Work Text:
Drip.
Drip...
D r i p . . .
Problems with solutions.
Frequent, desired, reliable.
A leaky pipe, for one. There were plenty of ways to solve the conundrum, and so many of them required hardly any actual effort.
Still, he chose the hands on approach.
Curious creations eyed him as he leaned under the sink, red lights that blinked in unison as if to question what exactly he was up to…or perhaps why.
Or perhaps they were just that.
Machines.
Perhaps they were merely tasked to observe, and there was no thought of their own to guide them. Just as he was meant to be-
It had grown quiet.
The drip had finally stopped.
The former agent finally began to pull himself out from beneath the counter, pushing away and across the floor in a single breath. His tools were returned to their bag, lazily pushed aside as he stretched out his legs in front of him. Once he’d successfully turned himself to face his latest distraction, the creations made their own approach.
Was that it?
Is that all there is?
They said nothing to him, and he dared not respond to his own turmoil before them.
His mind was quiet for all of two seconds before a familiar tune began to play. The very floor he sat on began to vibrate from the noise, and he cast a glance over his shoulder as the screen lit up in warm hues. For about five minutes he watched in silence. Five minutes of fictional, and overly dramatic bliss.
Then the show paused, and the man in the chair facing the screen turned to look down upon him. The agent met his gaze. Something akin to disdain lingered, before the man in the chair turned back around, resuming his fixation. The agent returned his attention to the floor.
Problems without solutions.
Recovery from the fall was never going to be easy.
The physical aspect of it all had been devastating enough.
The doctor had been uncharacteristically quiet, even when he’d healed enough to speak. Then, once he had opened his mouth, something had changed. The spark, whatever it was, had been buried alongside him in the rubble of his madness, left behind when the agent had come to his rescue. Not destroyed, just abandoned; Thousands of miles away, it waited patiently for them, perhaps in vain.
Deep down he knew there was absolutely no one forcing him to stay.
In fact, he’d been yelled at more times than he could count to do the opposite. He looked forward to those encounters, not for the treatment itself but for the reminder of who the doctor had once been. Between the two of them, it was getting harder to recognize who had truly gone mad during their period of isolation from humanity.
Are you still watching?
Does this amuse you too?
He got to his feet, the creations of the doctor spinning around and whirring as if asking more questions. They sang to him with trills, curiously bobbing as he approached the makeshift coffee station. When he stood before it, his hands stilled.
I could leave. You wouldn’t stop me.
A lump formed in his throat.
He began to make the latte alongside the wails of telenovela's latest plot twist.
It’s autumn back home isn’t it?
Now that was a funny thought.
Home.
. . . Ha.
His nose wrinkled as he deftly drew a maple leaf into the foam. It was far less extravagant than his prior adaptations, but still pleasant to look at. So, content with his art, he picked up the drink and made for the doctor. The man held out his hand, and the agent handed over his latest creation before he stepped away with his arms returned behind his back.
For at least thirty seconds it sat in the man’s hand untouched.
Finally when the scene began to change, he pulled it towards him, and took a small sip.
The agent was acknowledged with a light nod of the head.
A familiar sense of resentment began to bubble to life once more upon his tongue.
He dismissed it with a hum, and spun on his heel to pick up his bag from before. The sink was meant to be a distraction, and had done its job well for all of five minutes.
What now?
Too early for dinner. Too late for lunch.
What about a walk?
A walk would be nice.
A run would be better.
He could-
…What was he thinking?
He pressed his hands to his face, biting back a sigh. His beard was growing out, and his hair was curling around his ears from a cut long overdue. He pressed his fingers into his skin, dragging across the skin, applying enough pressure that it began to hurt.
His hands lowered.
The headache was worse.
Unfortunately, a nap was likely going to help him more than anything else.
So he went to bed.
And when he’d later wake and find a blanket draped over him, he’d only allow himself the idea of relief, rather than the satisfaction. He could excuse it as some sort of apology for a lack of opportunity. Then, he could later despise it for the additional turmoil.
Because after all was said and done, he’d never really regretted staying with the doctor.
…But he’d certainly regretted falling in love with him.