They drove through the night, and it was silent for a few hours. They kept to the back roads. Occasionally, he would drive in large circles; he reasoned that driving straight away would be too obvious, but in reality, he had no clue which way he should go, and Doc had no idea either. Sniper didn’t feel tired, and Doc informed him that it was normal, but his body certainly was feeling the entire gunfight now. Doc leaned his head against the cracked window, his lilac eyes dully watching the scenery. He was exhausted, yet he wasn’t tired enough to sleep. He felt wound up like a too-tight spring.

The sky started to lighten, and the gunman yawned. Doc yawned soon after and stretched. 

“5 am sky,” the yellow eyed man mused. 

“Hm?”

He checked his watch, a round face with a basic digital interface. It flashed a time: 5:14 am. Doc assumed it was displaying local time. He frowned, remembering the locker that held all his personal items back in the labs.

“Wait. You have a watch??” he asked, incredulously.

“I leave it in the glove compartment. Gets in the way when I’m on the job.” He yawned again and tapped it. The face went dark. His right hand stayed on the steering wheel, his left cradled his cheek as he propped his elbow against the driver’s side window.

Doc remembered his and pushed the sleeve of his bullet-ridden coat up. His watch was analogue, a simple white face with silver hands and roman numerals. It was also cracked, and wasn’t working. He sighed.

“Gonna need to pull off soon.” He was checking the scenery and decided that staying near the woods was better than taking chances on the freeway. “I think I can fill the tank once but after that, I’mma hafta scrounge for more.  In fact….” He pulled off the road, bumping over the shoulder, and angling into a copse of trees just off the side. “Let’s pull off a bit. I…kinda wanna change.”

The night’s events struck the Doctor again and he suppressed an inward shiver. The chase. The escape. The forest. The shootout. Assassin looming over him. The gush of blood from the gunman’s neck. His eyes snapped to the healed wound; the entire front of his shirt was covered in drying blood. Doc shook his head and refocused into watching Sniper put the camper in park and then watched him slide the curtained partition from the front seats to the back. 

He awkwardly stood at that border of the front seat and the living area. The gunman opened a drawer under the bedroll and rummaged around. He quickly unbuttoned the blood soaked shirt and tossed it in the nearby trashcan. Found a small plastic can of body wipes and pulled a few out. By this time, Doc had turned his head to the other wall, flushing slightly.

“Sorry for doing this in front of you,” he said, wiping himself down and scrubbing at his neck. He could see Doc in the reflection of the small mirror on the door of the wall cabinet. His neck was, as expected by now, healed completely. He ran his fingers along where he felt the cut and frowned. 

Doc busied himself with looking at anywhere except the other man. It’s not as if seeing anyone half naked was new for him, so he wasn’t exactly sure why he was embarrassed this time. 

“Here.” He looked up to see the plastic canister handed to him. He took it and curiously read the label. “They ain’t much but they help a bit. They got teatree oil in ‘im.” He gestured at the bedroll and then him. 

“Hmm??”

“At least sit down. I’m nearly done.” He scrubbed a little more in earnest and internally grumbled about refusing to renovate the interior to fit a small sink.

The Doctor sat and awkwardly held the plastic can in his hands. Reading and rereading the label until he heard the gunman sigh. He looked up, startled. He was now wearing a light yellow button-down; it had a buttoned, box-pleated pocket on each side of the chest. He started rolling the sleeves to his elbows and put his fingerless gloves back on. He had an orange handkerchief tied around his neck, which made Doc’s eyes fall onto it.

The glance made Sniper automatically put a hand to it. He opened his mouth, then thought otherwise and the hand nervously dropped to his side. Their eyes roved around the camper until they met again.

A silence ballooned between them before he coughed awkwardly and nodded at him. “Wanna…uh…change?” While his lab coat and shirt weren’t as bloody as Sniper’s were, they nonetheless bore evidence of the escape, namely blood at the neck from where he was stabbed, and the 4 bullet holes that cleanly had passed through to the back. The fact there wasn’t as much associated blood with the associated violence was a testament to Doc’s healing ability, but it only extended to his body and not to the clothing of course.

“I don’t…have any…” Doc hadn’t felt so foolish stating the obvious as he did at this moment. 

Bending back down to the drawer, privately thankful that he had something else to do besides stand there like a quiver with no arrows, Sniper rummaged and pulled out another shirt, cream colored with 2 smaller, jetted pockets on the front. He smiled sheepishly. 

“You’ll swim in’t, but it’s better’n sitting in bullet holes. Trust me on that part at least.”

Hesitantly, Doc shrugged off the old lab coat and folded it neatly on the bed. He started unbuttoning his shirt, his hands deftly guiding the buttons free. 2 were gone, and he figured he must have lost them when he had that impromptu surgery for the spare bullets. 

Sniper politely turned to give him a little privacy, but forgot to close the cabinet and caught sight of him undressing in the mirror. He slammed it shut with another small flush. It made Doc jump.

“S-sorry.”

Doc nodded and took a couple wipes to clean himself off. The scent of tea tree oil was nice, but unusual. When he finished cleaning himself, he shrugged the shirt on and started buttoning it closed.

“I’m finished,” he said softly. When the gunman turned back, Doc was standing to look at the length. It definitely was about 2 sizes too big, and he let out a small chuckle that made Doc look up curiously. 

“Yeah. You’re def swimming in that,” he said sheepishly. Doc rolled the sleeves neatly to his elbows and sat back down. “But feel better?”

Doc gave the shirt a once over and gingerly sniffed the collar that he left unbuttoned to the second button. It had the slight fragrance of detergent and maybe the faintest scent of tobacco. Sniper gave him a grimaced grin.

“Hey, I washed it. Like a month ago.”

Doc blushed in embarrassment again. “Sorry….”

He waved it off then scooped the last of the clothes into a pile in the corner on top of the gun locker. Doc’s hand automatically grasped his coat, and Sniper didn’t include it in the bundle. He peeked to look at the driver’s console and sighed.

“Might as well top off now.” It took a bit for Doc to realize he meant the gas tank.

He watched as Sniper fished out a gas can from between the fridge—which was now cool enough for Doc to have put his formula case in—and exited out the back. The hinges of the doors creaked. The white-haired man followed, hopping out the back as the gunman unscrewed the cap to the tank and started to fill the tank. Hands behind his back, clasped loosely, watching interestedly.

“Never seen a gas can before?” Sniper asked, amused.

“I have,” insisted Doc, an indignant timbre coloring his voice. “But you said we’ll need more later. How will we get any?? It’s too risky to show our faces at a station, I assume.”

“I’ll just borrow some.”

Incredulously, Doc blinked. “Was?? From whom?”

Sniper chuckled. He put the can down, then climbed back into the camper, rustled around in one of the overhead cabinets and pulled out a funnel and clear plastic tube. He returned, holding both objects proudly.

“What in the world is that for?”

“Syphoning.”

The poor Doctor looked out of his depth, and the gunman tried not to laugh as he demonstrated by placing the funnel on the open portable tank, and then put one end in the tank. He put one end to his mouth and started a suction until the gas started running back up the tube, into the gas can. He grinned as Doc gaped at the scene.

“It takes suction, you see—”

“I know the principle of syphoning, thank you, but you’re just…I mean, you can….” He put a hand to his head and shook it. “That’s…that’s got to be unlawful.”

“Sure is.” He halted his demonstration to put the gas back in. Watching Doc grapple with the entire situation was humorous, and he needed the laugh.

“Your skill set is staggering. And highly illegal, the more I learn about you.”

“Do you automatically associate every skill I have with it being illegal?” He laughed, and it was easy-going, almost melodic. 

“N-no!” The indignant tone was stronger, yet also out of depth. “But…it’s not as if I have much reference for…anything outside of the Mansion and the staff.”

He finished emptying the can into the tank, and started to screw the cap back on. He chuckled. “I can cook too, think that’s a skill only hitmen have that you don’t?”

Doc crossed his arms across his chest, his lips tightening into a pout. It was kind of cute, Sniper had to admit. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

He chuckled again and then sighed. “Sorry. My brand of humor’s a lil prickly sometimes, mate. Gonna hafta get used to that.”

Still pouting, the Doctor tossed his head slightly, his eyes shut. “If I must.” Then he gave him a sidelong glance. “I suppose a sharp humor is fun when you’re all alone, but not with other people.”

He supposed Doc was trying to jab him back, and it made him smile. He laughed and ruffled his white hair good-naturedly. “Atta boy, Doc. Now you’re getting it! You’re sheltered, Imma loner. We’re gonna get along like a house on fire.”

Doc’s face fell in a dubious frown. “What a hauntingly terrible metaphor.”