HHFC#1: By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes. Open, locks, whoever knocks!
His Candy Girl
Elizabeth Webber was not a complainer. She dealt with her lot in life, preferring to turn what others would perceive as a disadvantage into the ultimate offensive weapon. It made her life easier, it seemed to make other people like her better, and, for the young college freshman, that was all she could ask for.
Well, except for candy.
That was the one thing, the only thing, she would and did quite often complain about.
There were few things in life that Elizabeth enjoyed more than candy, chocolate especially, but, since the tender, sugar craving age of eight, she had practically been denied her most treasured treat, instead having apples and carrots shoved in her face when she asked her parents for something special to eat. Ten years later, it left her bitter towards all fruits and vegetables and yearning for every sweet morsel that crossed her path.
However, it was not because of the fact that her parents were doctors and believed in a healthy lifestyle that sugar had been strictly forbidden from her diet but, rather, the diabetes she had been diagnosed with while in the third grade. As a child, the hereditary disease had seemed unjust, almost like a punishment she was forced to endure for something that her older sister had actually done, and, as the brunette artist aged, learning to live with her condition more and more with every passing day, it moved past punishment and because a cruel joke. She had obviously, at some point, pissed off the wrong someone or something, and, as a result, they had taken from her the one thing Elizabeth feared she could not live without: candy.
At least, that was until now.
For ten years she had followed all the rules to the very letter, but enough was enough. Not only had her diabetes stripped her of her favorite treat, but it had also come to ruin not only her birthday every year but Halloween as well, her favorite holiday. There was something about the costumes, and the pageantry, and the in general spookiness of the holiday that Elizabeth was drawn to, but, since the fateful day she was diagnosed with the sugar disorder, it was also a holiday she had not participated in, but all that was about to change.
You see, the eighteen year old had a plan. Because it was the 31st of October, her night classes had been cancelled, and she had refused to pick up an extra shift at the dockside dinner she worked at part time for spending money. Instead, the painter planned to lock herself away in her tiny studio apartment, gorge herself on all things chocolate covered, caramel slathered, and nugget stuffed, and celebrate both All Hallows Eve and the start of her nineteenth year in true gluttonous style, diabetes be damned.
It was slightly reckless, and it was certainly risky, but she was prepared. Thanks to the pump she wore to regulate her insulin, it would be easy for the brunette to control her sugar as it spiked with her candy intake, and as long as her family and her doctor didn't find out about her private party, no one would be the wiser to what she was about to do. In Elizabeth's eyes, her proposal was full proof.
So, settling into her preferred corner of her old, ratty couch, she curled up with the bowl of bite sized candy bars purchased just that afternoon in the ruse that she would be handing out to trick or treaters. Her cat, a moody yet playful black kitten, curled up beside her, his content purring mirroring her own self-satisfaction in the moment as she tore open her first KitKat of the evening, and, as the freshman started one of the many horror films scheduled for viewing that evening, she took her first bite of chocolate bliss, savoring the melting delicacy until every last morsel of silky-rich goodness was gone.
It was going to be a good night, a very, very good night indeed.
She felt… off.
Her limbs were heavy, her eyes absolutely refused to cooperate and open, and she was much too exhausted for what had been a lazy day. While, granted, it had been years since Elizabeth had consumed candy and, for that matter, so much of it in one sitting, she had not been expecting her sugar rush to affect her like this.
Struggling, she went to push herself up into a sitting position on her couch, but, as her depleted fingers came in contact with what was supposed to be a slightly scratchy sofa cushion, she realized it was, instead, the even scratchier fabric seemingly used only for hospital sheets.
Why a place that was supposed to heal and comfort sought to make their patients so uncomfortable, the petite artist would never know. As an intelligent child, she had once asked her grandfather Steve that very question, but the then Chief of Staff had just laughed at her precociousness, patted her on the head, and snuck her a handful of peanut M&M's, his candy of choice, before going back to his work. Obviously that had been during her pre-diabetes days, but, ten years later, and Elizabeth was still left wondering about the illusive answer to her inquiry, without her Grandpa Steve to harass for a response or a sugary placation.
Startling her out of her revelry, a strong, reproachful, but ultimately amused voice greeted her, causing Elizabeth's former heavy lids to snap open in surprise. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Miss Webber."
What she found standing in front of her was certainly not what she had been expecting, and the cocky intern with his sandy blonde hair, perfectly messed up on purpose to look accidentally tousled, laughing eyes of silver-blue, and crooked grin convinced the brunette that, rather than being in an actual hospital, she was simply sleeping… and dreaming of being in one.
Smirking to herself, she gloated. Candy really did do wonderful things.
The clearing of the young doctor's throat - and what a lovely throat it was indeed, perfect for licking, or biting, or sucking, or… - recaptured her attention, and she turned back to him, the corners of her mouth hitching in pleasure, but, still, Elizabeth remained silent. This fantasy was just too perfect to ruin with her inescapable habit of rambling.
"I don't know what you were thinking, eating so much candy, but it's a good thing that your neighbor called your building's supervisor to complain about your cat's crying."
Really, Elizabeth found herself musing, her entire evening, thus far, had just been too fantastic. First the KitKats. And the Snickers. And the Butterfingers. And the 3 Musketeers. And the Mars Bars. And the Almond Joys. And the 100 Grands. And the Baby Ruths. And the Skors. And the M&M's. And the York Peppermint Patties. And the Milk….
"Miss Webber," the doctor interrupted her sweet memories, not that she particularly minded when the interruption came shaped like that. "Are you even listening to me?"
She wasn't, and she felt slightly contrite about that, because, really, it was highly unlikely that the physician, a total stranger, would ever reappear in her dreams again, and, seeing as how she only allowed herself the chocolate binge once a year, starting this year, it would be a long time before there was so much sugar circulating through her body again to inspire such fantasies, but, honestly, the college freshman just couldn't help herself. After all, she was talking about candy!
"Listen, I understand that a diabetic coma is a shocking experience to go through, but you survived, and, as long as you don't ever attempt to personally put Hersey's out of business in one night again, I think it's a fairly safe bet to say that you probably won't ever experience a diabetic coma again."
Elizabeth blinked, blinked again, and, then, finally, she blinked a third time. And then she remembered how her body had felt just moments before, before she had laid eyes on Doctor Delicious, and, with that recollection, reality bit back.
"I almost died," she whispered, tears of belated fright pooling in her wide, round eyes. Meeting the intern's steady gaze, the painter pressed, "but how? I was… I was careful. I had my pump on, I took my sugar before I started eating the candy and it was extremely low, and I made sure that I regularly gave myself insulin while I continued to eat the chocolate bars. I just… I don't understand, Doctor…."
"Morgan," he filled in for her.
"Morgan," she repeated. "I just don't understand how this happened."
He crossed his arms over his chest, smirking in her befuddled direction. "It was your cat's fault."
Confused, the now-nineteen year old asked, "My cat's?"
"Apparently, the little devil" – oh, he had no idea, she wanted to inform him – "chewed through the tubing that's connected to your pump, so every time you tried to give yourself insulin this evening, it just simply dripped onto your couch. For the future, you might want to try to break him or her of that bad habit."
She went to agree with him, but, before she could, the physically attractive physician continued, "or, better yet," he teased her, "you could just stop eating candy."
By the pricking of my thumbs…
Stop eating candy? Was this Doctor Morgan insane? She had gone ten years without real, honest to goodness not fake and plastic and disgusting chocolate, and Elizabeth would be damned if she'd go another ten hours before she had some more. Moderation, that she would consider. Maybe. But total and complete denial again? Ha! Doctor Delicious had another thing coming if he thought that was going to happen anytime soon. Hell would freeze over first before she went cold turkey on candy once more.
"Because, you know," the blonde taunted, walking… no stalking, the artist calculated, across the room until he came to her bedside where he sat down on the edge beside her. "There are better things to crave, to yearn for, to desire than chocolate. There are better things," he expanded, licking his lips, the action drawing her attention like no bite sized morsel could ever possibly dare to aspire to, "to be addicted to."
…, something wicked this way comes.
Wanting to play along, needing to play along, she cocked her head to the side, meeting the intern's gaze, steamy stare for steamy stare, and asked, "so, Doc, I take it you have a much more appealing obsession in mind for me?"
"Oh, yeah," Doctor Morgan agreed, grinning smugly. "And, trust me, with mine, you won't need a pump."
Yep, Elizabeth mused to herself, smirking and luxuriously stretching her toes underneath the blankets, she was definitely going to be breaking herself off a piece of that.