismissals, he could very well have one of his own, as far as Jillian was concerned; she kept her eyes on his to face down any "questions" he might have, inwardly seething at his totally dickish behavior.