it started with a crash -- [speck/donald]

[Anthony Quincy Fletcher --]

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The manila folder was waiting on his desk that morning. Mrs. Rice, a nice old lady with a hip replacement had to transfer hospitals due to insurance just last week and that had opened a spot in Anthony’s schedule. He had been waiting for a new patient since, he hated having nothing to do and that nothing usually meant the piles of paperwork belonging to his coworkers. Instead, it was a glorious morning when he saw the folder with the name ‘DONALD WINGER’ printed across the label.

Before opening it, Anthony attempted to make a guess. With a name like that, he suspected another senior with arthritis or such. He always liked the older folk; they were chatty and made appointments go by quickly. Though, on the other hand, his largest client pool was the idiot college kids. This one fell out of a tree and broke his hand; this girl pushed too hard in soccer and now has a crippling knee injury for the rest of her life. He had heard it all and each was insufferable in their own special way.

Anthony opened the folder and let out a groan. Donald Winger was neither of these types; it was the third type that made Anthony want to drive his fist into a wall. The middle-aged man, in a stupid accident, broke something and would be silently brooding as Anthony treated them because they expected a pretty young woman to be their therapist. And Anthony knew his boss gave him these on purpose because he could handle them and get them to listen. It was a rather surprising number of how many patients refused to do certain stretches without the right enforcement.

This specific man had a motorcycle accident about three weeks ago; Anthony had seen enough of those. The teenagers were big in this area, constantly crashing vehicles, especially those idiotic excuses for bikes. They were death traps as far as Anthony was concerned. He had never been on one and he never wanted to, they were practically suicide. And every time he received a patient that was a bike rider, he was forced to keep his mouth shut.

His opinions were not for the world and after healing, if that idiot wanted to hop right back on that bike, he had little say in the matter. The most he could do is warn the patient about the effects of future injury and Anthony was sure that didn’t help. He had had multiple offenders before, the most was a college student, Nolan Grant, who graduated about a year ago, that was his patient five times due to motorcycle crashes. The kid was a nut.

Still, Anthony had little choice in this situation. Donald was his patient, he couldn’t hand him off to anyone. These were early morning appointments and the only other therapist on staff was Grace but she had a long-term patient who came in every week at the same time. There wasn’t a chance in hell she was taking on this case. Putting the file down on his desk, Anthony went into the equipment room and checked the weights and machines, the first day was always slow, basic stretches but if this Donald could handle them, they could move onto the harder stuff. Though if he was the stubborn type, they would be stuck on those basic stretches for too long, Anthony thought with a sigh. Still, he moved aimlessly around the room as he waited for the secretary to announce that his new patient had arrived.
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[Donald Winger]

[height]Donald winced as he lifted his helmet over his head. He frowned slightly glancing at the offending arm. There was a reason he was going to physical therapy. He'd been extremely adamant against the idea, but the nurse was all yammering on and on like gals did. She seemed to know she was only annoying him by asking him personal questions as he was hooked up to a machine and wasn't able to run away. She had that malicious, evil gleam in her eye that was seriously just creepy. So, he'd agreed to physical therapy and here he was. Because quite frankly, the faster he finished this the better. He had books to illustrate and newspapers to look at and he was already crashing too many times for him to have time for this.

Sighing, he glanced at his arm and strode into the hospital.

He did that cool thing that all those cool guys did in the movies. He shook his head a little and ran his hand down the middle of it. It didn't really work too well seeing as his hair was probably a lot shorter than most of the people that did it. But it probably looked decently ruffled as compared to sweat-soaked. He might as look good if he was going to have annoying nurses pestering him the whole time. Maybe they'd get caught speechless and shut up. That would actually make his day. Donald definitely had no six pack - and no plans to get one. He was scrawny and short. One of those guys that get called adorable all the time. Which was really a lot better than ugly.

Donald yawned and placed himself on the chair and glanced around. The bruises on his back were starting to heal some, at least. He couldn't say the same about his purple arm. The doctor had said it was lucky he'd only yanked it out of the socket and only slightly fractured it. He could have seriously broken it or something. That wouldn't have been good for his art career - his whole budget. No art equaled no dinner. Some lady started asking if he checked in after a few moments. He naturally hadn't and had to stand up - oh, the pain - and tell the clerk his name. "Donald Winger. Yeah? Really? Now?" He glanced at the clerk who quickly ushered him into a room. He winced as she touched his back, and he frowned at the speed she was walking. He didn't need physical therapy, but he wasn't exactly at the stage of healing where it didn't hurt to walk.

If he had some friends that weren't bums or buttheads, he would've asked for them to give him a ride. All he had was a motorcycle, after all. He didn't exactly have any other way of getting around. He grumbled at the lady (who ignored his complaints about her speed) and continued grumbling random words - he really didn't know how to cuss but in all the books he'd read, the toughies grumbled a lot and no one really understood him anyways - as he was showed into a room. "Barking. Tentacles. Barnacles. Stupid. Dugouts. Blistering."

[/color] He said those a little louder. He glanced up and nearly dove back in surprise. "HOLY LAWNMOWERS. Were you in here the whole time? There has to be another door you came through."[/color]

Donald flushed and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. The guy in front of him was rather cute. He kinda looked like Rocky - but not really. He had the same sort of innocent, cheerful look on him. Though he didn't look too happy right now. The sort of look that could totally cut through his layers. Donald looked up and down at Anthony and quickly started staring at the ground. He was so, so happy that his doctor was a dude. He glanced up and flashed a grin. "So, I'm going to take a gander and say that you are the doctor I'm stuck with because some guy totally changed lanes without warning. And I'm just gonna say now that I am not going to stop riding my bike because cars are way too expensive. And, anyways, I'm really glad that you're a dude because a lady - a very, very cruel lady that talked way too much and asked way too many questions - is the whole reason I'm here. So."[/color] Donald stopped, catching his breath slightly and started glancing around.

He shrugged absently and decided he didn't know what he was going to say after 'so.'
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[Anthony Quincy Fletcher --]

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Normally, the secretary would have used the speakers to announce that Anthony’s patient was here. Except, last night at closing, they had gotten into a rather heated argument when Anthony turned her down about drinks. She was new, just hired after graduating from North Highlands University and she had been adamant about taking him out for some drinks. And he knew where her brain wandered after those drinks and then it would just be a horrible mess. He tried to turn her down politely but she screamed at him and then another coworker intervened and the truth came spilling out and while trying to avoid a mess, Anthony had made one anyway. After this drama, it wasn’t surprising when his patient wasn’t announced and instead, Anthony jumped a foot in the air when he walked in.

He had been bent over, grabbing a couple weights from a box and slinging them across his arm. He wasn’t expecting the rather loud and unusual exclamation from someone behind him. Anthony straightened with more force than he had meant and the top of his head slammed into a shelf, dropping all of the weights in the processes. “FU—“ Anthony caught his tongue halfway through the word as he rubbed his head. At least his foot wasn’t broken as well. The weights had fallen onto his shoe but they were ankle weights, each weighing only about five pounds apiece and the covering was loose enough not to land all the weight onto his foot. Still, it took a minute for Anthony to focus back onto the world.

That was when he spotted his patient. The man stood behind him, arm in sling, looking a mixture of bewildered and excited. The pain started to ebb away and Anthony stood straighter, trying look more like a physical therapist and not a patient. The man was yammering away but Anthony hadn’t quite caught onto the train of thought just yet. “What sorry?” Anthony sighed, finally giving up on rubbing away the pain. He would have to find an icepack later on, maybe once he got the patient started.

“Let me start over. You must be Mr. Winger.” Anthony tried his best to smile but the events so far this morning were making that difficult. “My name is Anthony; I will be your primary therapist for the next few weeks.” Anthony shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, the pounding in his head making it difficult to construct sentences. Finally, he came across the idea to offer his hand. “Nice to meet you.” Except, when Anthony stuck out his hand, a wave of embarrassment washed over him. He had not been expecting Mr. Winger to be such a short man.

Anthony knew he was tall, at six foot three inches, he towered over most of his patients but Winger seemed to be the smallest of them all. He had to be at least a foot taller than his patient, and Anthony had to swoop down slightly to bring his hand to a reachable height.
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[Donald Winger]

[height]Well. It seemed like his doctor - or whatever he was supposed to call him, he didn't much care - wasn't exactly prepared for him, either. Donald watched the man as he banged his head against the table. He couldn't help but grin. Was it ironic that his physical therapist was more easily startled than he was? No... But dropping weights on his feet and hitting his head was more clumsy than startled - and that was supposed to be ironic. Or at least that's the definition Donald had learned in school. He was more of an artist than an English person. All the English majors he met were stuck up, had giant classes, and had tried to speak with a British accent. His whole life was filled stereotypes.

Donald grinned at his doctor, the slight wrinkles around his eyes crinkling ever so slightly. He couldn't help but try not to laugh at his doctor for almost saying a very bad word. Donald was almost jealous, though. Unlike the very people he was trying to copy, curse words never quite came out when he said them. He couldn't lace them with enough venom or even keep himself from laughing when he said them. His sense of humor wasn't the most mature, and even now, he was on the edge of starting to choke on all the laughter that was tickling his throat. The brunette quickly reached over to cover his mouth with his hand and squeaked. Stupid arm.

[/color] He rolled his eyes and grunted. That certainly ended the laughter. Maybe he'd try that concept. It was rather painful, though....

The man returned his attention to Mr. Doc. Maybe he could call him Doc Oc? Or maybe Doctor Curt Connors with that amputated arm. Both of them ended up to be villians, but at the end of the movie, at least the Connors dude saved Peter from being the bug on a windshield of concrete. Maybe this doctor would save him from the insanity called annoying nurses. That was really the only thing Donald needed to be treated for anyway. At the sound of the man's voice, Donald jumped a little bit, then scolded himself. Guys in leather jackets don't get scared. That's why they wear leather jackets. Now he was talking to him, right? Duckie honestly hadn't been paying much attention. He was too busy trying to find a good, decent nickname for his doctor - he had to have something to keep him coming back.

Luckily, his Curt Connors wasn't exactly done talking. As soon as the tall guy stopped rubbing his head, he said something about starting over and introduced himself. Obviously, Doctor Connors had a different name, but Donald was already starting to forget it as the now pretty-much-permanent name of Curt Connors began to stick onto Donald's mind like a Post-It. "Uhh... Just call me Donald. My dad got called Mr. Winger and, uh, he's the whole reason I'm slightly mad. And can I call you Doctor Connors? Or Anthony Connors? Anthony Connors sounds better than Curt Connors. You aren't curt are you? I hate it when people are like 'wha-bang, here's a comeback for you.' And have a told you that my arm is fine? The only reason I'm here is because some annoying nurse-lady-person wouldn't stop talking to me until I said I'd do this. So I'm glad you aren't some pushy lady with a clipboard. I mean girls in general are pushy and annoying, but the nurses here are like twice as bad."

Realizing he was talking a little more than neccessary, he stopped and grunted. Because guys in the leather jackets in movies grunted. So he really had to do that. Plus, Doctor Anthony Connors was a rather intimidating looking person and Donald was worried that if he didn't look tough and grunt, he might just go and hide in a corner. So, he pursed his lips, tried his best to make himself look bigger next to the giant, and accepted the man's handshake. Gosh. I have to practically shade my eyes to see this dude's face.[/color] Face... Head. Oh yeah, the guy had hit his head. "Your head's alright, dude - or Doc. Or whatever. 'Cause y'know, I'll gladly come back again. I drove myself here."[/color] He flashed another smile and glanced at his slinged arm. It hadn't been the most fun drive. It'd actually been purely frightening. And painful. But cool tough guys in leather jackets could do it, and he was a cool tough guy in a leather jacket that may or may not be shorter than most cool tough guys in leather jackets, so he would so it too.
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[Anthony Quincy Fletcher --]

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Anthony didn’t understand half of this man’s monologue but then again, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to. Patients weren’t typically this chatty unless it was the old woman who was into her fourth week of therapy. This man managed to say almost two-hundred words in the first five minutes. And it reached the point where Anthony couldn’t stand it after Donald started to call him a name from that new Spiderman movie. He held up his hand, hoping that it would be signal enough to get him to stop talking. “That’s quite enough.” He sighed, just in case the hand didn’t get his point across. “You can call me Anthony, or Mr. Fletcher if you must. I am, by no means, a doctor.” He tried to smile.

People did occasionally call him a doctor, which sadly was a mistake. Anthony thought about continuing into medical school but he didn’t have the financial status to get through it. He settled for physical therapy and in the back of his mind, had plans of one day going to nursing school. That was still out of his financial reach though.

“No, right now is fine.” Anthony waved off Donald’s comment before stopping short. “Wait, you drove yourself here? On that motorcycle?” He was tempted to say more but bit his tongue and nodded. He probably didn’t have alternative transportation, and it wasn’t Anthony’s place to criticize him. Instead, he motioned toward out of the supply room. “How about we go back to the main room and start on some stretches?”

He slid past Donald, careful not to touch him. The main room had several padded tables for the patients to sit on, separated by curtains and against the window stood a few machines, treadmills and such. Shifting the weights on his arm, he placed them on one of the tables and adjusted the curtain with a smile toward another therapist who was in the middle of a session with her patient. “Right here Donald.” Anthony tried to use the same smile but the throbbing in his head was making focus difficult.
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[Donald Winger]

[height]He wasn't allowed to call his doctor a doctor?

Donald frowned slightly and then smiled. It made sense not to call him something Anthony wasn't. But he was. Maybe not degree-wise, but he was a natural doctor it seemed. Professional, tidy, and supposedly caring enough. He probably had horrible writing. That, with a basic understanding of the human body, was all you needed to be a doctor. The degree part was only if you wanted to be one that actually did all the actual life-saving. Not that doctors without degrees couldn't save lives. They did it on a more emotional scale, he supposed. And on that note, Donald quickly let that topic slip out of his brain. He couldn't mention it it to Anthony without revealing his own train of thought - something he wasn't planning on doing.

Besides, Anthony deserved to believe what he believed. Even if it was a thought that made him seem less than he really was. If that made sense. Donald rarely did. His mind put two and two together and decided he didn't need either of them. Or that's what he'd been told. He never exactly went out of his way to check. Instead, Donald flashed a quick, almost thoughtless grin. "I had to get here somehow, and since I only have the one motorcycle - though it is kinda broken and unstable currently because I can't fix it - as a ride and no friends, this is how I got here. Besides, tough guys ride motorcycles after they've been shot in the back like three times in movies, and I'm a total tough guy." Donald moved his arms to do one of those 'I'm so buff' gestures with the arms flexed. Or tried to because his recently fixed arm couldn't really do that.

The brunette winced for a moment before he realized he was doing so and straightened. He was fine. There was nothing wrong with him. His father had always been determined to eliminate any weakness that he had - and if that meant riding a motor bike and pretending his arm wasn't hurting it, so be it. He had to be a man. He flashed a false smile at the... If he wasn't a doctor, what was he? "Sure, I'll follow ya. What sort of stretches do we do? Because I bet they won't hurt."

[/color] Donald adapted a determined face, hoping that the pain he was certain he would feel wouldn't show through it.

He followed Anthony through to the room. He'd noticed that the therapist had given him a wide enough berth and caught himself before he flinched. The man was allowed to give him a wide berth just like everyone else. Wasn't that what he wanted it anyway? It wasn't like some physical therapist could just go and replace Bucky. Only Bucky had ever liked him for longer than a day or two. He stopped in front of Anthony and did a mock salute. "Sir, yes sir." he crowed in his quietest parade voice as he waited for the doc to do his magic. Because really. This guy was so a doctor. Quiet passive-agressiveness and everything. He was like a super nice version of Dr. House. Barely restraining himself from leaning forward, Donald tilted his head slightly. "Sure you're alright, Anthony sir? Is it 'cause I talk too much? My dad always said guys shouldn't talk this much and if they did they were pansies and tough guys only grunt but it is very hard to only grunt but I really don't want to be a pansy and... Yeah. Stopping now." Donald flashed the doctor another quick, false smile as he absently starting twiddling his thumbs.
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