he whistles, low and impressed at the sight of the motorcycle. ❝ i ever tell you the story of how i hurt my leg? crashing a motorcycle, ❞ he lets fly a fond, wistful laugh, as if recalling an entertaining memory. ❝ ah, college. ❞ that was something he did to amuse himself; make up little stories on how he really injured his leg. as if he wasn't born with it, mangled, an ever present source of pain since before he could walk. each time it changed, even his coworkers were in on the gag. sometimes they brought him their own tall tales, appended with the addition that donald knew, of course, considering that's how he hurt his leg.
as he trades off cane for helmet, though, he raises a brow at the distinct lack of head protection for eliot. he really wasn't supposed to condone this, entire lectures of how dangerous motorcycles were flew through his head ( and a few grim images of the aftermaths of some crashes he had treated himself. ) he drums a pensive finger over the hard surface until a twinge of pain reminds him that he's had a terribly long shift. ❝ alright. but i'm gonna be frowning the entire time so you know i don't approve. ❞
what he wishes he could do was effortlessly swing his leg over the other side and straddle the bike with ease, maybe even in slow motion, like the movies. but he's not a supermodel with million dollar insured hair, he's dr. donald blake with a bum right leg. he doesn't do graceful, he does his best. it's an awkward balancing act for a moment, one hand grasping at eliot's shoulder, the other making up for the lack of flexibility and hoisted his leg to the other side the rest of the way. not sexy, but not disastrous. at least he made it on without falling over.
then the dawning realization of where exactly to put his hands. one still rested over eliot's shoulder, gripping gently at the fabric of his jacket, and the other dangled hopelessly at his side. first he moved to hover over his bicep, then withdrew. stupid, he would move his arm to steer the bike. just grab his waist, donald. don't be weird about it. it's the most secure place to hold onto. he knows as soon as the engine revs his pathetic core strength will do nothing to keep him in place, nor would a feeble grip on eliot's shoulders. safety. yes. it was all about safety.
convincing himself of that at last he rested his hands at eliot's waist, ignoring the flush it sent racing up his neck and the myriad of mental images the feeling conjured.
