BONKERS

“Oi! I’m not done with you yet, Paris!” A healer shouted from where she stood with half of her body in the doorway of the room that she and her patient had only just shared a second prior. “I haven’t even finished running your tests!” she added, her every word betraying the frustration that she felt towards the man whom she was shouting after.

“Combien de fois aurez-vous à exécuter ces tests?” Paris shouted over his shoulder in reply as he slid down the hallway, his sneakers working excellently as skates after the floors of St. Mungo’s had been polished. A pair of loose fitted jeans hung around his waist by a belt, but other than that article of clothing, and the worn Converse shoes that he had been permitted to sport during his routine, monthly check-up, he was dressed in only a hospital robe. The patterned sheet with sleeves fluttered about his shins as he moved quickly throughout the hallway, and put more distance between himself and the healer that he’d been assigned with each large sweep of his legs.

“The barmy ran off again!” Paris heard the healer shout to another, and grinned widely to himself before rounding a corner sharply.

Matt had been to St. Mungos to visit Khaat. He knew she would be happy to see him, but wow. She nearly strangled him with that hug. Even though she was pregnant she wouldn't miss work. He heard a healer shouting down a corridor and a man turn the corner. He grinned to himself and made after the man. "Excuse me!" he called, catching up with him. "I do believe you're on the run from a very imprtant someone." he said chuckling. "No, I'm not here to take you back. I hate tests, especially ones they run when you've lost your memory..or have felt the effects of drugs but anyway!" he laughed.

He looked at the man, he seemed familiar. But that was probably just in his head. He was in the standard hospital robe, with some odd shoes. Something Matt doubted he'd wear....ever. He was a handsome young man, he looked french. He probably was, hopefully he understood english. Otherwise he had just wasted precious breath. Thank God he knew a little bit of french.

The jig was up; as Paris skidded to a halt before the junction he was faced with, the sound of a pair of following feet met with his ears. He was being tailed, and for all he knew of his pursuer - which was, admittedly, nothing at all - he (the pair of feet were sneaker clad, rather than balanced atop towering heels, and thus Paris was able to deduce that he was being chased after by a man) could very well have been sent to collect Paris and return him to his room.

"Excuse me! He spoke with the voice of an authority figure. Surely, resistance was futile - or so he'd assumed; a mistake on his part. With an involuntary grin, much like every other amused facial expression he made, Paris recalled the joke that he associated with assumptions, momentarily forgetting of his impending doom.

Puns were his weakness - as were personal questions, and his inability to remain serious for any longer than a second. His delayed reaction to danger, too, was an issue. As was his longing for the opportunity to speak freely in his native tongue, and to be understood as he did so. Good food. Classical music. His thirst for thrill and for danger. His outspoken nature. Déjà vu. Insomnia. In fact, if Paris had made a list of every one of his traits that were to be considered a weakness, it may very well have continued on for miles.

Laughter. He'd forgotten to add laughter to the list - and was reminded of this truth when his own, personal hellhound caught up with him, and... began giggling. Paris examined the seemingly amused man before him with a quick, skilled flick of his eyes. Immediately he started turning over the information he'd been handed. Was the man a threat? Perhaps not. Age? He had to be in his twenties. Mood? He seemed rather lighthearted, but the ghost of his previous troubles could be seen just beneath his irises, if Paris looked closely enough. The sympathy that he'd expressed towards Paris for having undergone physical examination made it quite evident that he knew how dreadfully boring the process could be. And the suspicious way in which he'd mentioned memory loss and drug addictions lead Paris to believe that he'd been diagnosed with both in the past.

Perhaps the pair had something in common.

Despite the great number of accusations he'd made upon laying eyes on the man who'd followed him, Paris did not miss a beat before responding. "So, a game of 'tag' in a hospital appealed to you, then?" he asked jokingly. His words were followed by a rich laugh, one which echoed off of the surrounding walls and created a melody in the otherwise silent hall. "Bonjour," Paris offered politely.

Perry followed the stranger's eyes to his own sneakers, and understood at once that he was being judged on his choice of footwear. It was evident that the other man disapproved of Perry’s favorite pair of Converse. Paris tapped his toes together, as though to make it known that he’d noticed the man’s stare.

Or perhaps they didn’t have that much in common after all.