with a professional ballet career came injuries, a lot of them. ranging from a big bruise to three fractured ribs or a dislocated hip joint, you were always in for a doctor's visit. bastien had had to visit his chiropractor at least once every two weeks, just to check and maybe crack a few bones back into place

like always after a rather big show, this time it had been romeo and juliet with him as the lead - a rather demanding position, both mentally and physically -, his legs hurt and he knew that there was something awfully wrong with his foot. bastien tended to be impatient, especially when it came to injuries and being hindered from dancing for longer periods of time, so he had ignored it

in the morning, his ankle was triple its original size and several exotic colors in bruising; purple, dark blue, green and hints of unhealthy yellow at the edges. it hurt so bad that the boy caved and had his uncle call the clinic to make an appointment

the familiarity of the sterile, white-with-green-furniture waiting room made him anxious, and if his legs didn't hurt like absolute hell itself, he would've started nervously bouncing it up and down. he knew this place like the back of his hand, countless visits to x-ray a sprained knee or loosen a tense muscle had paid off. what - or better, who - he didn't know, however, was you

when you called his name through the door of the waiting room and told him to wait in room 7, he had frowned a little; the last time he had been here, so roughly three weeks ago, you hadn't been there. maybe you were there as an intern?

turns out you were a new assistant, with an actual medical background and actual medical knowledge, not just some random apprentice

"ow, fuck," he cursed as you removed the cooling pad - that had turned into warm mush on the way here - from his ankle and glared up at you as if scolding you for doing your job, "that hurts."

after telling you what had happened, he watched you tend to his injury, head tilted;

"who might you be? and where's dr. claire?"