Relaxation Techniques | Part 1
Pairing: Physical Therapist!Marcus Pike x f!reader (no use of y/n)
Rating: T (series will eventually be E)
Word Count: ~2.7k
Warnings: light language, poor self-talk. This is a doctor’s visit, so mentions of medical questions involving physical and mental health, mentions of pelvic exam. A little bit of flirting.
Summary: When you tell your OB/GYN about some concerns you have about your pelvic floor muscles, she refers you to Dr. Marcus Pike, a physical therapist who specializes in pelvic floor dysfunctions.
A/N: Here he is, I told you he was coming
One of your least favorite things about going to the doctor is the paperwork. Every practice has its own website, with a patient portal where you have to create an account to log in and fill out forms— medical history, family medical history, allergies, medication list, HIPAA statement— and every time without fail, you’re given the exact same forms in person at your first appointment.
It drives you nuts. Why bother going digital if it still has to be done on paper?
You are inordinately pleased when the new physical therapy practice your OB/GYN referred you to doesn’t send you any emails or texts to remind you to fill out their intake forms online.
On the imaginary score board in your head, this place already has one tally mark in the pro column.
You don’t know what you expected the office to look like, but you didn’t imagine the walls to be painted in soft blues, almost like ocean waves, or for there to be a chic turquoise leather couch with shaggy, overstuffed throw pillows laid carefully at each end. You could never have imagined the bright cyan armchairs with two eyeball buttons sewn against their backs, and you certainly couldn’t have imagined what looks suspiciously like female genitalia paintings in glitter frames on the walls.
Considering the doctor specializes in pelvic floor dysfunction, you guess you shouldn’t be surprised. Besides, they’re very tasteful.
You decide that despite the silly décor— or maybe because of it— the office is designed to put you at ease; and you suppose that if it weren’t for the pamphlets advertising various lubes and dilators, grief support groups, and stress management techniques, you’d be very relaxed.
You can’t help but be a little tense. The doctor is a man, which you hadn’t discovered until you’d called to make the appointment, and you were so startled by the information— and by the extremely peppy receptionist on the other end of the line—you’d gone along and scheduled your consultation when she’d started listing out available dates.
So here you are, a clipboard balancing on your knees as you painstakingly go through the intake forms, which are much more detailed than you’re used to filling out, including several questions about pregnancy and childbirth, sexual concerns, and mental health questions such as do you have a history of PTSD?
Your pen hovers over the little checkbox next to yes, but you end up marking the no box instead.
If you did, you’d never been diagnosed.
You pause at the line that asks for a brief summary about why you’re there, tapping the end of the pen lightly against the page.
It was a mix of things, none of which seemed terribly significant when you list them out; it was the long-term effects, and the duration you had endured them, that you were worried about.
You decide to go with “tight pelvic floor muscles.” It’s easier to explain in person than on paper, though the thought of telling this to a male doctor has your anxiety spiking.
You wish you’d remembered to stuff your squeezy shark, Bruce, into your bag before leaving the house, then you’d be able to take your stress out on him rather than obnoxiously tapping the pen on the clipboard like you were at a drum audition.
At least there’s no one else in the waiting room.
“OH SHI-zz,” you startle at the receptionist’s outburst, and she smacks herself so hard in the forehead you hear her mutter a little owie before she pipes up again, “I totally forgot to ask, would you like anything to drink? Water? Coffee? We even have that frou-frou carbonated stuff if you want something fancy.” She waggles her fingers on the word fancy.
The girl is downright precious, her elbows braced on the reception counter as she looks at you eagerly, vibrating with the energy of an overexcited chihuahua. Her shoulder length hair is dyed a screaming magenta that clashes horribly with her neon green cardigan, her long purple acrylic nails have bats in top hats painted on them, and her gold septum ring is adorned with a little snake.
Before you can answer her, the door to the back opens and a tall man in a crisp white button down and ironed khakis steps out, greeting his receptionist with a small wave and a “hey, Melanie,” and you think he must be another patient, but then he’s stopping in front of you and oh, no he’s the doctor?
He’s easily the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, all golden skin, wavy brown hair, and deep, dark eyes you’re already getting lost in.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Pike,” he says with an easy smile, extending a hand to you as you get up to greet him. His hand is huge, dwarfing your fingers in his firm grip.
He releases you and claps you lightly on the shoulder, jerking his head towards the door he just came out of. “Come on back.”
As you pass through the doorway, your eyes catch on the unique light switch cover…in the shape of a vulva. You snort a laugh and the tension in your shoulders eases the tiniest bit.
Dr. Pike walks you down the hall, past a few rooms with various exercise equipment and what looks like a meditation room, before stopping and gesturing into a brightly lit office.
He starts to close the door behind you but pauses and asks, “Would you be more comfortable with the door open or closed?”
The question is so sincere and considerate, you feel emotion well in your chest and the beginnings of tears pricking at your eyeline.
Oh, wow. Really? Can you not keep it together for 5 minutes?
You hope your voice doesn’t come out too strained when you reply, “I’m ok with it closed.”
You give him what you think is a convincing smile and he takes a moment to study you, starting from your shoes all the way up to the top of your head. From most men this would feel predatory, invasive even— but when he does it, it’s entirely clinical, an assessment from a professional.
He purses his lips in thought before nodding to himself and pulling the door mostly closed, leaving about a half foot of space. He bends down and flicks on a little machine that fills the room with white noise.
When he stands back to his full height, he smiles gently and motions to the padded table for you to sit down.
“I can take that from you, if you’re finished,” he inclines his head towards your clipboard as he lowers himself onto a stool across from you, leaning back against the counter lining the wall.
“Oh! Right, yeah, I’m all done,” you trip over your words as you hand it to him, your internal scolding increasing in volume at your awkwardness.
Ridiculous.
Dr. Pike scans the forms, and you take the opportunity to look around the room. There’s a chair in the far corner against the wall, next to a poster of deep breathing exercises and a few other charts you can’t quite see.
A black file cabinet that comes up to your chest is pushed into the corner, with a small stereo placed on top— the kind that takes CDs, you note with a small smile when you spy the small stack of discs placed haphazardly beside it.
Above the counter are cabinets decorated with flower stickers, and the surface of the counter is strewn with various medical supplies, as well as a crumpled bit of fabric that looks like it might be Dr. Pike’s discarded tie.
Cute.
You squint under the harsh fluorescent lights that all doctors’ offices and schools seem to be required by law to have. The big window on the far wall let’s in enough light that it’s not really necessary for them to be on, and just as the thought crosses your mind, the overhead lights switch off.
“Sorry, force of habit to turn these on in the mornings. I can’t stand them either, always give me a headache,” he says with a sympathetic grimace.
“Me too,” you murmur, and there’s that feeling again, a nearly overwhelming surge of emotion creeping up your throat and making it hard to swallow.
You’re not used to people noticing when you’re uncomfortable.
He gives you a reassuring smile and sets the clipboard aside on the counter before leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. The change in position makes his shirt strain against his broad shoulders, and you need to take a second to remember how to breathe as you watch the muscles tense and shift beneath the thin fabric.
“So…tight pelvic floor. Could you tell me a little bit more about that?” He asks with a tilt of his head, his soft brown eyes meeting yours with a tenderness that makes you look down at your hands.
“I know it sounds silly, I-I don’t have a formal diagnosis or anything— “
“That’s ok,” he cuts you off gently before you can work yourself up. “Right now I have you down as having a pelvic floor dysfunction. Nice and broad category. We can figure out the specifics together as we go.”
The smile he gives you is so warm and comforting, you feel your shoulders start to lower from where they’d risen to your ears in unconscious defense.
“Here, give me your hand for a second,” he reaches out his hand slowly like an offering to a suspicious cat to sniff, and you don’t think twice about laying your palm against his.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, smoothing the pads of his fingers up and down your palm a few times before settling at the webbing between your thumb and forefinger and pressing down firmly.
“There’s a point here, called the Union Valley point, that can sometimes help to relieve anxiety— “
“That never works for me,” you blurt out, and he blinks at you owlishly before recovering that easy smile.
You mentally berate yourself, he’s a doctor for fuck’s sake, he probably knows a trick to make it work better than you do!
“No problem, it doesn’t work for everyone. Thank you for telling me.”
He lets go of your hand and swivels his stool away from you to open one of the cabinets above the counter, pulling a bright floral box down from a shelf.
He rifles through it for a moment, stirring its contents furiously in his search, before he pulls out what he was looking for with a little “found it!” and a triumphant smile.
He’s so damn cute it’s hard not to grin right back at him.
“How do you feel about lavender?” he asks earnestly, holding the little bag aloft.
“It’s one of my favorite scents,” you say around a laugh, “why?”
He passes you the bundle and the smile eases off his face into something more serious.
“Health concerns are nerve-wracking by themselves, and seeing a new doctor can just add to the stress. I noticed you’re a little tense…and fidgety, “he chuckles, and you duck your head in embarrassment, “hey, it’s ok! That’s why I have this little box of goodies here.” He taps the side of the ostentatious box affectionately.
“Just in case someone comes in extra nervous,” he shoots you a wink and you’re caught between feeling utterly flustered and bowled over with emotion again. You can’t decide. All you know is you want more than anything to pull up your hood and cinch the strings tight so you can hide from his playful ribbing and soulful, understanding eyes.
You look down at the little lavender sachet where it’s squeezed in your fist and unclench your hand, choking out a laugh and smooshing the contents to fluff them back up. It’s a cute bag, with lavender flowers stitched into the cloth.
“You’re supposed to sniff it.”
You look up at him to see he’s smiling sadly at you, concern etched into his features, and you’re about to say something totally inelegant like huh? when he follows up with, “that’s how aromatherapy works.”
You blink at him for a few seconds, absorbing his lame joke before bursting out laughing.
He laughs with you, rubbing at the back of his neck, and you think you can see the tips of his ears turning pink.
When your laughter peters out and you appear to no longer be in danger of tears, he picks up your folder and flips through the pages purposefully.
“Right. So let me tell you how I’d like to proceed. It looks like insurance will cover you for 30 visits— probably more than we’ll need, but I’ll reassess after I do your exam.”
You nod along with his words, not totally hearing him and caught on the word exam, but he plows on.
“We’re gonna take this slow: I’m going to show you how to do some stretches and deep breathing that will help you relax. You’re going to do them at home a few times a day between appointments, and we’ll reevaluate in a few weeks. Does that sound ok to you?”
He’s pinning you with those gorgeous eyes and you’re getting lost in them again and oh, shit he asked you a question didn’t he.
“Y-yeah that sounds good to me,” you stutter, heat blooming in your chest and setting your heart off on a race.
“Great! Then how about you undress from the waist down so I can see what I’m working with?”
“…you want me to what?” you squeak, your voice several octaves higher than usual.
He gives you an amused smirk and repeats himself more slowly, “take off your bottoms for me, so I can do your pelvic exam.”
The heat in your chest is spreading up the back of your neck and you manage to answer in a somehow even shriller tone than before, “and my underwear?”
He tilts his head at you— not unlike a golden retriever, you think— as his smirk spreads into a grin that’s just a touch wicked.
“How else am I going to feel how tight you are?”
You’re sure your mouth is hanging open unattractively as he reaches for a box of gloves and fishes one out, struggling to fit it over his…distractingly large hand.
He pauses as the rubber stretches over his knuckles, “do you have a latex allergy? I have nylon gloves I can use instead.”
You shake your head dumbly and stand on jelly legs. “Nope. Nope, no, I’m—I don’t uh- no allergy to that.” My god, you have never been less eloquent in your life.
“Ok, good. Now,” He pulls a clean white sheet from a basket of linens on the counter and hands it to you. “When you’re done, lie down on the table and cover your bottom half with this,” he crouches at the end of the table and unhooks a metal contraption on either side that juts up with a place to prop up your feet “and put your heels in the stirrups. I’m going to go in the hall while you disrobe, so just give me a holler when you’re ready.”
Dr. Pike pauses at the door and mutters what you think is ah, shit under his breath, holding his now-gloved hands up in a gesture of surrender. When he sees you watching him, his cheeks are definitely rosier than they were a few minutes ago.
“Right, so— yeah…I’ll be just…out here,” he says as he scoots the door open with his shoulder, and maneuvers it shut with his elbows.
You hear a muffled oh, goddammit from the other side of the door and can’t help but laugh, having momentarily forgotten that you’re about to be half-naked with the sweetest man you have ever met… who’s about to put his fingers inside you.