A/N: O. M. G.

I wrote a songfic.

I don't even LIKE songfics.

Oh well. Based off of 'The Nurse Who Love Me' - A Perfect Circle.

DISCLAIMER: All lyrics copyrighted by A Perfect Circle. Do you honestly thing I could write a song that amazing?


Say hello,
To the rug's topography
It holds quite a lot of interest with your face down on it…

It is a pretty rug; she finally notices that after all this time. He always loved this rug. She's fairly sure it's Oriental, but whatever it is, it's beautiful, full of tiny intricate little patterns, and every time she tries to follow the pattern she loses it again, only to find a new one and lose that too. All of it makes her head spin. It's a lot like him.

Or maybe, she considers, eyes drifting downward once again to the carpet she's laying on, making the patterns closest to her eyes swim and blur before her, she's reading too much into this – looking too close, so close she can't see the whole picture. That makes sense, doesn't it? How is a rug anything like a man?

How is a raven like a writing desk? It's his voice that says it, not the voice of her mind. It was always one of his favorite sayings; he loves to confuse her, apparently even when he isn't there. A tiny giggle escapes her lips.

God, she misses him.


Say hello,
To the shrinking in your head
You can't see it but you know it's there
So don't neglect it…

She can't quite remember how it all started anymore.

Maybe because it was so long ago – but no, that's not right, is it? It can't have been that long -, or maybe he did something to her, something to change her memory around – that doesn't even make a bit of sense, but then, what does anymore? – or maybe it doesn't matter why. Maybe it doesn't matter how it started, either, though she thinks it should matter, just as much as it matters how it ended.

It seems now that he was always there, always somewhere in the background, always in a forgotten corner of her mind, until she got so used to it that she didn't even notice anymore. Yes, that was a good way for it to begin, a substitute for how it really was – story of her life, really.

He never had any real reason to be at the hospital, she remembers. He pretended that he was visiting a friend or a relative, an excuse to hang around the waiting room and flirt with the nurses. They loved it, of course, loved him, the shameless little whores. She suspected that a few of them were sneaking him prescription medication, lending him the keys to the pharmacy, but she couldn't call them out without proof. Not that she cared. And of course she wasn't jealous. Not. One. Bit.

Oh, he was a heartbreaker; she knew that from the start. Jaw-droppingly handsome – brown hair, so dark it was almost black, pale green eyes, full lips that no woman could help but dream of kissing, a tall, thin yet muscular figure. His voice was soft, sometimes even gentle – though he could, she later discovered, be sarcastic and cruel. And his hands – she remembers always being attracted to those hands. They seemed to have a language of their own; he used them when he spoke almost as much as his lips and tongue. Large, with long, spidery fingers – you couldn't help but imagine what they could do to you, whether it was wrapping around your delicate throat and squeezing, or running through your hair, or simply touching you, anywhere and everywhere.

He never paid one bit of attention to her.

She never expected him to break her heart, too.


I'm taking her home with me
All dressed in white
She's got everything I need
Pharmacy keys
She's fallen hard for me
I can see it in her eyes
She acts just like a nurse
With all the other guys…

How it began for them was a different matter, entirely.

This she remembered clearly: He asked her out. Simple as that. Barely any flirting. Nothing. She wonders if she should be disappointed. She also wonders whether he picked her out at random, or whether there was a reason for it all. Surely he couldn't desire someone so plain, so normal, so uninteresting – so unlike himself.

"Well, hello, beautiful," he said with a small grin. She might have fallen for him right then and there. "What d'you say you take the day off, let me buy you some lunch."

"I… don't think that would be appropriate…"

"Dinner, then."

She never had time to argue. 'What's your name' was the only thing she got to ask him. Dorian. Sometimes she whispered that name to herself, when the lights were out and she thought no one else could hear her. Dorian Giovanni. She was not in love with him, he'd say, amused by her obsession, but with a name. It's not funny, but she wants it to be, more than anything.


Say hello,
To all the apples on the ground
They were once in your eyes
But you sneezed them out while sleeping…

The lawn outside the hospital is covered with apples fallen from their tree – bright red and rotting away. No one ever picks them up. It's a pity, they're good apples. Or they were.

They used to sit there together under the tree for hours, talking about everything and nothing at all, eating whatever apples they could find that didn't have worms in them. She used to love apples. Now she can't stand them. Everything's changed since he left.

She stands there now – right where they once sat. And she can almost feel him next to her, his lips brushing against her ear, gripping her hand tightly in his, or wrapping his arm around her waist. Instinctively, she starts to lean back a bit to rest her head on his shoulder – until she remembers that he isn't there, and never will be again.

Every time he left, she waited for him right here. But she knows it's pointless to wait this time.

Say hello,
To everything you've left behind
It's even more a part of your life now that you can't touch it…

It doesn't make sense now, but before, it didn't have to – the fact that, in being with him, she had to give up everything else.

It was little things at first; the things you gave up any time you had a boyfriend. Not as much time, for instance, on your days off to spend with friends, because you had plans with him. Little things like that. No big deal. But he started taking more than just her spare time. Her friends, her life… her sanity.

She didn't care. So what if, because she loved him, she lost everything else she ever cared for?

"I feel bad," she murmured, snuggling up closer to him under the shade of the apple tree.

He glanced down at her for a moment. "What for, love?"

"I haven't talked to Marissa or Kirsten in so long. They left messages on the answering machine. I just never got around to replying to them. And now they wont talk to me at all. They just glare at me." She frowned. "Am I a horrible person? What if they hate me now? I never wanted to hurt them…"

He chuckled. She thought, vaguely, that it was a strange thing to laugh at. She also knew that he would laugh just as much if she told him that she was losing more than just her friends – she was losing everything. "Ah, Emily –" he didn't call her by her name often; usually he used silly little pet names. 'Darling', 'dearest', 'beautiful'… she knew full well they meant absolutely nothing. "Ah, Emily, you are terribly sweet. It would be so easy to love you."

And she's not sure what that's supposed to mean, but she doesn't really care anymore.

They've cut the tree down. Nothing more than a huge stump remains, as big as the hole inside her. It signifies, she thinks, how truly gone he is.


I'm taking her home with me
All dressed in white
She's got everything I need
Some pills in a little cup
She's fallen hard for me
I can see it in her eyes
She acts just like a nurse
With all the other guys…

The first time he left, she thought she might die.

It was right after she saw him with that other girl. What's-her-name. She can't remember now, but it didn't really matter who she was - certainly didn't matter to him. Strangely enough, though, she wasn't angry, not really. Not until he left.

Two weeks. It seemed like two years. And he took the other girl with him. If it were any other guy, she would have moved on, let her friends convince her that she deserved better, that she shouldn't take him back. And they did try to convince her of that, they really did. They said he was no good.

She knew that. Of course she knew that. There were rumors that he was a thief, a murderer (she thought that was a bit extreme, but you never know), a drug addict (well, of course he was. She was the one sneaking him pills, after all), and plenty other things besides. It didn't change the fact that she quite literally loved him more than life itself.

He came back. Without the other girl – she didn't know what that might have meant, but she also didn't care. Right back to her, and didn't even ask for forgiveness – he knew he didn't need too – and made such sweet love to her…

Well, no, that isn't the right word. They never made love. Love, to him,was never involved in sex. Come to think of it, he never actually said 'I love you' to her.

The second time he left, and the third, it wasn't as bad. Because she knew he would come back. And, like so many other things now, it didn't matter how many others he seduced and pretended to love, how many others he hurt, as long as he came back and pretended to love her too.


She's got everything I need
Pharmacy keys
She acts just like a nurse
With all the other guys…

This time, though, she knew he wasn't coming back. She wasn't sure how she knew that, seeing as he never said he wouldn't return. She just knew.

He showed no emotion at all, even as he looked down at her, even as tears rolled down her cheeks despite her efforts to stop them. No response from him. He didn't care.

"You'll be alright," he said softly.

For half a second, she hated him for thinking that he could affect her that little. That she could 'get over it.' But only half a second, of course. She went straight back to being hopelessly in love.

"No, I wont."

He stared at her for a while, an unreadable expression on his face. She wondered if it mattered to him that he might as well have been stabbing her right in the heart.

Probably not.

"No," he agreed with a small sigh. "Perhaps not."

And that was that.

And now he's gone, not a single trace of him left. Sometimes she wonders if he was ever there at all, if any of it was real, but then realizes that he is everywhere, memories of him fill her life, her entire body, her home, this damn rug that she's still laying on because she can't bring herself to get up and face the fact that he is gone.

It's a pointless exercise, but she wonders where he is now, and whether he thinks of her, or whether he's moved on completely. And she wonders what he's moved on to. Other hospitals, other clueless young nurses that he can seduce without even needed to think of it? Or something else entirely?

She wonders if she was different. If maybe, just maybe, there was more to her than all those other girls, just as there was more to him than any other guy she ever dated.

But if that were true, why would he have left?

Boredom, perhaps. Or maybe he was afraid that he would fall in love with her – start to care. "It would be so easy to love you." Or maybe that's just wishful thinking. There's no way of knowing. There is only one thing she knows for sure: that if he asked, she would take him back in a heartbeat. And he wouldn't even have to beg.

"Dorian," she whispers, because there's no one there to hear her. "Dorian."

And oh, god, she misses him.

Say hello,
To the rug's topography…