CelestialSuperStar

“Your last line was better, comments like that make you sound like a homeless hippy. The first one might be the go-to for every man on the planet but at least it has more class than your latest attempt.” She snarked back with a snort as she sipped her drink. “And I nearly stated outright that I’m a regular here. Maybe you should cut back on the drinking if it makes you this inept at flirting.”

She was clad in a black dress that fit her perfectly and showed off her curves without revealing as much skin as one would expect for this sort of place. She almost looked out of place with how classily she was dressed yet at the same time she fit right in with how she acted.

“Aw, c’mon, let a bloke feel at least a little bit cool! My lack of reputation’s all I got left!” The musician laughed and raised his hand in defeat. The other lifted his drink to his lips afterward and he sighed theatrically for effect.

Bruce had come across all kinds of people back in his days as a paramedic, and now, traveling with his Doctor, all kinds of beings and entities as well. Thus, a man with a guitar case on his back, wearing a leather coat with cigar in hand– or, more accurately, mouth– was far from the oddest thing he had ever seen that year. Or even, that week.

He shook his head, though whether it was more at the fact that he didn’t carry a lighter or how heavily he disapproved of smoking was another thing. As much as the Doctor tried to keep his mind open, he would be the first to admit that his health-conscious bias carried through to the present day. While he knew that smoking could be perfectly harmless among other races, the man before him seemed to be human. Of course, he knew better by now than to judge by appearances.

“Sorry, I don’t have one,” he apologized. Well, there went his ‘be ready for any situation’ motto that he tried to live by. There was something that made him pause, however. It seemed to be a… a sense of the Time Vortex? He couldn’t be sure.

“Damn.” Fitz grimaced in remorse, “Well, thanks anyway.” The unlit cigarette was still tucked into the corner of his mouth and Fitz leaned back on his heels, scrubbing a hand through the wild hair atop his head. 

While the musician wasn’t nearly as intuitive as a Time Lord, he’d started to recognize the particular feel of someone who had something special about them.  At first Fitz had thought that his reaching out had been a coincidence, but as he looked more closely at the stranger it seemed maybe there was something more there. Had they run into each other in a different time? A different planet?

Slowly, surely, Volus tested his limits. Nudged at boundaries. Invisible tendrils crept through the cracks in the Doctor’s mind, weaving themselves intricately through the cerebral cortex…. 

The Doctor didn’t answer Fitz’s question straight away. He was frowning, staring at his hands where they held onto the rim of the TARDIS console– something in the air was shifting, making his head spin and his skin prickle unpleasantly, and he couldn’t hold onto it for long enough to identify what exactly it was.

“I– no. Yes– yes, sorry,” he said, voice distant and tinny in his own ears. He swayed slightly on the spot, shaking his head in an attempt to clear it. “Get rid of it. Throw it away. Back into the void, it’s useless now. No need for it.”

The Doctor’s small frame was still and a little too stiff for Fitz’s liking, and as the Time Lord swayed in place Fitz reached to grip him by the elbow.  “Alright I’m gonna toss it-” The musician’s voice was softer from it’s usual careless drawl- large grey eyes focused on his friend with a gentle intensity, “In the meantime, will you sit down for a second, please? For me?” 

“Walpole. Pioneer of Gothic literature, wrote The Castle of Otranto. Not a bad chap, actually, but a bit full of hims–oh!”

The Doctor jumped, too, as the slamming door rang out along the corridor, though he regained his composure a good deal quicker than Fitz. Approaching the door cautiously, he reached out to try the handle– locked.

That settled it. Doors didn’t just lock themselves– someone, or something, was doing this deliberately.

“Alright, enough messing about,” he said, raising his voice to address thin air. “We’re not here to hurt you, or to steal anything, or whatever it is that’s got your hackles up. We just landed here at random, so the cheap scare tactics can stop right now, thank you.”

As the Doctor moved closer to the door Fitz went along with him strictly for the fact that he hadn’t let go of the Time Lord’s hand. Even with the candle light now aiding them, Fitz wasn’t about to let them get separated now that he knew for sure they weren’t alone.

                        The house rumbled ominously in response to the Doctor’s announcement- like an earthquake had jostled the foundation. Fitz stepped quickly to the side as the floorboards beneath his feet squeaked agonizingly and one popped free- sending a nail pinging into the wall across from it. 

The Doctor, in what was probably a fortunate turn of events, hadn’t started on his “tea” yet– he’d been distracted, leafing through a book on stacked dimensions from the TARDIS library and correcting his own notes in the margins. He glanced up, gaze flitting between Fitz and his own teacup, which had also begun to bubble somewhat ominously. 

“Are you sure, Fi– oh. Oh, yes, I see what you mean.”

Reaching over, he dipped his little finger into the not-tea and brought it up to taste it with the barest flick of his tongue. Almost immediately, his expression darkened.

“Oh. No, no no, that can’t be good– Fitz, how much of that did you drink?”

Fitz tried his best to respond with Enough, probably but it came out as “E’nff pr’lly.” 

River enjoyed going to various bars for drinks and dancing. Sometimes she even took someone home with her but she had high standards and who ever it was had to impress her before she’d even consider it and so far the guy she had just sat next to was failing.

“If you weren’t so drunk already you would already know the answer to that.” She replied with a smug little smile as she ordered herself a drink. “And I know you aren’t a regular or I would have seen you before. If you’re hoping for more than conversation tonight then you need to work on your pick up lines.”

The wind was so effortlessly taken from his sails that Fitz stared at her in a moment of drunken stupidity. Then the lopsided grin was back- this time without the lascivious tinge. Fitz would have been a liar to god and country if he’d tried to say he didn’t like a woman who knew what she wanted. Not to mention countless failures over the years had turned his flirts into little more than a token effort at getting something if he could.

Squatting down in front of his guitar case, Fitz rifled through the crumpled bills and jingling change that had been dropped in throughout the morning. In his mouth was his last cigarette- a situation he was hoping had been fixed by a few hours of busking. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in good honest work so much as he traveled too much to find steady work other than music. Luckily music was what he did best.

                       Satisfied that he’d be able to replace his waning stores, Fitz swept the change all into the pocket dimension that had been put there ages ago by the Doctor. He closed the case with guitar inside and slung it on his back, then patted his pockets for his zippo. An irritated sigh followed after flicking the flint to find the thing was empty. Figured.

“Y’know- I don’t think that tea we got off of Verzacon was tea. I think it was... not-tea.”

“You must work out a lot.”

So he was probably a few drinks down. It had been a long week of uncertain circumstances for him- hopping from one place to the next in an effort to find one suitable to settle down a while. Fitz never lingered places for long, but he could still do with a break. By the time he’d made it somewhere he could get a bed and a regular bite to eat it was late and he needed some stress relief.

                   As soon as the woman had sat down next to him Fitz had offered her a wide, lopsided grin. Sagging into the bar with his drink in one hand in a genuine effort at looking effortless, he tipped up his chin, “Hey. Come here often?”

Old sneakers slapped hard against the pavement and there was a grin from ear to prominent ear on his face. He was breathless both from running and laughing- the outraged look on the shop owner’s face still fresh in his mind. He and his accomplice had parted ways almost immediately, but Fitz knew he was the main target now. Served the racist old bastard who owned the store right. Now he was short half a till of cash and the young boy who he’d lent help to would have something to eat other than garbage that week.

                         With one arm bracing the guitar case on his back from flying off Fitz twisted mid run to check and see if he’d been followed around a corner. Almost immediately after turning around he cursed loudly and flailed off to the side- clipping hard into a blonde woman he hadn’t seen until it was too late. Instinctively he snatched at her arm to keep her from falling even as he himself half ate the pavement.

“Sailor sail on, Still listening for your siren song, Tomorrow is your only home...”

The final line still hadn’t come to him and Fitz trailed off into a long, comfortable string of music. The old Gibson Hummingbird in his arms resonated with every note in a deep, warm sound. Fitz had ensured it was perfectly tuned and regularly oiled. Callused fingers slid over the strings like there was no other place he wanted to be, and he played right through someone dropping change into the open guitar case in front of him. 

                     Eventually the song trailed itself off and Fitz let it drift away. Resting the guitar down into his lap, he gave himself a moment and then looked up at his surroundings. The park he was busking in had been decently busy in the morning but had slowed down as the day wore on. Now there was just one bloke Fitz didn’t recognize- standing there with his hands in his pockets. The musician offered up a lopsided grin.

“I don’t generally have a need to set fire to things,” the Doctor pointed out placidly, as the candle flickered into life. “Though it seems to happen alarmingly often anyway.”

The candlelight only offered them a small radius of faint illumination, but it was better than nothing. Where before they had only been able to see the vague, looming shapes of the furniture and decorations, it was now easier to make out some of the finer details– intricate carvings of snakes were inset into the sides of the dresser, the arms of a nearby chair, and - now he looked closer - the silver candlestick he’d picked up, too. The carved beasts twisted around each other, over and under, some with fangs bared or forked tongues tasting the air.

“Interesting– very Horace Walpole,” the Doctor muttered, free hand reaching for Fitz’s again as they kept moving down the corridor. “I think someone’s got a bit of a fixation, don’t you?”

“Yeah bad luck’s probably enough to get you by in a pinch.”

                       Fitz flicked the lighter closed once the candle was lit and stuffed it back into his pocket. Without thinking he reached out and trailed a fingertip down the intricately carved serpent which slithered around the edge of a mirror. There was a clean trail left in the dust in it’s wake and he wiped his hand off onto his jeans before taking the Doctor’s hand again. Despite the overall feeling of malaise about the place, the furnishings had clearly all been quite expensive at one point.