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Remember, make visits to your doctor—is what the Doctor told you when you had last visited him in the cyan tent. He had stopped you, grasped your shoulder and spoke to you in that thick Russian accent of his. You felt incredibly confused and uneasy at first. What did his words mean? Was he some sort of omen with his crow imagery? You did not know if he was trying to warn you. But now that Pierrot had told you that you absolutely had to come back to the circus, you felt like your alliances were thin and that his words were indeed a warning. You also did not like how he had hesitated and then urged you to leave so quickly when he realised that you held a red ticket. Pierrot’s ticket. There was something that Pierrot was hiding from you. About the circus. About his background. About Carol. About everything. You were going to take your chances and you were going to go and visit the Doctor again.
You slip through the circus grounds, trying to avoid Pierrot and Harlequin—even the Ticket Taker who seemed very frustrated by your continuous presence. You approach the cyan tent, just as you had the day before, but this time you do not fret at the various eyes that seem to stare down at you. In fact, they did not really seem to be there. You venture in further and through the darkness you find the Doctor’s medical area. The chair where you were strapped in. A desk full of vials, equipment, herbs and medication. Some of them looked more like the medication you had seen at the pharmacy, or maybe even in a hospital, but the herbs looked like they were his own remedies. Before said desk, he was standing with his back facing you, writing on a clip board with sharp motions.
“Doctor,” you quietly address him, watching him pause his writing and stiffen at your voice.
“You,” he looks over his shoulder, then places the clipboard and pen down. He turns to you, staring at you through his beak-like mask. “You came back.”
“Yes,” you clasp your hands.
“You remembered to make a visit to your doctor,” he tilts his head at you, his tone inquisitive. “Why?”
“There are things I need to know,” you reason, trying to piece together an excuse. You had wanted to go and see him for information about the circus, but you also did not hate the idea of seeing him. “There… there are things I need to understand about myself.”
“Well, that is why we have doctors,” he turns to you, his tone cautious. “ But, you do know that the circus could close within a matter of time and sometimes there are attractions that you should not access.”
“I know,” you mutter, feeling the red ticket in your pocket. “But I fear that you’re the only one who can help me.”
“The only one?” the Doctor pauses, then sighs. He was the one who often dealt with the messes at the circus. “I suppose I am. Though, before I entertain your request, what do I get in exchange?”
“What do you want?” you ask, frowning.
“What do I want?” he repeats, then looks at his desk, then back to you. “Why the frown?”
“Oh, it’s nothing…” you mutter and force a smile, trying not to recall the prior events with Pierrot or Harlequin.
“I will be direct with you,” the Doctor notices your hesitation, but chooses not to press you for further details. “I would like a vial of blood from you. It has been so long since I have been able to go to a human… I mean a normal pharmacy to collect the essentials I need. You would not mind if I sampled your blood?”
“I would not mind,” you agree, confused by his phrasing but grateful that he decided to remain practical throughout this conversation.
“Then, please, be my guest,” the doctor says, motioning to the chair with a gloved hand. “And take a seat.”
You slowly approach the chair you had sat in a day or two ago. The doctor leans closer and gently tightens the straps against your wrists. You allow him and look away as he gathers his medical equipment, approaching you with a sterilised needle. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to forget about your fear of needles. After all, you had agreed to this.
But the needle did not break your skin. He did not insert it into your arm. Not yet. You open your eyes and squint through the darkness, only to find that he has paused and is looking down at you with a certain bird-like tilt. You frown and begin to mutter out an apology, before he holds up a hand that silences you.
“Whilst you are here, I may as well give you a general check up,” the doctor says, deciding it for you. He places down the needle on a nearby tray and instead picks up his stethoscope.
“Alright,” you agree, relieved.
“Please, breathe normally,” the Doctor instructs, as he presses his stethoscope against your chest.
You feel his hand cover the end of the stethoscope, fixing it over your heart. His hands are large. His nails are sharp. But he does not attempt to touch your chest more than he should. In fact, his cyan eyes do not meet yours, but they instead remain fascinated on your body in a way that could only feel like you are a muse. A medical muse. It was not the same way that Pierrot's golden eyes remained stuck on you, searching and obsessive for your affection. It was not the same way that Harlequin’s green eyes looked at you mischievously. So you take in his features, as if he’s the muse this time. Behind the mask, his eyes were probably an intense shade of blue. His hair was a bright red that slightly spilled over his eyes. He had layered himself in a cyan hood and red fabric. Out of all the men you had met at the circus, he was the least you knew about. But now, he was the one you wanted to know the most about.
“What is it you want to know?” the Doctor shifts the stethoscope slightly, still not meeting your eyes.
“What is really happening here at the circus?” you ask, eager for answers. “I have somehow become involved with Pierrot—and Harlequin has also approached me. Pierrot wants me to stay longer at the circus. And do you know anyone called Carol—”
He holds up a hand, silencing you again. This time, he lowers himself even further and you feel his beaked mask press against your ear. “There are things I can and cannot say. There are also eyes that watch. You are also a user of the red ticket. Do you understand?”
“Yes?” you murmur back, confused by the close proximity but also his words.
He sighs and remains close. “One should be careful with the choices they make, with the people they meet.”
He pulls away and then you feel a needle gently press into your arm. But you don’t look away from him. Your eyes remain fixed on his. He briefly glances at you, watching for your reaction as he draws the blood from your vein. He slowly removes the needle and then methodically transfers it to a vial. Within a matter of minutes he disinfects the area and presses a plaster over your skin. He really had managed to collect his end of the exchange whilst keeping you distracted, somehow noticing your fear of needles.
He approaches you again and his hand fixes the stethoscope against your chest. He listens to the pulse of your heart and then he removes the stethoscope entirely, tilting his head in a bird-like manner of curiosity.
“I have distracted you and have attempted to do this medical assessment with care,” the Doctor explains, then asks. “But why does your heart race? I have not scared you, have I?”
“No,” you admit softly. “You have not.”
He steps closer again and lightly presses a finger to test your pulse. His eyes narrow and meet yours.
“No… that cannot be,” he quietly assesses you and cannot come to a conclusion himself. “Are you experiencing romantic feelings?”
“Uh… well, I suppose I am?” you hesitantly confirm.
“Have you inhaled something?” his eyes search you again, assessing you for other symptoms.
“What?” you frown in confusion. “No, Doctor. I have not consumed anything at the circus… nor do I think you would be improper with your skills.”
“Correct, you have not inhaled anything,” the Doctor confirms, deciding that your features and body looked average, albeit the accelerated heart beat and the way your lips strained into a frown. “Then it is just you. Your human feelings.”
“Yes,” you agree with his words, but frown more at how he phrased it.
“Why me?” the Doctor asks, pressing a gloved hand to his chest. “You have confused me.”
“I like you…” you hesitate, then decide to just get it over with. You probably owed him an explanation. “You’re quiet. You only approach with care. You’ve helped me the most since I found myself at the circus.”
“Your reasoning has intrigued me,” the Doctor admits. “But you have also intrigued me. You and your red ticket. I can see why he has noticed you. You are careful with your actions, maybe not your words. I am fascinated by the patients who remain calm, who listen to me and trust my guidance even though you are scared and have a fear of needles. With your permission, I would like you to remain here for a little while longer. It is not so often that I get patients who intrigue me in the way you have.”
“You have my permission,” you tell him, meeting his cyan eyes. “I’ll stay.”
“You would not mind if I listened to your heart again?” he asks.
“Please, come closer,” you say, leaning further into the chair.
He nods and discards the stethoscope entirely. Instead, he calmly presses the side of his head against your breast, feeling you breathe and your heart beat. You watch his cyan eyes glance at you and then close, probably calculating something medical in his head. After another moment, he readjusts himself, pressing further into you and supporting himself with a large hand that settles gently on the nape of your neck.
“Your heart is faster than before,” he muses, then glances up at you. “You will not die, right?”
“I do not think so, no,” you glance back down at him, then smile.
“Your pupils, they are larger,” he remarks, then shifts slightly, tracing a sharp finger just below your eye.
“Oh,” you stare at him. “That’s normal too.”
“I should create notes,” he stares back at you, then begins to remove himself.
“Wait,” you say, then regret sounding so desperate. “Undo the restraints, please.”
He simply nods and carefully undoes the restraint on both of your hands. When he attempts to leave again, you grasp his wrist. He glances at you from over his shoulder, then turns and lowers himself onto you again. You support him this time, pressing a hand to the side of his beaked mask, the other over his broad shoulders.
“Create your notes later,” you whisper into the side of his neck. “Stay with me for now.”
“I can do that,” he agrees and grasps your wrist, over your pulse point. His free hand presses to the side of your face.
You shut your eyes and kiss the side of his beaked mask. He stirs, but says nothing and then holds you more firmly. His fingers brush over your pulse, your wrist so much smaller in his hand. He nuzzles your neck, then presses the side of his head against your breast again.
“Do not fix your romantic interests onto me all at once,” the Doctor says after a while, his tone slightly irritable. “I am not currently seeking a mate and will not be for a while. Even then—our biology will not permit the proper reproduction of a…”
When you say nothing, but your face grows warm and your eyes grow confused, but intrigued, he cuts himself off and strokes a piece of your hair. He really had forgotten that you were not one of his species. “Forgive me, my words escaped my mind.”
“It’s fine,” you accept his apology, though you’re confused by his comment on biology.
“Human biology fascinates me… your heart fascinates me,” he softly admits, then sighs. “Remember to make visits to your doctor, yes? That red one will seek you out—which I am not fond of. I do not like to share. In a perfect world I would keep you somewhere safe—away from his prying eyes. But this world is not perfect so we must do our best.”
“It may not be,” you quietly agree. “But I will try my best to remain as your patient.”
“If you do, maybe I can study you and we can form some kind of arrangement,” he suggests, but says nothing more. For a while he just holds you, taking in how your heart would beat against his body, how your anatomy was smaller than his, how a human woman had caused so much trouble in the circus—which he had now fallen for too.
He finally stands and then offers you his hand. “The circus will close eventually and I am certain that someone will be venturing after you.”
“You are right, Doctor,” you accept his hand.
He gently pulls you from the chair, then presses the edge of his mask… or his mouth against your wrist. He either kisses you or nuzzles your pulse for a prolonged moment, before letting go of you.
“Remember, make visits to your Doctor,” he repeats what he said to you the last time, but puts more of an emphasis on certain words in that heavy accent of his.
“I will remember to see my Doctor,” you reciprocate and smile at him over your shoulder, before you finally leave his cyan tent, knowing that you have made an alliance or something more with an individual in the circus and that you would come back for another medical appointment very soon.