"Fun" is a three letter word...
Who: Damien Wayne and Blaine Anderson
What: Back to the hospital, and possible bonding
Where: The hospital, then Damien's house
When: Early Thursday Afternoon
Rating:G--PG-13
Status: Closed / Incomplete
Not for the first time, Damien questioned the logic of placing so many mirrors in the rehab section of a hospital gym. Secluded as they were in a small corner, each subtle movement offered a new perspective of pain--from the old man learning to walk without crutches, to the blank-faced girl lifting hand weights, to the boy himself, a small, scarred thing with almond colored skin bending down to touch his toes, 'Boring,' as a doctor ran a finger down the arch of his spine.
"Any pain?" The doctor asked--to his credit he wasn't staring anymore, but it had taken several sessions of visibly needing to compose himself before he saw Damien, and not just the scars.
"No." Damien replied, fingertips slipping under his toes. Turning his head, he watched in a mirror as the scar tissue over his tensed shoulders pulsed white with strain.
"And the surgery was how long ago?"
"Ten months." The boy rose and bent the other way, slightly more gingerly if just to humor his audience. The thick, Y-shaped scar on his chest stretched as much as it could as his body curved upward, hands resting lightly at his hips. There was a scratch as the doctor noted something on his chart and hummed.
"Alright. I'm going to give you a list of exercises to continue at home, please keep up with them." Flipping a sheet of his chart over, he wrote a few things down and handed it to Blaine, giving the older boy a sort of 'you must have the patience of a saint' look.
Damien yawned.
"It doesn't matter how you do them, make a game of it, just keep in mind they are for your own good."
The boy looked at his beleaguered doctor incredulously. "I don't understand, what would making a 'game' of my recovery accomplish?" There was a sort of confused earnestness to the question, however subtle it was beneath the typical sneering condescension.
It was the same thing Batgirl had said once.
'You're a ten year old boy who doesn't know how to have fun.'
'Why is everyone so concerned about that?' Damien wondered, moving to pick up his shirt over the back of a nearby chair and slipping it over his head. A few minutes later he and Anderson were pushing the front doors of the clinic open to a bright, breezy afternoon.
"Tch. I refuse to see the point in insisting I have fun with everything." The boy grumbled, sneer now solidly in place as they made their way down Blanche Avenue. "They're supposed to be doctors, not clowns." Not that he expected the singing idiot to understand, not when he was looking at him in the exact same way Grayson did whenever he said something like that.
What: Back to the hospital, and possible bonding
Where: The hospital, then Damien's house
When: Early Thursday Afternoon
Rating:G--PG-13
Status: Closed / Incomplete
Not for the first time, Damien questioned the logic of placing so many mirrors in the rehab section of a hospital gym. Secluded as they were in a small corner, each subtle movement offered a new perspective of pain--from the old man learning to walk without crutches, to the blank-faced girl lifting hand weights, to the boy himself, a small, scarred thing with almond colored skin bending down to touch his toes, 'Boring,' as a doctor ran a finger down the arch of his spine.
"Any pain?" The doctor asked--to his credit he wasn't staring anymore, but it had taken several sessions of visibly needing to compose himself before he saw Damien, and not just the scars.
"No." Damien replied, fingertips slipping under his toes. Turning his head, he watched in a mirror as the scar tissue over his tensed shoulders pulsed white with strain.
"And the surgery was how long ago?"
"Ten months." The boy rose and bent the other way, slightly more gingerly if just to humor his audience. The thick, Y-shaped scar on his chest stretched as much as it could as his body curved upward, hands resting lightly at his hips. There was a scratch as the doctor noted something on his chart and hummed.
"Alright. I'm going to give you a list of exercises to continue at home, please keep up with them." Flipping a sheet of his chart over, he wrote a few things down and handed it to Blaine, giving the older boy a sort of 'you must have the patience of a saint' look.
Damien yawned.
"It doesn't matter how you do them, make a game of it, just keep in mind they are for your own good."
The boy looked at his beleaguered doctor incredulously. "I don't understand, what would making a 'game' of my recovery accomplish?" There was a sort of confused earnestness to the question, however subtle it was beneath the typical sneering condescension.
It was the same thing Batgirl had said once.
'You're a ten year old boy who doesn't know how to have fun.'
'Why is everyone so concerned about that?' Damien wondered, moving to pick up his shirt over the back of a nearby chair and slipping it over his head. A few minutes later he and Anderson were pushing the front doors of the clinic open to a bright, breezy afternoon.
"Tch. I refuse to see the point in insisting I have fun with everything." The boy grumbled, sneer now solidly in place as they made their way down Blanche Avenue. "They're supposed to be doctors, not clowns." Not that he expected the singing idiot to understand, not when he was looking at him in the exact same way Grayson did whenever he said something like that.