Title: Faith and Desire [1/6]
Characters: Santiago Lopez, Brittany Pierce, Quinn Fabray, Sugar Motta, Sam Evans and Noah Puckerman
Rating: PG-13
Length: 5k
Summary: If paying a little money means healing faster and getting back to normality, then Santiago doesn't mind. Because seriously, what harm can come from some physical therapy?
Notes: The information in this is most likely not correct as I only did some brief research online, so please don't take read too much into the time line and stuff. It's actually pretty hard to find out a lot about physical therapy online and their sessions, so I'm going off what I know and tidbits I found on the internet. Also based loosely off a plot I saw on a TV show that some of you may know quite well.
So, Santiago breaks his ankle.
He doesn't really know how it happened. One moment he's playing basketball with Puck and Sam, and the next he's lying on the court, a sharp pain shooting down his leg as he grasps at the throbbing limb, the ball slowly bouncing away from an attempted basket gone wrong. His friends look down at him, concern and worry etched across their faces and he's in so much pain he can't think of anything to shout apart from 'AMBULANCE' (many expletives, too) and twenty minutes later—and a lot of fucking pain—there's two EMT's scooping him up into a stretcher and taking him to the ER, inserting a drip into the back of his hand and telling him the drugs should kick in soon.
They do eventually, and it's all sort of a really painful blur of x-ray machines and various nurses inspecting his ankle until he's lying in a bed and a doctor comes in, holding a clipboard and peering at the notes over the rims of his glasses. Now, Santiago's a nice guy; he volunteers at the soup kitchen every weekend and donates ten percent of his pay check every month to a charity of his choice, but when the doctor just fucking stands there, hums and taps a thin finger against his chin, Santiago doesn't really feel like being nice. Especially not when he's taking his 'little brother' from the Big Brother program out to a Knicks game next week and also sort of has a major case coming up in court in three days time.
"Doc, just tell me what's happened," he spits out, trying not to sound angry but knowing it comes across like that. "How screwed am I on a scale of one to ten?"
The doctor looks up at him, clearly not impressed by his attitude. "Well, you've certainly done a number on yourself," he says, exhaling loudly and letting his hand drop down by his side, the other now grasping an x-ray. He walks over to the wall where there's one of those machines that lets doctors or nurses see the x-rays and he flicks on the switch, making Santiago wince at the brightness. "See here," he says, pointing to the x-ray and tracing along the bones there. "You've managed to fracture both the medial and lateral malleoli, along with a slight fracture to the posterior lip of the tibial plafond."
Santiago blinks, all medical words completely lost on him. "Right..." he draws out, eyes flicking to a nurse as she walks in, grasping a bucket and bandages. He assumes it's for his cast. "And that means..."
"It means that you've severely fractured your ankle," the doctor says outright. "And that you're going to be in a cast for at least eight weeks."
It's not the best news in the world and so Santiago throws his head back, letting it thunk against the hard pillow. His eyes squeeze shut and he lets out a small noise of frustration, hands balling up by his side as he thinks of how many things he's going to have to cancel. Eight freaking weeks; that's the least he's going to have a freaking broken ankle for and that's totally going to fuck up so many plans for him. Not to mention he's going to have to go into court on crutches and that doesn't exactly scream 'professional lawyer,' plus his little brother Tyler is going to be super upset now he can't go to the game.
"Eight weeks?" He groans, tilting his head back up to look at the doctor. That's just fucking ridiculous. "Is that really necessary?"
"If you ever want to walk again without pain or a limp, then yes."
Santiago's face drops. "So eight weeks? That's it, right?" He pauses and looks at his doctor. "That's tops, right?"
The nurse begins working at his leg, slowly dipping the bandages into the white goopy paste Santiago now see inside the bucket and his eyes are trained on her for so long that he doesn't notice the way his doctor shakes his head and brings his clipboard up again, scanning over something on there.
"Unfortunately, no, Mr Lopez."
He whips his head around so fast he considers asking the nurse for some painkillers for the pain now in his neck. "What do you mean, no?"
"If we don't see any healing of any of these fractures after eight weeks," the doctor starts, still not looking up from his clipboard as he reaches into the breast pocket of the white jacket covering his body and scribbles onto it. "Then we may have to take further action."
Brown eyes narrow. "What do you mean 'further action'? And why wouldn't we see any healing?"
Now his doctor looks up, almost sharply. "Any fractures that don't show any radiographic evidence of healing after eight weeks should be evaluated for adjunctive measures," he replies and Santiago kind of wishes the guy would just dumb it down for him. He's smart, a top lawyer, but he doesn't get medical terms. Even if his dad is a doctor. "And you may not heal if you're stressed or try to force yourself into healing by walking."
"Doc, seriously, just dumb it down for me. I don't know your lingo."
The doctor lets out a heavy sigh and drops the pen onto the board, swiping the glasses off his face and rubbing at an eye, the other trained on Santiago. "I'm saying that if you don't heal, or if you try walking on it when it's not one hundred percent healed and damage it further, due to the severity of the fracture, you may have to do some physical therapy after another few weeks of wearing a cast to ensure you're back to your good old walking self."
There's probably nothing less upsetting that but it's not exactly like he can do anything about it so he thanks his doctor, bids farewell and lets the nurse wrap his leg up into a cast from the ball of his foot to just below his knee where it's going to stay for at least eight weeks.
At least if he takes it easy, that's all it'll be.
Okay, so the whole taking it easy thing doesn't go as well as planned.
Turns out, having a leg in a plaster cast is actually really fucking inconvenient and his boss tells him to take the weeks off as he's been great for the past few years and it's a well deserved rest. It pisses him off even more because he doesn't need that kind of sympathy, especially since he hates that, but he's being paid for the weeks off and he's in no position to argue really so he doesn't. Instead lets Sam pick him up and drive him around everywhere, basically acting like his servant for four weeks.
But then it's at the four week point that this damn cast thoroughly fucks him off, and so he decides to go out on his own, taking the boot his doctor gave to him to use at six weeks when the bone's should've healed enough to walk on. He manages to get to the store on the corner of his street with only minor pain during the walk, buy a few items and even get halfway home before anything happens; but then there's that same searing pain in his leg as he steps awkwardly and a second later, he's on the floor, grasping his limb and screaming out in pain.
Well, fuck. There goes his ankle again.
Some kind passerby stops next to him and offers to help, quickly taking out her phone and dialing a number and Santiago smiles up at her, suddenly distracted by the blue eyes and blonde hair this girl has. She's gorgeous, and if Santiago were in any other situation that wasn't lying on the dirty pavement of Los Angeles streets, he'd probably try and catch this girls eye and figure out a way to subtly suggest that they should go out for coffee some time or whatever. Lame but when he's on a roll and not lying on the cold ground with a broken ankle, he totally has game.
"The ambulance will be here in a few minutes," the girl says and Santiago just stares, switching between focus on the pain and the smile on the girls face. Holy crap, she's beautiful; and he's two seconds away from saying that out loud when some douche walks by and kicks his leg, causing him to throw his head back and shout many curses that he knows he shouldn't be yelling considering there's probably children around, as another spear of hot white pain spirals up his leg.
But then sooner than wanted, the ambulance arrives and the girl's smiling softly and tugging her bag up her shoulder, offering a kind smile and Santiago just stares as his opportunity passes him by as he's loaded into the ambulance, the door shutting and preventing him from ever knowing this girl again.
Well, there's two bad things that have happened today.
At least things can only look up, right?
"You're going to have to have surgery, Mr. Lopez."
Santiago's face drops, almost like he's surprised, but he really shouldn't be considering he decided to be a douche about his broken ankle and attempt to walk on it four weeks after breaking three freaking bones in it. Quite severely, may he add.
"Shit," he curses, tilting his head back against the hospital bed's pillow. "This is shit."
The same doctor from four weeks ago looks at him with a knowing expression and brown eyes roll. "You really should've taken my advice. I did warn you."
It's true, but that doesn't exactly fucking help, rubbing it in and all. "I know, doc," he sighs, knowing he's in the wrong. "So what's the surgery, then?"
The doctor walks toward the side of the bed and presses the clipboard to his hip where his arm dangles down. "We'll have to call in the orthopedic surgeon so your surgery won't be until tomorrow," he says and Santiago rolls his eyes again. Great. "And then we'll have to perform what we call an ORIF, but your surgeon will tell you all about that tomorrow after you've been prepped." He slips his glasses back onto his face and lifts a bushy, white eyebrow. "But for tonight you'll stay in hospital and we'll try to get you into surgery first thing in the morning."
Santiago supposes it's better than nothing, and he knows they'll give him all the morphine to keep away the pain and so he just nods and gives the doctor his thanks before the doctor heads out.
"Unfortunately," the surgeon starts, already prepped in his green scrubs. "We're going to have to use three screws and a plate to fix your ankle."
Not exactly expecting that, Santiago's eyebrows shoot up and he looks to Puck who seems equally as worried about the surgery. He's watched enough episodes of ER to know that having to use plates and screws means the bone is really fucked up, and he doesn't exactly know what this means for his near future. Will he have to use a wheelchair? Where will he get the wheelchair? And shit, does he have to pay for a damn wheelchair?
Fuck, with that thought, is he going to have to pay for the surgery himself?
"Your insurance will cover all of this, it seems," the doctor chimes in from the corner of the room and Santiago shifts, tugging the left side of his hospital gown down a little further as a chill creeps up there. "But there may be some small expenses to pay after; but you can sort that out with the finance team at some point once you've healed."
"Okay," he draws out, blowing out his cheeks and looking to the surgeon. "So what happens?"
"As Doctor Johnson explained yesterday, we're going to have to perform a surgical procedure called ORIF," the surgeon elaborates, linking his hands behind him and standing at the foot of Santiago's bed, eyes switching between Puck and Santiago. The only reason Puck's here is because Sam had work, and apparently Santiago isn't allowed to go into surgery and come out and go home alone, so he had to have someone pretend to be his brother and well, Puck's kind of the closest person he has that could actually get away with it.
"What's that?" Puck asks, crossing his arms over his chest and furrowing his brow. "We don't know medical language, so you're gonna want to dumb it down," he says, lowering his voice and Santiago looks to him, knowing he's getting worked up.
"It stands for Open Reduction Internal Fixation," the doctor grits out and Puck shoots him a glare for not explaining further which makes Santiago call his name and tug a little on his metaphorical leash to hold him back. Puck's always listened to Santiago for some dumb ass reason, but right now it doesn't seem so dumb. There's no point in getting angry at the doctors when they're just helping Santiago.
"Generally, this uses plates, screws or in some cases, intramedullary rods—metal rods—to stabilize the bone," the surgeon continues, trying to lighten the tension in the room. Santiago nods along, trying to take it all in whilst Puck shifts beside him, either bored or hesitant about the operation. "You'll be taken to theater, given a general anesthetic so you won't feel anything, and have your bones repaired by me," the surgeon points to himself and smiles. "The surgery will take a few hours, but hopefully after we've bandaged you up and given you a few hours to wake up, you'll be set to go home."
Well there's the best news for the day, and it makes Santiago smile for the first time in what feels like ages. He smiles gratefully, thanks his doctor and the surgeon and punches Puck in the back of the thigh lightly until his best friend does the same, grumbling out a similar—but much more reluctant—thanks.
But just as the surgeon and the doctor are leaving the room, the doctor turns around and looks down to his chart, catching Santiago's eye and pulling him from his conversation with Puck about where he's going to stay afterward.
"Oh, and you're going to need to do several weeks of physical therapy," the doctor informs Santiago and his face drops for the millionth time today. "We'll assign you one but it's more than likely that you'll have to pay for that yourself, but it will speed up your healing process so really it's your choice."
"Thanks, doc," Santiago forces out with a grin. "I'll see you when I get out."
If paying a little money means healing faster and getting back to normality, then Santiago doesn't mind.
Because seriously, what harm can come from some physical therapy?
"Hey, Puck?"
Puck looks up from the magazine. "Yeah?"
"Have you ever..." Santiago finds difficulty in figuring his words as he drums his fingertips over his abs, covered by a hospital gown. He wants to ask Puck something, but he's not entirely sure how he's supposed to phrase it. Hell, he's not even sure why he's fucking asking because he's been lying in this damn bed, waiting for surgery for three hours and all he's been thinking about is that chance encounter with that random blonde chick that helped him when he fell on the sidewalk and it's ridiculous. They didn't even speak a word to each other and their eyes met about three times in total, yet she seems to be stuck in his freaking mind.
"Have I ever what, Lopez?" Puck repeats, flicking over a page in his magazine and looking back down to it. Santiago shifts in his bed, breathing out heavily and rubbing his lips together as he contemplates a way to put this. Shit. He's so dumb he might just make some shit up. "Seriously, bro, spit it out."
He looks up to find Puck's eyes on him and it just comes spilling out. "I met a girl."
Puck's face splits into a grin and he lifts his hand triumphantly. "Score," he says, pride in his tone as he bobs his head approvingly. "What's her name?"
And here comes the stupid part. "I don't even know."
"What?" Puck's face has now dropped and his head's cocked to the side like a confused puppy. "How have you met her then?"
"She... She rang the ambulance when I fell," he says, realizing as he hears it out loud how freaking dumb he's being. "I... I don't even know what I'm talking about."
The sound of paper slapping the floor grabs his attention and his eyes snap to the left, finding Puck shifting to the edge of his seat and clasping his hands together, the magazine now lying on the floor. Shit must have just got serious because Santiago's like, ninety nine percent sure that there were some half-naked women and a lot of side boobs in there, too.
"What did you guys talk about?"
Santiago looks at him, his face growing hotter by the second. Fuck. Talking about this really was fucking stupid. "Uh... We—We didn't actually... Talk," he tells his friend, dipping his head and thumbing over the fabric of his hospital grown. "She just called and I was kind of... Distracted," he tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at Puck. "By her."
Puck stares at him, and Santiago thinks his friend's about to say something serious but then Puck just barks out a laughter and throws his head back, an arm flinging over his stomach as he continues laughing. Santiago just looks away, sighing and rolling his eyes and wonders why he thought telling Puck, of all people, about a girl he didn't even know.
"You—You didn't even—" Puck's words are cut off by his laughter as he wipes at the tears at the corner of his eye. "You didn't even speak to her?" He manages to get out, his face still cracking out a smile as small bursts of chuckles. "The fuck you taking? I need me some of that!"
Really, Santiago should've known any better and before he can leap out of bed—with difficulty—and rip Puck's windpipe out to stop that fucking noise that makes Santiago feel like a complete fucking idiot, the surgeon and a few nurses walk in, telling him that it's time for his surgery.
He's wheeled out the room with the sound of his supposed 'best friend' wetting himself behind him.
Puck's such a fucking douche, and now Santiago's not going to think about that girl because what's the chances he's ever going to see her again?
The few weeks after the surgery are really fucking painful. Not just physically painful, but like, painful in life. It's so damn inconvenient to be on crutches and have a fucking great big cast wrapped around his leg, especially when he feels like he should be doing something when he's just lounging around at home. But now it's been almost two months and he's so freaking close to getting a chainsaw and just cutting this damn cast off himself that he actually requires full time company from someone, which today happens to be Sam.
"Sit down, bro," the blonde guy demands as he wanders into the living room, carrying two plates.
Santiago looks up at him. "Shut up, Trouty," he growls, reluctantly lowering himself back to the sofa and switching the channel. "I was only getting the remote."
The blonde guy rolls his eyes and throws himself into the arm chair, kicking both feet up onto the coffee table after sliding one of the plates across the coffee table to Santiago. "What? You're not gonna pass it and baby the crap outta me anymore?" Santiago quirks, looking at the plate that he has to lean forward and stretch for.
"Mofpe," Sam muffles through a bite of his sandwich, swallowing audibly. "You've got a broken ankle not a broken back. Plus I'm only helping out as your bro."
"Yet you're still treating me like I'm disabled," Santiago fires back, reaching forward to grab the plate (with slight difficulty) and pulling it back onto his lap. He picks it up and takes a large bite.
"You kinda are."
"Frokem manple," he points to the cast on his leg as he chews, parroting his best friends words. "Mot frokem map."
Sam throws a crust at him and Santiago laughs as he swallows, promptly being cut off by the sound of his cell phone ringing. He mouths 'douche' to the other guy as he picks it up, mumbling, "hello," into it.
"Hello, is this Mr Santiago Lopez?"
Santiago nods but realizes he should probably reply as the girl down the phone can't see him. "Yep. Who's this?"
"This is Miss Motta from BP's Physical Therapy Center," the girl replies in a cheerful tone. "Doctor Johnson has told you about the sessions you should have for your ankle, yes?"
"Yeah... But why are you calling me?" He asks, slightly confused. He's got the number of the physical therapist in his bedside table and was told that he had to ring them. "Doc said I should call you."
"He did, but your surgeon asked us to give you a call personally."
Brown eyes narrow. "Why?"
"You were given the phone number two weeks ago and you were scheduled to have your first session last week, but you failed to call and so the surgeon thought he should follow up with us."
Okay, maybe that's true, but Santiago kind of stubborn. It's the worst quality about him, or so his ex-girlfriends have told him, and he just can't help but think he can heal on his own. Hell, if he didn't have constant care, he'd totally have taken this cast off by now and gone for a run of something. The lack of exercise and movement is freaking killing him, and he just wants to get back to his normal life including his job, his morning routine including exercise and his damn motorbike!
So that's why he didn't want to ring, and that's why he decided to forgo telling Sam about the therapy, knowing that Puck wasn't going to remember because the words didn't come from a woman and that's the only way he'd listen.
"But I thought it was my choice?" Santiago brings up, remembering his doctor's words. "Doctor Johnson said it was optional as I had to pay for myself.
"It is optional, Mr. Lopez, but it's also highly recommended as it'll speed up your recovery and get you back to your normal self quicker than going without."
Damn it. "Fine," he lets out through an exhale, pinching the bridge of his nose and ignoring the quizzical glance Sam sends him. "When's my session?"
"You've got a session booked for tomorrow at 8am," the girl informs him. "We took the liberty of booking one for you."
Definitely took the liberty alright. "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow."
"I'm just the receptionist, Mr. Lopez. You'll be with Doctor Pierce tomorrow for your session."
Santiago's hand drops from his face. "Okay, thank you. Bye."
"Bye."
The phone line goes dead and Sam throws him another look, one this time Santiago doesn't ignore.
"What was that?"
He throws his phone onto the space next to him on the sofa and picks up his sandwich again. "Got a session tomorrow," he says, eying his sandwich. "Hope you're free at eight in the morning 'cause you're taking me."
Sam's eyes narrows. "Well you did say you were helping out," Santiago mumbles, copying his friends words from earlier and adding in a grin that he knows going to piss off the other guy.
And it works because moments later another bread crust hits him in the cheek.
Sam puts on the handbrake and Santiago looks toward the building with the sign BP'S PHYSICAL THERAPY written on the sign hanging above the door. It obviously isn't a large center, nor a popular one, but if it was recommended by Santiago's surgeon then he isn't going to ask twice about it. He's not an asshole, and he didn't act like one toward the surgeon—he was his usual lovely self, actually—so he's trusting that the guy wouldn't have sent him to a place that looks like a physical therapy center but actually homes twelve crack dealers.
"Well, here you go," Sam says, running a hand over the driving wheel. "You want me to come in?"
Santiago lifts an eyebrow at him as he grabs his crutches. "I'm good," he says, struggling slightly to open the door and hold his crutches at the same time. Luckily, Sam reaches over his lap and pushes it open for him, helping him out. "Thanks," he climbs out the car and turns, hobbling on one leg and using his arms to steady himself on the crutches. "What time you picking me up?"
"I'm gonna go chill at Rachel's for a bit so just text me ten minutes before you need picking up."
"Okay," he bobs his head in acknowledgment. Rachel and Sam have been dating for like, a few months now and even though the chick's kind of annoying, she and Sam are cute together so Santiago will deal. "Thanks, Evans. See you later."
He nudges the door shut with his elbow and Sam salutes to him from the inside before driving off, leaving Santiago to turn and look at the center a second before hobbling toward it.
Well, here goes nothing.
He gets through the front door with difficulty, wondering why there isn't one of those disabled buttons you can push to automatically open the door considering this is a physical therapy center, but then finds a small, brunette grinning at him from behind the desk, quickly rounding it to come to his aid. It's a little late, but he's not a dick and so he smiles gratefully and allows her to lead him to the reception desk.
"I'm assuming you're Santiago Lopez?"
Said man nods. "Yep," he confirms, taking the weight off his arms by leaning on the desk when he gets there.
The girl quickly rounds it again and sits back down on the chair, turning her attention to the computer and typing a few things before her eyes shift back to him. "Doctor Pierce will be with you in a few minutes," she says and he reads her name 'Sugar' on her name badge. That's gotta be fake, right? "Do you need any help to take a seat?"
"Nah, I'm good, thank you. But I was wondering," he starts, looking down at the cast on his leg. "I've still got my bandage slash cast thing on so how am I supposed to do this?"
"This is just your introductory session, Mr. Lopez," Sugar says and Santiago stops her quickly.
"Call me Santiago."
"Okay, Santiago," Sugar starts again, smiling. "Well this is your introductory session so Brit—Doctor Pierce," she quickly corrects, scooting forward in her chair and clasping her hands over the desk in front of her. "Will just outline how many weeks you'll do and what you'll do in each week. She'll assess your injury, predict how long it'll take for your sessions to fully take effect and most importantly, discuss finances and payments."
Santiago takes it all in, nodding along with each point before he's finally satisfied and flashes a dazzling smile. "Thanks, Sugar. Also, how much is a session?"
"Around $100 an hour, but honestly it varies with each patient."
His eyes narrow. "Isn't that like, illegal?"
"Doctor Pierce doesn't go by injuries, exactly," Sugar draws out, tilting her head and letting her eyes drift off, lips twisting up at the side like she's trying to figure out a way to explain something but having some difficulty.
"So what does she go by?"
Sugar grins and meets his eye. "You'll see."
And Santiago wants to know more, but then Doctor Pierce appears out of nowhere and well, he pretty much forgets his own name.
Random idea I had in my head and it's finally come out. Tell me what you think.
