Getting puked on is one of those sucky parts of being a doctor that's always annoying but never really a surprise. You can't expect sick people not to get sick on you -- unless you're Elliot and think it's "just rude" -- so all you can do is get used to it. I once had to change my scrubs for puke-related reasons four times in one day, and only one of those times was my fault. Pudding. It's my Kryptonite.

So when Dr. Cox comes storming into the locker room, muttering about not being allowed to force-feed his patients an entire bottle of Pepto-Bismol before getting anywhere near them, I recognize the signs right away. Mostly because there's puke all over the front of his shirt. Ah, tuna surprise and green Jell-O. A deadly mixture.

"Oh, hey, Dr. Cox. How's it going?"

He glares at me, and somehow manages to open his combination lock and slam the locker door open without ever breaking the glare. "Faaantastic, Newbie. I hope you like starting your day with a nice splash of vomit, because if you don't put a shirt on in the next five seconds I may throw up."

"Are you kidding?" I ask, flexing. "The ladies should have to pay admission to come in here and see this." Carla left a bottle of lotion in the bathroom. Not only have I never felt so smooth and fresh -- I also smell just a little like lavender and jojoba.

"I know it's hard to remember this when there's a mirror right over there, Jenny -- in fact, I know it's hard for you to remember anything for more than a few minutes at a time with that tiny, tiny brain of yours -- but this is a hospital, not a freak show." He pulls his shirt off and starts digging around for a clean one.

Alright, so Dr. Cox is shirtless. No big deal. Turk and I hang out shirtless all the time. Sometimes we play "Curlies", where whoever has the highest number of individual chest hairs is the winner. Somehow, Turk always beats me, even though he shaves. Patience, Clancy. Someday the good lord will bless you with a mate, and then we'll see who's the biotch.

Being shirtless with a guy friend for the first time is always awkward. Actually, so is being shirtless with a girlfriend for the first time. A little conversation's always good to break the ice. The ice of... awkwardness. "One time, a patient barfed on me, and the stain looked just like David Hasselhoff."

Dr. Cox doesn't say anything. God, look at his chest hair. It's full and lush, without being too much. You just want to braid it.

He whistles. How can he tell I'm staring when he's got his head halfway in the locker like that? "Don't make me get a restraining order," he warns, and finally emerges from the locker with a clean shirt, just as The Todd wanders in. "Speaking of which."

"What up, attending dawg? Heard you totally got some in the break room!" He lifts his hand for a high five, and Dr. Cox rips his arm off, pretends he's going to high-five him with it, then just beats him instead.

Oh my god, he's talking about the footrub! I have to head this off! "What? No! there was no getting of some! Of anything! No getting of any kind! It was a gentle but firm massage, intended to reduce swelling and increase blood flow!"

His hand is still up in the air! Rip the locker door off and crush his larynx before he can do any more damage! "That's what she said, am I right? Am I right?"

"No!" I yell at him. Don't flail! He might mistake it for wildly inaccurate high-fiving! "You're not right! In fact, you're wrong! Very, very wrong!"

"Yeah," he says, and actually high-fives himself -- "Ow," -- and turns and leaves. Another job well done. "Dude, The Todd's got some slap!"

Dr. Cox looks at the shirt in his hand, then looks at me. Hundreds of miles away, those guys who measure earthquakes so they can warn everybody when a volcano's going to erupt are killed instantly when their earthquake-measuring machine suddenly explodes. "Just when I think I couldn't possibly hate this festering cesspool of eternal suffering any more than I already do, Newbie, somehow you reach deep inside yourself and find a way to make it worse."

What did I do? "You were the one making all those noises when I was rubbing your feet."

"That was the television," he growls, advancing like a hungry, angry tiger who just got accused of having sex with me in the break room.

"No, the TV was playing bad soap opera music, like 'doo doo doo doo dummm." Oh my god! Stop talking! Don't look into his eyes! "And then there was that commercial with the talking cats."

Now instead of just murder in his eyes, there's a whole teen slasher flick, starring Dr. Cox as the psycho killer (his trademark weapon is a surgical saw) and me as the helpless blonde girl who's the last one to die. He's switched to the Scary Dr. Cox Grin, and he starts out with a laugh that sounds a little like distant screaming. "Ah ha ha, that's great that you remember everything so vividly, Angelina," still advancing, and now I'm backed up against a locker, "I'm sure it was a very exciting experience, your first time touching a man, and I'm sure you spent just hours telling your Dear Diary about how your skin tingled and your heart beat so loud you were afraid your parents would hear, but if I hear anyone in this hospital making any comment to me about anything that certainly did not happen in the break room, then as God is my witness I will break into the hospital personnel files and replace every instance of 'John Dorian' with the name 'Mary Kate Ashley Felicia Anne Nostones.'"

My only reply is a manly, defiant squeak.

Dr. Cox pins me with another glare just for good measure, before turning and walking away in disgust to pull a clean shirt and coat on. "And for God's sake, Matilda, lay off the lavender perfume before they find out you're actually a girl and kick you out of the men's locker room."

And he's gone. "Does this mean no more footrubs?"

Pokes his head back in for another glare. "It sure as hell does not."