Can I say that I love Sam? And by Sam, I mean Taye Diggs. Here's to him. This is just before the last season finale… before they reconciled anyway.
Reviews are appreciated but only if they're nice, or at least constructive, please. I get enough critique at work. This is fun time.
Disc: I own everything. Except Private Practice.
Addison stumbled into the kitchen and almost ran into Sam.
"Oh, sorry. I didn't see you there." She hesitated before passing by him to reach for some juice out of the fridge.
"It's fine." He said clearing his throat. His voice was a little hoarse and when he says 'fine' it sounds like "fide." Addison eyed him carefully.
"Are you okay, Sam? You sound a little congested there."
He shook his head but didn't speak.
She watched him a moment longer. There is akward tension between them and he won't make eye contact. Feeling slighted, she shrugged and left.
Sam immediately pitches forward into a tight sneeze which he had desperately tried to suppress. A slight sound escaped and he looked up worried. Addison didn't seem to hear though, having departed. Sam breathed a sigh of relief and pulled a napkin from the stack to blow his nose.
"That doesn't sound good," commented Violet, breezing in behind him.
"It's nothing," he croaked.
"'Duthig' huh?" Violet stole a swig of coffee before replacing the mug on the table and pressing her hand to Sam's head. She then lowered her long fingers to either sides of his neck and delicately feels his lymph nodes.
"Look who's a doctor all of a sudden," he grumbled petulantly.
"Something about a sniffling man brings back all the memories of my residency," she said, studying his eyes. "Now open up."
She tilted his chin so that the light above the sink could illuminate the inside of his mouth and surveyed a moment longer before letting go.
She turned to wash her hands and, after a moment of silence he is forced to ask.
Drying her hands on a paper towel she looked back at him. "Low grade fever, minimal lymph node swelling, throat seems fine. I would say that you, my friend, have caught yourself a cold."
At her final words, Sam raised a hand to hush her. Violet snuck a glance over her shoulder to see Addison reading a file in the hall outside the kitchen.
Sam rubbed at his nose and leans in confidentially. "The, uh, the patient has been complaining of a sore throat for a few days. No chance of strep?"
"Not from what I've seen," Violet replied slowly, starting to catch on. "I think "the patient" requires nothing but fluids and rest for a few days."
"Good," Sam nodded assertively and watched Addison disappear from view. "Good."
His gaze snapped back as Violet waved a hand in front of his face.
"Why don't you want Addison to know you're sick?"
Sam wrinkled his brow. "What are you talking about?"
Violet dropped a hand to her hip. "I am a therapist you know. Not that this tension," she indicated his balled up fists, "requires a degree in psychiatry." She paused. "Do you need to spend some time on my couch?"
Seeming to begin another protest of innocence, Sam's words were interrupted by a sharp sneeze followed by a desperate coughing fit.
Violet melted. She reached behind her for a small box of tissues. "You need to be on someone's couch, that's for sure," she said as she handed it over.
"I'll be fine," he insisted, blowing his nose.
"Yes, you will be. Because you're going home." As he started to protest again she continued. "You're sick, you're feverish, and if you don't take your butt home and get into some sweats right now I'm going to march into Addison's office this instant and fill her in."
Sam scowled. In one angry motion he snatched the box again, tucked it under an arm and marched from the kitchen leaving Violet behind to sigh and shake her head.