LOG: The Fugitive & The Doctor

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The Fugitive grinned; his teeth filthy, his face covered in grime. His ship was sailing soon. The women walking past in the cobbled street shied away from him, something in his face prompting them to change their paths. It didn't matter. Nothing could change his jubilation today. His fingers beat time against his thigh, his accordian slapped his back where it hung on its strap, his cigar jutted jauntily from his lips.

He'd seen the miser, scraping for bail, scrambling to keep his head above the water in the aftermath of the perfect plan which the Fugitive had carried out. The Fugitive's smile widened. He stepped lightly onto the cobbles of a market street, far from McArthur's shop; the other side of the city. There were a great many shops, stalls, and people a-plenty, and the Fugitive blended effortlessly into the crowd. A few short hours, and he would be gone, his revenge complete and his getaway safe. Oh yes, he was a happy man today.

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The Doctor on the other hand, was not a happy man. A busy man? Perhaps, but a happy one? No. Not happy. The patients condition was stable, but the improvement which he'd hoped for upon the installation of the last part of his machine (Designed to re-oxygenate her blood at an accelerated pace, hoping to invigorate the patient at a swifter pace.) simply hadn't materialized in her.

The failure had dispirited him, but not so much as to cause him to surrender all hope yet. So onwards and upwards, on to the next breakthrough, eventually he'd find the key, he'd make the right discovery... he'd repair her...

But for that to happen, he must continue his work. So he walked briskly through the market, intently approaching the engineers stall at the far end of the streets. If he noticed the fugitive, he gave no sign of it.

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The Fugitive had his back turned as the Doctor entered the market, his arrival going unnoticed. However the Fugitive, in taking a step backwards to allow a pair of men carrying a large crate between them to pass him, ended up in the Doctor's path. The collision was small, a bump more than a blow, a brush more than a bump, even, but still. The Fugitive very nearly cursed. He wanted no more attention on himself than he could help. Quickly, he turned towards the man, clearing his throat and removing his cigar from his mouth as he did so.

"I apologise, sir," he said, jerkily inclining his head in the manner etiquette dictated.

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The Doctor jerked back abruptly, re-adjusting his spectacles with a frown as he regarded the young man. Then his eyes flicked up past the Fugitive and his mind focused back onto the matter at hand. This distraction was mildly irritating, but minor, if nothing else.

Thoroughly distracted, the Doctor pulled around the fugitive, muttering a vague dismissal of his concerns, as he set off back towards his task.

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The Fugitive could feel members of the crowd looking at him, focusing on him, remembering his face; the other man's rudeness imbedding him in their memories. This wouldn't do. What was the man hurrying for? Why was he in such a rush? The Fugitive narrowed his eyes, ever so slightly.

With a light step, he followed the Doctor. He kept his head down, watching the backs of the man's shoes as he made his focused way through the crowd. He had nothing to do for hours; he would find out what made the doctor rush.

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The Doctor paid no heed to even the possibility that the earlier urchin might be following him, for indeed, why should he? Arriving at the stall, he stopped sharply, drawing his medical bag up in front of him and waiting for the proprietor to take notice of him.

"Ah, Doctor!" The portly, oil stained man behind the table exclaimed, stepping forward, "And how are you this morning?"

"Well enough, good sir." The Doctor replied briskly, keeping both hands on his bag still, "The part I ordered from you some weeks ago, has it arrived yet?"

The proprietor made some uncertain noises, and turned to rummage through his stock to check while the Doctor waited patiently.

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The engineer's, ah. What could the Doctor want here? The Fugitive took in the sight of cogs and mechanics - larger than he was used to handling, but still familiar. A smile touched his lips for the briefest of moments, the memory of that night, those moments of perfect stillness as he worked on his masterpiece. The Doctor clutched his bag, asking after a part. What was it?

The Fugitive slipped forward, through the shifting crowd, until he was standing at the Doctor's left. Quietly, almost insidiously, he said, "I would not have taken this for your field of expertise, sir."

[fruitsofscience.livejournal.com]

The Doctor flinched away from the Fugitive, looking down sharply at the younger man. This wasn't right... what in the world did the creature want with him? Fixing the fugitive with a glower, the Doctor straightened his coat, "And what business is it of yours that my affairs bring me here, young man? It just so happens that I possess some very delicate equipment which serves my profession, and they require a high level of maintenance. That is all."

This said, he turned quickly to face forward again, willing the shopkeep to hurry with his order.

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"It is not much of my business at all. I'm afraid that was rude of me," The Fugitive conceeded, forcing remorse to bubble through his voice, which then took on a slightly darker tone. "Though no more so than your conduct in our earlier meeting."

The shopkeeper bustled forward, prompting the Fugitive to turn his face away slightly. The man seemed ready to give the Doctor his order, then made an about-turn and went back to the stock. The Fugitive turned back and shrugged, taking a puff of his cigar and folding his arms. His curiosity about the Doctor's general demeanour was getting the better of him. "What sort of clockwork machinery would help in your profession?"

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"Our earlier meeting?" The Doctor turned now to look the Fugitive full in the face, his expression obviously incredulous at the other mans story, "Don't tell me you've followed me over here to bother me because you were offended by my brevity?" He asked briskly, looking distinctly disapproving about the matter in hand, before turning quickly to face the shop keeper again.

A couple of beats passed, and finally, the Doctor deigned to speak again, "If you must know, it's to keep the pace of the patients heartbeat recorded." A lie, of course, but what could he do? He'd broken every oath he'd ever made, save the one to his wife on their wedding night, what were a few more lies to a demanding stranger?

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"I was full of curiosity as to your hurry, and I have all the time in the world before I must be in any particular place," The Fugitive grinned as he spoke; his lips twitching up just as he said the world 'time'. Yes, he had time, alright. He felt his own pocketwatch heavy in his waistcoat, tapped a momentary finger on it before his hand flitted to his mouth. Drawing his cigar from his lips, he gestured from one side of the metal-strewn counter to the other, a smoky trail hovering over the parts.

"Why is the pace of the heartbeat so very important?" he asked, his tone somewhat absent.

[fruitsofscience.livejournal.com]

"Because if the heartbeat becomes too slow or too weak, then the life of the patient may be forfeit!" The Doctor snapped, "There, you have your answer, now leave me be!" He didn't like this conversation, and he didn't like the other mans imposition upon his time. He had work to do, and he had to return to his patient, and he did not wish to spend his time humoring this ruffian on the matter!

Finally, the shopkeep turned back towards them, and the Doctor let out a silent sigh of relief, as he extracted the mans payment from his pocket, and handed it across the counter.

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The Fugitive watched him, eyed the money exchanging hands, the clockwork parts entering the Doctor's clutch. The more this man willed him to leave, the more he wished to stay. His emotions had always worked that way, the opposite of expected being so very enticing to him.

It was a long pause before the Fugitive said anything, long enough that the Doctor almost looked like he was about to go, nearly managed his getaway. Then the Fugitive asked, "Do you have but one patient, sir?"

[fruitsofscience.livejournal.com]

"I treat whoever requires it of me." The Doctor replied sharply, not bothering to say goodbye before he took off back into the crowd of people. He was happy to be getting away from this conversation already.

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Quick as a flash, the Fugitive was after him, not thinking about why he was following the man, simply doing it. He had nothing better to do, he had to wait for his ship, he needed some purpose so he wasn't loitering around the streets where who knows who would notice him. He stretched out his stride, moving faster, tailing the Doctor closely. He didn't much care if the other man noticed him or not at that point.