Soldiers and Sailors

Chapter one- Chance Encounters

The military had hospitals and offices for unfit soldiers. The ones that went the extra mile and saw the true terrors of war. They wanted these fighters fixed up and sent out again. Making a warrior takes eighteen years, fixing one takes less than that.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist said placing the palm of her hand over the receiver of the phone, and turning in her chair to face the patient, "he's running late today. You'll have to take a seat."

The man in uniform nodded and walked past the desk to the chairs lining the walls. He sat down across from the body in a chair that did not belong to the office. A chair with wheels, handle bars, and a medal pinned into the back.

The room was quiet under the rings of phones and the voice of the receptionist.

He removed his hat and placed it in his lap, "admirable, taking a bullet for someone." He nodded towards the other man's leg, "I assume that's how you earned it."

"Shove a guy toward the ground, get shot in the leg and suddenly you're a hero," he shared.

They were quiet a moment without anything to say. It was the blond that asked the next question, "what's with the uniform?"

"I'm a marine," he stated.

"I see that," he smiled.

The door opened and the doctor stepped out, "okay, Jean-"

"I'm coming," he cut in and reached for the break on his chair before turning the wheels and disappearing behind the door.

He parked beside the chair in front of the desk and folded his hands in his lap with his elbows on the arm rest.

The gray haired man sat behind his large dark oak desk in an overstuffed leather chair with a folder opened in front of him and pen in hand. He wrote his patient's name and date at the top of the fresh paper and waited.

"I sometimes think they're feeding me bull by telling me I'll walk again," Jean shared looking out the window.

"Why's that?"

"They way they say it," he shrugged, "I miss smoking honestly. I can't have a cigarette in my hospital room and I can't make it outside without a nurse saying I'm straining myself."

"Let's go back to walking. Do you think you'll walk again?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course I do. I want to be able to go up stairs again. Then I can go home. I miss my apartment and I'm pretty sure there's milk in the fridge that's gone bad by now," he said humorously then looked towards the therapist to see him writing with a serious face.

He sighed and kept talking to fill the air. It was why he was here, "I hate that people pity me. I'm crippled not retarded. I can hold my own cup for god's sakes. I also hate that people think I'm depressed all the time. Since when can a guy in a wheelchair not crack a joke?" Again he looked at the man to find the same thing so he kept going. "My physical therapy's getting me jacked." He flexed the muscle in his arm, "even in combat I didn't carry such guns." Nothing, not even a smile.

With a sigh Jean rested his chin on the palm of his hand. "I'm lonely too. But I can't really go clubbing in this thing, huh?" He patted his chair for emphasis. "I'm sure I could pick up one of the murses but the thing is they're straight. Who the hell would of guessed right?" An eyebrow rose but nothing was said.

"The marine in the waiting room was pretty cute. I feel like I've seen him before though… Hopefully I wasn't drunk. I wouldn't mind hitting that again," he laughed.

The older man's throat cleared, "okay, Jean, let's try talking about something else. Have your parents visited?"

"Eh, a couple times. Mom can be annoying though. Fluff my perfectly fine pillows and act like every nurse on the floor is supposed to only tend to me, she also tries to set me up with them," he rolled his eyes, "depending on the mood I'm in I'll humor her. They all know though, the nurses I mean. You know when you're fighting you can't even hint at it. Don't ask, don't tell, ya know? Here though the military doesn't care. It's like they only care if you've got a gun in your hand."

"What does your father think of all this?"

It took a second to realize he meant the hospitalization, not what he had been talking about. He had stopped listening awhile ago. "Dad's quiet about it honestly. He just sits there and stares at me."

The man looked up at the clock and put the cap on his pen, "I'm sorry, Jean, it looks like we've run out of time."

"Alright, see you next week," he took off the brake and rolled towards the door.

"Here, let me get that for you," the doctor stood up.

"No, I can get it," Jean stopped and reached for the handle. He managed to open it and get halfway through before it started closing on him.

The marine got up and held it open for him. He smiled, "I'm sure you could've gotten it on your own. I'm just anxious for my turn with the shrink."

Jean grinned and continued to roll away, "maybe I'll see you around, marine."

The brunet shook his head and stepped into the office. He sat down in the equally over stuffed chair and waited for the doctor to change folders.

"Any new developments, Roy?"

He sighed, the heavy feeling settling in his heart, "no, she's not doing any better."

"I meant in your life," he clarified.

He turned toward the window, his knuckle against his lower lip and chin on his thumb.

"Roy?" The doctor urged but still the man was silent. "Any more nightmares?"

"Not nightmares, nightmare," he corrected, "and it's not a nightmare it's reality."

"Are you keeping up with your medication?"

"No," he stated.

"Why not?"

"They make me feel like I'm not living. I'm detached from the world and made to watch people being happy."

"You need to take your medication."

The plastic cup was handed to him. Jean downed it like it was the finest of tequila and smiled up at the nurse, "no water needed."

She took the cup back and threw it in the trash before fixing his blankets around him. "As soon as it kicks in someone will be here to whisk you away to the weight room."

"Alright, pull ups today," he smiled.

"Don't be excited we're only building up arm muscles for the walking bars," she reminded.

He sighed, "yeah."

She turned on the TV and handed him the remote.

Jean relaxed in his bed with his arm tucked behind his head and watching the television blink at him as he pressed the button.

Roy blinked at the wall behind the therapist's head. Not a single word was exchanged. The gray haired man looked at the clock, wrote something on his paper and welcomed Roy to the exit.

The marine put his cap back on when he left the office and took the trip from one building to the next.

Jean lifted himself into his wheelchair, despite the nurse trying to assist him. He did however let her push him to where he needed to be.

They wasted no time in placing the heart monitors and breathing aid before two orderlies lifted him to hang from the bar.

"Okay, Jean, start slow," his physical therapist advised before pressing a button on one of the machines.

He forced his legs out straight, trying hard to ignore the shooting pain in his knee. A scowl etched on his face and he managed to pull his chin to the bar.

"One," the doctor counted.

With shaking arms he lowered himself and then repeated until his brow was beaded with sweat and muscles about to give up.

"Thirty," she pressed another button on the machine, "are you ready to stop, Jean?"

He nodded quickly and the orderlies put him back in his chair.

He pulled off the stupid mask they insist he wear to get fresh air. He was panting and struggling to swallow.

The weight room had a large window facing the nurse's station. If a patient had hurt themselves, or more help was needed, all it would take was a glance and the aid would come running.

It was through this window that Jean caught a glance of that cute marine from the therapist's office. The question to why he was in the hospital was a distant second to the thought I hope he's watching. He looked at the orderlies, smiling, "put me back up there."