dreamtofbeing | For doctor_of

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For doctor_of_time

It's raining.

Usually, the Doctor doesn't mind the rain so much. Granted, this is less by choice and more by necessity, since living in Cardiff and hating the rain would lead to a very miserable existence indeed. However, he's got used to it; has even learned to appreciate the soft, calming atmosphere of lying in bed and listening to the sound of raindrops pattering against the bedroom window.

Right now, though, he's not lying in bed. He's not even anywhere inside; he's on Roald Dahl Plass, having taken refuge from the rain under the pedestrians' walkway leading across it. He's leaning against the cold stone wall, one hand tucked protectively under his shoulder, the other holding a cigarette. His hair is wet, plastered across his forehead in strands, and his jacket has raindrops beading off of it. It's a very short walk from the tourist shop to the walkway, but the rain is heavy enough to have drenched him, anyway.

The Doctor is squinting out at the Bay, trying to make out anything beyond gray mist and vague shapes, and takes a drag from his cigarette. The Master's right, smoking is a stupid habit. Aside from being bad for your health as well as expensive, it also gets you rained on, while all the lucky non-smokers get to stay in the warm, dry safety of the Hub. Not for the first time this week, the Doctor decides that he should really try to quit.

He's just finishing his cigarette and deliberating whether he should brave the rain and run back inside, or go for another smoke and futilely hope for the rain to stop while he smokes it, when he hears a sound. It's very familiar, but it still startles him every time he hears it here in Cardiff.

He drops the cigarette butt and steps on it before he turns around and squints through the rain up the Plass, in the direction from where the distinct, vrooping, and entirely out-of-place sound is coming from. His phone buzzes in his pocket--a text message, undoubtedly from the Master, telling him that a TARDIS seems to be materializing on the Plass--but he ignores it, walking a few steps toward the sound and stopping at the edge of the walkway. He has no intention of letting himself be rained on any more. There's only one Doctor who ever comes here, and if the Doctor in black wants to talk to him, he can brave the rain himself.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

This is routine. Stop off in Cardiff, absorb a bit of energy, and blithely fly off again after the business of refueling is over and done with. He's done it before, and most likely, he'll do it again. It's going to take a bit longer than twenty seconds this time, but really, it shouldn't take too long. It's simple. It's routine.

There's no reason to suspect that anything is unusual here—there's also no reason to suspect that everything is normal. The Rift does that; the Doctor would normally notice unusual things, any blips on the radar, as it were, but Cardiff is really...one enormous blip. There's no help for it.

When his ship doesn't appear to be immediately refueled within two minutes' time, he's come to the conclusion that he's going to have to go out and do something amusing. He doesn't flinch at the idea of rain; really, he was growing impatient when everything failed to become sufficiently refueled after fifty-five-and-a-half seconds. Distractions are very important these days—invaluable, in fact. Any moment he had to stand around thinking about things was a moment too long. Had to keep moving ahead. Wouldn't do to stop long enough to look back; not that he ever quite did, most of the time, but the need to keep moving, acting, seeing, doing things was becoming less of a habit these days and more of an addiction. It was necessary.

And so, pulling his long coat from one of the coral struts, the Doctor steps outside the TARDIS. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he sort of hopes, guiltily, that he won't run into Jack.

((Right, I haven't worked out how he even got to a Cardiff that has h!Ten and h!Master living in it, or anything that's actually important, but I just wanted to GET THE BALL ROLLING. So here. Have a tag.))

The TARDIS finishes materializing, and then it just--sits there. The Doctor squints, tilts his head a little and watches the door, but it stubbornly stays closed. He shifts his weight, leaning forward onto the balls of his feet, and then lets himself fall back. Come on, Doctor. What are you waiting for?

There's nothing wrong with him. The Doctor knows that. The Doctor in black is resilient; comes with being a Time Lord. And if there were anything wrong, he wouldn't come here, of all places. Why would he? It's not like there's anything this Doctor could do; there's not really anything anyone could do, considering the Doctor in black is pretty much the very last of his species. Is pretty much the only one who ever existed of his species, considering he's a Time Lord/TARDIS symbiosis. No, if the Doctor in black were in trouble, he wouldn't come here.

But if he weren't in trouble, he would have come out of the TARDIS by now. The Doctor exhales a sharp, exasperated breath. Right. Rain it is. It's not like he isn't soaked already.

He's taken no more than two or three steps out from under the walkway, the rain immediately reminding him that there's soaked, and then there's drenched, and he was the former and now is the latter, when the doors of the TARDIS do open after all. Typical. The Doctor stops in his tracks, his lips pressing together in a thin, resigned huff--and then blinks in surprise when he sees the swish of a long brown coat.

The man who just exited the TARDIS is the exact mirror image of this Doctor--or well, not quite anymore, these days; there are a few more lines around this Doctor's mouth and eyes, and a few more scars marring his skin, from small, already fading papercuts to bigger ones that probably won't ever fade. But the Doctor remembers looking like that. More importantly, he remembers wearing those clothes. The brown suit and the coat and the Converse; he remembers them very well, even if he hasn't worn them in years.

Looks like the Doctor in black isn't wearing black anymore.

"Oi!" he calls out, staying where he is for now. "What's with the outfit?"

Within seconds of stepping outside into the gloomy weather—which, still, isn't much of a problem, but does prompt a rather sardonic thought about Cardiff being as lovely as ever—he's being hailed.

Which isn't unexpected, but that voice...doesn't sound like Jack. In fact, that voice makes him go quite rigid, head snapping in the direction of the sound. The Doctor blinks through the rain, standing stupidly in front of the TARDIS, and stares. Everything about Cardiff is more or less wrong, but this. This is something new. New and spectacularly wrong, because of course he isn't feeling that telltale itch that signals the presence of another Time Lord. He can attempt to guess at who this is, but even his initial guess doesn't make sense; the pieces aren't fitting together.

And his immediate response, the very first thought that enters his mind, is to stare at the man's clothes and call back, "My outfit? What's with my outfit?"

This is not the Doctor in black.

Of course he isn't, he's not wearing black. But it's also not the Doctor in black having changed into the usual outfit of the Doctor's tenth regeneration. The body language is different. The Doctor in black is always tense, always wound up, almost unsettlingly so. This Doctor--the body language is calmer. More guarded, less rash. This is a different alternate.

The Doctor has no idea how this is possible, but then, he lives on top of a tempospatial rift. He rarely gets hung up on the question of the likeliness of events. All he knows is that this is happening, this is another Doctor, another Time Lord, in Cardiff, and he's just alerted him of his existence.

"Never mind." He steps back. "My mistake."

It's not going to work, of course. The Doctor is going to come after him. But he can try. So he turns around and quickly walks off, back towards the pedestrians' walkway and the tourist shop entrance to the Hub.

He's leaving? He's leaving. This human with his face—he's probably human, anyway, since he's certainly not Time Lord, although the Doctor isn't completely discounting the possibility of this all being an elaborate ruse—somehow shows up, out of the blue, in front of his TARDIS, makes arguably disparaging remarks about his clothing, and then leaves. Right, then.

"No." He frowns, his entire face contorting in confusion. Then, a bit more indignantly, "No."

Not without an explanation. The Doctor starts off after him through the rain, pushing the wet spike of hair that was formerly his fringe out of his face and trying to work out how this can even be happening.

He's not going to run, not yet, but he'll do his best to calculate just how much faster he needs to walk in order to overtake him. Looks like he's going, roughly, in the direction of the Hub. Which may mean something; it may also mean nothing. But it's certainly interesting.

He wants to run. Because he can hear the Doctor's low words; he can hear him following him, and he just really does not want to talk to the man. The Doctor in black is an exception. He's different, he never went through any of what this Doctor went through. He has his own problems and history. There's never any comparing or admonishing or telling him that he should have handled things differently. Or maybe there is, but it's easier to brush off than it would be with an alternate who lived through the same or a similar time line as this Doctor did.

But he's not going to run away from himself. There are some lows he has no desire to sink to, and that's one of them. So when he's back under the walkway, he stops, leans against the wall next to the Roald Dahl plaque, and crosses his arms as he watches the other Doctor approach.

"You can never leave well enough alone, can you?"

It's not a very fair comment, but this is a Time Lord alternate. The Doctor isn't interested in being fair.

He slows down when he spots the other man standing against the wall, and closes the last distance at a more reasonable pace. His mood is shifting from feeling fairly shocked and prone to bouts of spluttering to something else. Something more serious.

Until he's given answers, this could be anything, this little encounter. A threat, a trick, a sign of the universe coming to an end, anything. Even a meta-crisis—the meta-crisis—although he still doesn't quite think so. The bottom line is, he hasn't a clue. He hasn't got any idea at all. And until he does, he's going to be on alert.

"Never," he agrees, coming to a stop a few feet away. The Doctor raises his chin, appraises this impossible mirror-image. "And, tell me, you would know that how, exactly?"

"Guess." Short, dry, his tone expressing a sort of bitter amusement. "Come on, Doctor, there aren't that many possibilities. I'm not--" He interrupts himself and narrows his eyes at the other Doctor. "Do you even know about him? You do, don't you. 'course you do."

He's talking about the metacrisis, of course. He knows this Doctor, he's been this Doctor, and he can see the additional lines on the Doctor's face, the guarded way he carries himself. This Doctor has already lost Donna. He must be from a different universe. Yet another universe in which the Doctor survives losing Donna unscathed. The human Doctor looks away, his crossed arms tightening, his shoulders pulling up a tiny fraction.

"You must've missed the TARDIS taking a wrong turn. It's Cardiff. It happens. This isn't your universe."

"No, you're not, are you." It's more of a rhetorical question, and it comes out as more of a mumble than something the Doctor actually intends for him to hear. He assumes that the remark was meant to refer to the metacrisis, yes, which answers that question.

It does, of course, inevitably bring up another one. Another potentially worrying one. If he isn't the meta-crisis, but knows of his existence, that leaves very few possibilities as to his actual identity. In a way, it leaves only one.

The simplicity of that statement almost strikes him as funny. It's Cardiff. It happens. Yes, it does indeed. One would think he'd have learned to pay closer attention to any in-flight anomalies by now when Cardiff is the destination.

The Doctor lets out a little breath he hadn't quite known he was holding. Another universe. Of course. Seems he can get to those only when he isn't actively trying. He ought to be worrying about how he's going to get back, but that, he decides, can wait.

"What universe might it be, then?" His tone is suddenly rather light. It's got to be; the alternative wouldn't be pleasant for anyone, and he can't have that. "Care to tell me what's happened to you, while you're at it?"

As pointed out earlier, living on top of the Rift teaches you not to put too much effort into trying to figure out why things are happening. They just do. Velociraptors in department stores, talking fish having a garden party in the Bay--Cardiff blames Torchwood, and Torchwood blames the Rift. It's fairly straightforward. Someone slipping into a neighboring universe while traveling in a TARDIS is certainly not the strangest thing the Rift has ever caused to happen.

And yes, the other Doctor had better figure out how to get back. This Doctor has no intention of sharing his city with a Time Lord alternate.

"Not really." He looks back at the other Doctor, his expression closed and challenging, his arms still crossed. "In fact, I'd greatly appreciate it if you could just pack it up and get out of here. If it's not too much of a bother."

He cocks an eyebrow at—this version of himself, presumably. That's who he'll be supposing it is, at least, unless proven otherwise. It's the only thing that fits this particular set of variables. Except for, well, the tiny little humanity issue. But he'll get to that.

"It's just a bit of a bother, actually, sorry." The Doctor's breezing past that response as if it doesn't affect him in the slightest. In reality, the attitude does strike him as unexpected and utterly off, given who it's coming from. But he's in an alternate universe. He's trying to modify his priorities here, focus on the big picture.

Unfortunately, he's never been the best at focusing on the big picture. Right now, nothing seems bigger or more intriguing than the human in front of him. "Because I think I'd like to find out what's happening here. Beginning with you." He shifts his weight from foot to foot, going for an air of part-laidback and part-challenging all at once. "I doubt I'll be leaving until I do. Surely you've realized that, if you know as much as you seem to."

The casualness of the Doctor's answer, the way he dismisses the human Doctor's request--or demand; it was really more of a demand, the Doctor has to admit--is making the human Doctor's irritation cool down to a cold, tense fury. His alternate has no right. No right to treat every universe as his personal playground, no right to pressure him into giving up information just so the other Doctor can satisfy his curiosity. He doesn't want to tell you, Doctor. Accept it and leave.

He pushes himself off the wall and steps closer to the other man, getting up in his personal space. The Time Lord will be able to see the anger in his eyes. He might also be able to see the anger covering for something else. Fear, maybe. Resentment, definitely. Jealousy? Possibly.

"Go home, Doctor. Go find someone young and easily impressed and ruin their lives by showing them what they can never have. But do it in your own universe. This one doesn't have a place for Time Lords anymore."

He's silent for a couple of moments, trying to decide whether he should add something more, trying to ignore the slight twinge of guilt his own words triggered--sure, what he's saying is true, but it's also hurtful, and the other Doctor hasn't really given him any immediate reason to be quite so hostile. Then he steps past the other man, his shoulder lightly brushing the Time Lord's, and heads off towards the Bay. He's not intending to go back to the Hub--in case the other Doctor follows him, he has no interest in leading him down into the Hub--but he's heading off to the left, towards the tourist information center and his own apartment building, which is located about a ten minutes' walk from here.

Just leave it, Doctor. Don't follow him. Please.

He can't accept that. There was very little chance of him ever simply accepting that and moving on, and that reply—that anger, that aggression, speaking like someone he doesn't know at all—is only making it worse. Now he has to know where that's coming from, what's happened to make you think this way.

And he's startled by the reply, too; there's no denying it. That was the sort of truth that the Doctor's been uncomfortably aware of, especially lately, but he would never quite put it in those words. He would, and has, admitted to unintentionally ruining people's lives, but not with that level of cynicism. And that's...very, very sad. That entire remark is more saddening than offensive, actually, and it wouldn't be if nearly anyone else had said it.

The Doctor pauses for a moment, standing in place and watching as the other man begins to walk away. No. He really can't do it. He's still curious, yes, but something about what just happened is making him care, in a different sort of way, about getting to the bottom of this. He rocks back on one heel, then pushes off and starts, quickly, after him again.

"Just wait." When he catches up, as he will in just a few seconds, he's going to impulsively make a grab for the other Doctor's arm as a means of stopping him.

The Doctor steps out from under the walkway, into the rain that hasn't let off yet. He hunches up his shoulders, ducks his head down and walks off, quickly, down towards the Bay and his apartment building. He's angry, yes, but he's also--scared. Scared that the other Doctor might follow him after all. Scared that he might make him talk about this. He doesn't want to explain. Doesn't want to be looked at the way he knows this Doctor will look at him if he tells him what happened. So he's going to make his get-away now, while he still has a chance.

The raindrops are noisy, splattering on the pavement and collecting in the gutter to small streams that gurgle down into the drains, so he doesn't hear the other Doctor hailing him, nor does he hear his steps as he catches up. The hand on his arm, fingers gripping his elbow and digging into his skin--it startles him. He doesn't think about what he does next, just spins around, jerks his arm out of the other Doctor's grip and gives the man a hard shove, both palms connecting with the Doctor's chest.

The Doctor didn't foresee that happening. He doesn't seem to be foreseeing a lot of things, today. So when he's, without any warning, shoved directly backwards, he stumbles. The traction isn't wonderful due to the continuous rain, and he almost loses his balance completely after tripping back several steps, only just preventing that by sticking out one hand to brace himself on the wall behind him.

He stays there for a moment, one hand against the wall, and stares at the other Doctor, his expression still quite dismayed. What was that for? The question is probably written rather clearly in his gaze; he really doesn't think anything he's done so far has warranted that. You've succeeded in startling him. Again. For a moment, that's all he's going to do - just stand and look.

The moment the jolt of the shove travels back along his arms to his body, the Doctor wishes he could take it back. He didn't mean to do that. He didn't mean to overreact like that. He reaches out for the other Doctor, reflexively, but his hand isn't even anywhere near the other man.

Luckily, the other Doctor manages to keep his footing without this Doctor's help. He stumbles back into the wall, rather roughly so, catches his balance--and then he stares. It's the wide-eyed, dismayed look that this Doctor knows, has seen on other alternates, far too many times. Shit. Shit shit shit. He's screwed this up.

He stares back for a couple of moments, answering the open dismay with some a bit more guarded distress of his own, and then exhales sharply, turning away for a moment and running a hand through his wet hair, slicking it back and then gripping a fistful of it at the back of his head before he looks back at his alternate.

"You startled me."

It's . . . almost an apology.

The Doctor pushes away from the wall and straightens up, regarding the other man and the way he tangles his hand in his hair in a gesture that's oddly familiar. It's the only thing that's seemed overtly familiar so far, really.

For the instant that he speaks, he seems a bit less hostile, the other Doctor. And so he smoothes over his dismayed expression with something that he hopes is more calm. "I can see that," he says, after a moment. "Sorry. Wasn't my intention."

He takes a tentative step forward, but no more. Will he make another run for it if he dares to speak again? It feels almost like an attempt to approach a frightened deer, which is...stupid, really, because even though there might be a tiny hint of fear there, it isn't the main emotion the Doctor has been picking up on.

"It's just.... I'd really like to talk with you. Just for a moment." He pauses, uncomfortably; there's water dripping from the hem of his coat, he notices then, from where it dragged the ground moments earlier when he stumbled. Went right through a puddle, apparently, and it's really quite heavy with the weight of the water. He may have even stepped on it. The Doctor glances down, pulling a face at the sight of it, interrupting what was supposed to be a carefully-worded entreaty.

Well, the shoving seems to have done one thing; it seems it have got it through to his alternate that the Doctor really does mean it when he says he doesn't want to talk to him. This repeated request now is a lot less arrogant and presumptuous than the previous ones were--if those could even be called requests. Of course, that also makes it a lot harder to turn down.

The Doctor is distracted from replying, though, as the Time Lord glances down and grimaces at the state of his coat. Which is, admittedly, rather--wet. Stumbling through puddles does that. The Doctor presses his lips together in a brief, resigned expression before he looks back up.

"Yeah. All right. Give me a sec."

He leaves his alternate to battle with his coat and takes a few steps to one side, out of earshot, digging his phone from his pocket. He isn't going to take the other Doctor down into the Hub--the Master's in the Hub, and that's an encounter the Doctor would like to avoid for as long as he can--and he's not going to have this conversation in one of the cafés in Mermaid Quay. Which really leaves only the flat. Not ideal, but better than getting soaked out here.

He hits the speed dial button for the Master's mobile. It's picked up after barely one ring. Explaining the situation doesn't take too long--the Master isn't happy, but he has as little interest in meeting the Time Lord as the Doctor has in introducing the two--so he eventually acquiesces. Fine, take him to the flat, explain the situation, send him on his way. Do not leave with him. No, says the Doctor. Of course he won't.

Then he pockets the phone and returns to where his alternate is waiting.

"I live just over there." He points, indicating an apartment building looming at a short distance. "It's--you know. My flat. It's dry, at least."

He's about to look up from the mess he's made of his coat—and to add more to the request—when his alternate actually agrees. Oh. Well, then. The Doctor still hadn't been at all sure that he would, even now.

He limits his answer to a nod and waits while the other Doctor steps aside for a minute or so. Focusing on the coat—it's a deliberate effort, as he wonders who's on the other end of that phone call, but it would be a colossal mistake to pry at such a critical moment, he knows—he grips a handful of it and gives it a bit of a shake, hoping to rid it of some excess water. It doesn't do much good.

When the other man walks back over to him and points into the distance, he turns his head, squints. And then turns abruptly around to face him again.

"Your flat." The Doctor's looking at him the way most people look at him when he tells them he has a flying time machine. "Right. Good," he adds hurriedly, hoping the look wasn't obvious. It probably was. "Dry is...good. Lead on, then."

The look was obvious, but the Doctor doesn't pay it any attention. Not any more than a dry twitch of his eyebrows, anyway. Yes, he has a flat. He's human. Most humans have a flat.

He doesn't point that out to the other Doctor, though. Instead, he merely nods, buries his hands deep in his jeans pockets and sets off towards his apartment building. He's walking a few steps ahead of the other Doctor, at a fairly quick pace. He's trying to make it look like he's intent on getting out of the rain as quickly as possible. Which he is. He's also intent on not giving the other Doctor a chance to speak to him while they walk, though.

The flat is a ten-minute walk from the Plass at a leisurely pace. Today, it takes just a little bit over five minutes. The building is tall and modern-looking, with a glass-fronted staircase and shiny chrome banisters on the balconies stacking eight floors up. The Doctor finds his keys in his jacket pocket as he walks up to the entrance and unlocks the door--modern-looking building or not, the lock sticks a little, and he gives the door handle a well-practiced jerk to make the key turn properly. There's a row of mailboxes on the left--the one labeled J. Smith/H. Brown is at the far end, so even if the other Doctor takes a moment to read the names, he might not spot it--as well as a lift. The Doctor takes the stairs to the right, though. It's only one flight, and he has no interest in standing in a cramped lift next to his alternate.

The doorbell next to the apartment door doesn't have a name tag. For once, the Doctor is glad it doesn't. He wipes his shoes on the doormat, then gives it up as a bad job--he's soaked, anyway--and opens the apartment door, gesturing for his alternate to please enter. He follows, closing the door behind himself before he gives his head a good shake, sending raindrops flying. He feels like he just got dragged out of the Bay.

If the other Doctor is taking a look around, he'll find himself in a lounge area. It's very open, with a living room area to one side, a dinner table to the other, and an open kitchen in the background. There are two doors leading off to other rooms. It's furnished in a clean, modern style, and is all fairly neat; definitely much more so than any area of the TARDIS ever was. It still manages to be homely, though, with an assortment of warm, colorful paintings on the walls and even a couple of framed photographs sitting on one of the shelves in the back of the room.

The Doctor's not paying any attention to any of this, though. He's peeling out of his jacket with a grimace, and then holds out a hand, offering to take the other Doctor's coat. You're not wearing that all over his flat and dripping on everything, thanks.

Once they've entered the building, he doesn't spot that particular set of names, no. He does eye the mailboxes, but his chief concern is the fact that they're here at all. Well, not that they're here, but the fact that the other Doctor is here, lives here, and therefore has a mailbox. A proper mailbox. With mail. Bills and notices and those letters about being pre-approved for credit cards. And yes, he's aware that most humans have mailboxes, but his alternate isn't most humans.

He's led up a flight of a stairs rather than the lift, and that's a mercy, as he isn't eager to be stuck in one, either, avoiding eye contact and staring silently up at the numbers as they go by, as humans always tend to do. Stairs are much preferred to that.

The flat itself isn't much less surreal than the mailboxes. It's outrageously neat—almost too neat to imagine any version of himself living in. First and foremost, it's very human. It's a nice, above-average human flat. So what are you doing here, Doctor? How could this have ever possibly happened?

After a few seconds, the Doctor notices the outstretched hand. Oh. Yes. He's dripping all over the threshold, isn't he? He shucks off his coat and unceremoniously hands the wet mess over. By now he's already taken a step towards the living room, craning his neck to better have a look inside. It's safe to say that he's never been so morbidly fascinated by a flat in his life, all nine hundred-plus years of it.

The silence is starting to become just a tiny bit awkward, but the Doctor has no intention of starting a conversation now--because the only one he could start would be about the issue that has the other Doctor staring saucers at his flat, and this Doctor would prefer having a mug of tea to hold on to while he's having that particular conversation. A mug of tea, or possibly a glass of something a bit stronger. They'll see.

He takes the other Doctor's coat with a slight grimace--seriously, Doctor, you didn't even fall over; exactly how did you manage to get the coat quite this wet?--and then hesitates for a couple of moments, standing there with his jacket and the Doctor's coat in his hands. No matter where he puts them, they'll drip on the floor or the carpet or the furniture and make a mess. Which wouldn't bother him so much, but he knows it would bother the Master, and he has a feeling that he won't be in the mood for that particular argument tonight.

"I'll just put these in the bathroom." He tips his chin at the wet jacket and coat. "And change."

He looks the other Doctor up and down and briefly considers offering him a dry change of clothes as well, but then discards the idea. One, he doesn't think the Time Lord would want to change, and two, the coat seems to have caught most of the rain. He quickly kicks off his shoes and heads across the room towards the door that leads to the bedroom and the adjoining bathroom.

"Feel free to have a look around." Dry. You will, anyway; he might as well give you permission. "You can leave your shoes by the door. I'll be right back."

And with that, he nudges the bedroom door shut behind himself, glad to be out from under the other Doctor's wide-eyed, questioning looks at least for a couple of minutes.

He's more or less off like a shot when the other Doctor gives him leave to look around. But not without first saying "Thanks," very brightly. Too brightly. He's itching to start poking and prodding things; it's something to loose his pent-up energy on, and besides, this is his chance to perhaps find out what his own life would be like, were he human.

And also not without first pulling off his trainers—which are indeed soaked through—and leaving them by the door, as requested. Normally, the Doctor might say something about that, about traipsing around barefoot in someone's flat, but he's almost beyond that sort of remark at the moment. He needs to start sussing this place out.

There's the click of the bedroom door closing, and the Doctor starts picking things up, as if on cue. There are papers stacked on various surfaces, peppered with the word Torchwood; he'd worked out that his alternate must be involved with them in some way, given that they're in Cardiff, assuming that this universe actually had its own version of the organization. (Which it clearly does.) He resists the urge to read them—maybe later—and moves through the living room, peering at decorative things to see if they're all native to this planet (not all of them are), at empty mugs (the insides are stained with coffee, oddly enough, as opposed to the tealeaves he'd expected), at what appears to be a well-loved pack of cigarettes (what are you doing with those, Doctor?).

He pauses and holds an artifact up to the light, one that could pass for a small sculpture made up of glass and computer chips—no chance of that being from Earth. Must've got hold of that courtesy of the Rift, the other Doctor, if he hasn't got a TARDIS. Which is something else he'll have to remember to ask about.

Halfway through reading the spines of a row of books, the Doctor stops, turning his attention towards the other end of this shelf. There are framed photographs there, one or two of them, angled away from him so that he can't quite make them out yet. He rarely bothers with photographs, himself; they're such a linear way of marking the time and important events, and he's got a good enough memory to not really need them, but he's interested in these. What's his alternate chosen to remember?

He takes a step to the right, bringing them into view so that he can actually look—and oh, he looks. He then takes a very abrupt step back, away from the shelf.

All right, he can—he can deal with this. 'Course he can. He can ignore the inappropriate pang of shock and relief that he's alive and, wait, hang on, does he live here? He can ignore those reactions because, well, this is a stranger. This isn't anyone he knows. Alternate universe, alternate timelines. It's standard. It's expected. It's fine. He's fine. He'll manage to stop digging his fingers into his wet hair and scalp, and to breathe normally, too, before the other Doctor opens the door again.

The Doctor does take a bit longer than just a couple of moments. The bedroom door closes behind him, and he makes a beeline for the bathroom, dumping the coat and the jacket over the side of the bathtub. And then he just stands there for a couple of moments, looking down at the coat. He used to have one of these. A long time ago; almost ten years now. He remembers it well, though, all the things he kept in the various pockets: psychic paper in the right pocket, TARDIS keys in the left, screwdriver--

He picks the coat up and finds the inside pocket with his free hand, hesitating for a brief moment before he reaches inside.

There's too much space in this pocket. Transdimensional, of course, he remembers it, but he hasn't felt it in a long while. It feels decidedly odd. He moves his fingers around, searchingly--but he doesn't have to search for long to find what he's looking for. His hand closes around cool metal, and he removes the object from the pocket before he drops the coat back over the edge of the bathtub.

It's the sonic screwdriver, of course. A familiar weight in his hand, just the right size. Ten years, but it doesn't feel like it's been that long. Not right now. He turns it in his hand, spinning it around and causing it to make that familiar metallic rattling sound.

He could keep it. Steal it. A sonic device would be extremely handy to have, and it's not like the other Doctor doesn't keep a whole supply of those in the TARDIS.

In a sudden, quick movement, he turns around and points the screwdriver at the glass holding his and the Master's toothbrushes. There's the also eerily familiar, high-pitched whining noise as he presses the button--and immediately, the glass starts to bubble and melt, reducing to a gooey mess on the side of the sink within a matter of seconds. The toothbrushes tip to the side, one of them landing in the sticky glass puddle, the other one slipping off the sink and clattering to the floor. Both of them are entirely whole and unharmed.

"Right," he mutters, straightening up and tightening his grip around the screwdriver. He stares at the mess he made for another couple of moments; then quickly picks up the coat again and puts the screwdriver back into the pocket he took it from.

He doesn't inspect the other pockets. Instead, he returns to the bedroom and quickly peels out of his wet clothes, changing into a pair of dry jeans and a t-shirt. He briefly considers wearing a button-down shirt--the other Doctor looks so proper in his suit and tie--but then dismisses the idea. It's his flat. If he wants to wear a t-shirt and go barefoot, he can.

Soon enough, he's dressed and ready to go back into the living room. He puts his hand on the doorknob and pauses for a moment, steeling himself. Just go out there and get it over with. Cover the mere basics, just enough to satisfy his alternate's morbid curiosity. The quicker he starts this conversation, the quicker he'll be able to send the other Doctor on his way.

The moment he steps through the door, though, he realizes it won't be that easy. The other Doctor is standing next to the bookshelves in the living room area, his hands in his hair. If his eyes were wide earlier, they're positively huge now. The Doctor's eyes drop to the shelf--and the two framed photographs. Shit. He forgot those were there.

After a moment's silence, he simply pulls the bedroom door shut behind him and crosses the room to go into the kitchen. He opens one of the cupboards and scans its contents; then reaches for two tumbler glasses on the top shelf.

"You want a drink?"

Because he's definitely going to need one.

If the Doctor thinks about this long enough, he'll realize that he doesn't sense any Time Lords, full stop. None at all. Which means that those two—they must both be human, then. What's happened here? What has he gotten himself into?

Well, he was looking for a distraction before he landed in Cardiff, wasn't he? It looks like he's succeeded in finding one. It would be churlish to complain about it now.

He turns on his heel—which isn't pleasant to do when one is barefoot and on a carpeted surface—when he hears the other Doctor pull the door shut, and drops his hands to his sides. He doubts he was quick enough to forestall any suspicion; he can't really hide what he was looking at, but he falls to pretending to stare at a book that's been left out, just for the sake of appearances, as the other man walks to the kitchen.

The question doesn't get much deliberation before the Doctor replies. "Yeah." That came out a bit quick. He glances, briefly, in the direction of the kitchen. "I think I do."

Recovering from that little discovery has uncharacteristically reduced him to monosyllables, and he knows this. Working within these constraints, he glances back in that direction, clears his throat, and tries for a casual, "Nice flat. By the way."

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If this is too quick, let me know and I'll edit.

Nope, it's perfect.

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