InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "I'm hunting wabbit."

Madman. (With a box.) (i_travel) wrote in we_coexist,
@ 2011-01-15 16:52:00

Entry tags:

in arkham, the doctor, winifred burkle

An escape. (Fred)
The escape attempt had been days in the making. First, the Doctor had needed to locate the storeroom where the patients' personal effects were stored. Then he'd waited for it to be opened, given that he had no tools to pick the lock. Finally, jackpot: a new patient had been admitted and, in the three minute window during which access was possible, the Doctor snuck in and stole back his things. Once he had his screwdriver? Getting into the staff changing room was much easier. Sure, he could've tried to talk his way in, but he felt that would've been too suspicious. They'd have upped his dose, and that would've greatly hurt any future attempts.

Two sets of scrubs, coats, and badges later, the Doctor was ready. It would be nice to say that he'd picked Fred as a partner in his escape because he was fond of her, or because he was worried. True, he was worried about her, but he also didn't want their captors to get their hands on her work.

It was dangerous. And, if the right people were to see it, they'd be dangerous. Sure, the Doctor was concerned about the young woman, but he also had ulterior motives.

As usual.

The escape had gone smoothly. They'd gotten dressed up, wandered down towards the staff entrance... and found that the security locks were more advanced than expected. The initial attempt to use the screwdriver didn't work, which would have been fine, except that the failed attempt to exit set off the alarms. The Doctor fiddled with the badges (and then the screwdriver, again). There were a few tense moments before they finally got out and broke into a run across the grounds and out into the City.

Fred had taken some convincing before she'd agreed to escape. She'd been worried about her friend Harry, and the Doctor had only managed to talk her into running after he'd promised that they'd come back. They'd come back for all of them, all of the falsely imprisoned. The smart, precocious little girl he'd met in the common space. Fred's friend Harry. The lucid eyes the Doctor saw in the hallways. All of them.

Twenty-four hours passed. The Doctor stayed close to Fred, watching for signs that the drugs were wearing off. He'd need her in full possession of her faculties. And, in the interim, he'd begun working on a plan.

They were going to break back in. He was determined.

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i_figure
2011-01-16 12:23 am UTC (link)

Fred hadn't wanted to go. Not at first, but then the Doctor had made a fine point of saving Harry. Harry didn't belong in the loony bin, no matter how much Fred might. She was frightened, scared to leave, but she had to. She had to be a champion, even for only a little while. So, she put on the scrubs, the coat, and whatever else the Doctor gave her, and she left with him. She was a little proud of herself for not losing her head completely when the alarms sounded; the brainy woman bit her lip and waited for the Doctor to figure it out. If he really was the Doctor.

The run was just that, a run. They were running for not just their freedom, and once she was outside, Fred really didn't want to go back in. There was something different about the smell outside the hospital. Or prison. It was little wonder that when they finally found somewhere to hole up and think, Fred crashed. The adrenaline rush could only last for so long, and hers had lasted until they found the place. She'd only meant to sit down for a bit of breather but found herself waking up with a bit of a headache, cottonmouth, and a weird feeling that something was wrong.

She didn't stay in bed long; her stomach voiced its opinion on the state of affairs and demanded attention. Normally that would usually mean it was time to eat, but in this case, Fred soon found herself rushing to kneel before the porcelain throne, begging for forgiveness. She'd probably done this a few times, or maybe just this once. As far as she knew it was just this once; what had they been giving her? Or was it all a culmination of the previous day's events? It didn't matter. She didn't like it.

The Doctor didn't have to help if he felt it was beneath him. She was actually capable of seeing to her hair and what not. She groaned softly as she found her feet and a towel along with the very helpful sink, it let her lean against it.

"I'm not dead yet, am I?" She peeked at herself in the mirror. She looked it, a little.

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i_travel
2011-01-16 08:13 am UTC (link)

The Doctor wasn't good with people - not really. He was immensely fond of them and usually wanted to offer comfort when he recognized that it was needed, but the subtle nuances of human behavior escaped him. So, when he heard Fred getting ill in the other room, he got up to investigate. How could he not? He just wasn't sure what to do. Would she be more comfortable if he were or weren't in the room? Should he put a hand on her back until the illness passed? What were the proper actions in this sort of situation?

In the end, he decided to lurk in the doorway to the bathroom, uncertain but nearby in case an answer presented itself.

"The drugs." It was more of a statement than a question; the Doctor wasn't trained in human medicine, but it wasn't hard to to make a reasoned guess. "No, you're not dead - do you need water?"

He'd found proper clothes. No bowtie, just the corduroy trousers and tee-shirts left behind by the previous occupants of their hiding place. In them, he looked even younger than he did in tweed and button-downs. He crossed his arms over his chest and a look of concern spread across his face.

"I let you sleep. It's been less than a day - the medication may not yet be out of your system."