Testing the Theory

Griffin Hayes, the clinically depressed soap-opera star, and Ethan Moore, his world-weary psychologist, are meant for each other. Too bad Dr. Moore's insane wife doesn't agree. SLASH

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CHAPTER 01; ETHAN

When I first met Griffin, he was a skinny, pale preteen with big sleepy eyes who looked like he hadn't yet reached puberty. I was a clinical psychologist's assistant at that time, working the night shift at Glen Todd General Hospital. As an assistant, I had two year's worth of studying in psychology, and no experience with actual patients. I spent my time putting files in order, drinking coffee, and flirting with the interns. There wasn't any actually psychology involved. The doctor I assisted, Dr. Scott, was a large (in all senses of the word) benefactor of the hospital. (Personally, I never thought he was qualified to be any sort of psychologist, much less the type who dealt with rape victims and suicide attempters, but that was the hospital's decision.) This jolly old doctor wouldn't make me do a thing, either. Hey, put those files in order for me, he'd say. Here's $50. Go get some coffee from Starbucks. Say, that new nurse is pretty good-looking, wouldn't you say? She's no spring chicken, but those legs—

So I remember that day vividly; it was the first – and only – time anything exciting actually happened to me in that hospital.

He came in sobbing and frightened, as well as angry. It had fallen below zero that night; he was wearing a tattered sweater and ill-fitting jeans, with some sad looking Converse All-Stars. His skin looked faintly blue, marred with pale contusions, and he was showing all the psychological signs of a rape victim – but he refused any assistance, saying he needed Dr. Scott.

It took me a moment to finally speak, once someone finally brought my attention to the youth. My mouth didn't seem to want to work properly; I was struck nearly dumb by his cadaverous appearance and tired eyes and frosted blue-gray lips. "I'm sorry," I told him, "Dr. Scott's not in this evening. Can I help you?"

"I need to see Dr. Scott," he mumbled, lips too numb to move.

"I'm sorry," I repeated, unsure of what to do. "He's not available. I could gladly put you in touch with another psychologist here. Dr. Gr—"

"Dr. Scott," the boy said firmly. He clung to himself tighter, as if he had suddenly began to fall apart. "I need to see him."

"Did you have an appointment?" I asked, confused. It was a stupid question to ask, but I was too distracted by his translucent skin to pay attention to what words I chose.

I forgot what he said afterwards; I do remember that it was in a loud, harsh voice, and he proceeded to what he referred to as 'freak out.' It didn't take long for him to be wrestled into a gurney, sedated with a cruel syringe. He looked pretty and empty, lying there, breath shallow. A spent tin cup, a dying angel, fading light.

I called Dr. Scott.

"I don't recall anyone by that description," the old man said thoughtfully. He was off on Christmas vacation in Maryland, visiting his divorced wife and daughters. I could picture him scratching his chin through his wiry beard, face ruddy and wet with perspiration, his estranged family glaring daggers at his back. Not only did you have to be a horrible father/husband, they were thinking, you have to take a call during dinner. "How old did you say he was again?"

"I'm guessing around thirteen or so. Maybe a little younger." I leaned heavily against the wall outside the boy's room, feeling like a little housewife, unsure whether or not to prepare dinner or not.

"You say he didn't give a name?"

"Not that I caught."

"I see. Hmm."

A buzz on the line punctuated the silence. I heard something creak through the static; I imagined him sitting on a leather armchair, with high, arched wings, rubbing his stomach in contemplation. Dr. Scott did not, in fact, do any of those things. At least, I never saw him do them. I just tend to imagine people as they appear to me mentally. It's actually rather symbolic, pretty cool – my English teachers loved me.

"Well, I can't think of anyone. Just keep him there until he's well and send him on his way if he doesn't tell his name. You might want to go look through my files. See if you can find him. Maybe he's an old one."

I bit my lip somewhat. Sending a little kid out in the snow – that didn't seem orthodox at all. And look through those three filing cabinets of patients? Hell no. I'm his assistant, not his secretary (he has one of those; her name is Margot and she hardly ever shows up for work).

"That's—"

"Well, I have to get going. Dinner, you know!" I almost expected him to tack on 'Ho! Ho! Ho!' But he didn't.

"Sure."

"All right. See you after the holidays. Have a Merry Christmas – oh wait, you don't celebrate that, do you? Hmm, well, I hate saying this, but Happy Holidays, Ethan. Take care." He hung up.

I sighed, and shoved my cell back into the pocket of my mint green pants. I went back into the boy's room and watched him, thinking. Wondering. Waiting.

"You're a strange kid, you know that?"

"Yeah, I know that."

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Glen Todd General Hospital is based on Ben Taub General Hospital. Not that that's really relevant, but.