We shall not sleep...

[who_never_would]

... The Doctor perches on one of the few couches sparsely populating the Nexus, chin propped on one hand, gazing out with a pensive expression on his face. A thin layer of dust coats the nearby surrounds, especially the worn upholstery of his seat. He's wearing a brown suit at the moment, though it looks like it's seen better days. There are

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[fobwatched]

It's not just the suit that looks like it's seen better days, and Harry arches an eyebrow, wandering over. It might occur to him to wonder why he just happened to be in the same place at the same time as the Doctor, why it feels so easy to go over and quirk a wry look at him. It might, but it doesn't.

'Well, I wouldn't call it home, but I am unquestionably here, at least.' His brow creases as he takes in the Nexus he's so newly arrived in. 'Doesn't look much like anybody's home, to be honest; could do with a hoovering.'

[who_never_would]

The Doctor encounters a rare occurrence where nothing in his mind will force its way out of his mouth, so he merely lays there, being a couch decoration with his jaw slightly slack, and his black eyes wide. He runs a hand through his hair - it's longer than the younger Doctor's by a noticeable bit, and looks like it hasn't seen a trim for awhile.

A few more attempts at speech are made, and the Doctor just sort of squeaks at the man standing in front of him. He at least has the good sense to not stare, and looks to the moats of just floating through the air instead. On a more metaphysical level, the Doctor listens, waiting for that familiar four-beat rhythm to come tapping at the back of his head, for it to latch on to the weakness one Master made long, long ago.

[fobwatched]

It's still there, that rhythm, thrumming away in the back of Harry's head. Right now it's scarcely noticeable, not even the faintest headache at the edges of his consciousness, but some days- oooh, some days it's so bad he can't get out of bed, where the drums are so loud it's a crippling pain he can hardly think over. Of course, in his little human mind, shut off from the rest of the world as such minds are, it might be difficult for the Doctor to pick it up without touch.

The Doctor's response to him is decidedly on the odd side, and after a few blinks of confusion, unsure why he should illicit such a reaction, Harry can't help the wry little chuckle, and his face twists into something dubious and amused.

'Expecting somebody else, were you?'

[who_never_would]

No more than a hairsbreadth and a blink later, the Doctor snaps out of whatever strange shock he was in. It's either Harry Saxon, or it's the Master, and there's really only one way to find out. A cloud of dust rises in protest from the couch as the Doctor departs it, his long, brown coat swirling around his ankles. Straightening himself into something more than a skinny pile of suit and bones, the Doctor rights himself, springing from the couch and offers Harry his hand. Stirring up the best of his bright grins, the Doctor meets the other man's eyes for a split second with his own, and proclaims "Why hello, there! I'm the Doctor, though... I think you probably know that, maybe. Dunno. Lots of people know me. You're Harold Saxon, right? The Prime Minister?" Hopeful smile

[fobwatched]

It's almost alarming, the sudden, rapid shift in mood, but Harry takes it in stride well enough, taking the Doctor's hand in a firm shake, his expression only slightly bemused. He doesn't, in fact, know the man. Or he doesn't think he does, anyway; there is, perhaps, some slight feeling of familiarity about him, but nothing Harry would even be able to name as such

[who_never_would]

The Doctor eyes Harry Saxon for a split instant, still smiling, and when he releases the other man's hand, he flops back onto the couch. Digging around in his coat, the Doctor pulls out a small, brown bag and rummages through it. Finally, he manages to produce what appears to be a red jelly baby, and extends it towards the ex-Prime Minister

[fobwatched]

He takes the jelly baby with a little laugh, biting it in half and savouring the little differences in texture, the starch on his tongue. He always has had a bit of a weakness for sweets. He's just swallowing the second half when the Doctor swings his long frame around, making room for Harry on the couch, and he gives the man a little nod.

'Ta.'

Settling himself, his brow furrows with a self-deprecating sort of twist as he considers the Doctor's words.

'You know,' he admits after a moment, 'It's the oddest thing, but I never can seem to remember why I wanted to run in the first place. Though I scarcely wanted to leave so soon, and certainly not under... the circumstances I did.'

Harry stops there; he'd rather not focus on that if he at all can, thanks very much.

[who_never_would]

The Doctor isn't so much into forcing things out of people these days, especially former-Prime-Ministers. He's had far too many of his own secrets pried out from his head by a man who looks too terribly like this one. A man who, for all intents and purposes is the man sitting in front of him. It's strange though, having a conversation with the Master - who, for all the Doctor can tell, has no idea who he is or what he was

[fobwatched]

Harry hasn't the faintest idea that when the Doctor talks about mass murder and genocide, he isn't just being flippant. He'd be horrified if he did, but as it is, he just cracks a wry sort of smirk in his direction. 'Anything's better than that, hmm?'

He did enjoy being in politics, though, at least what he can remember of it. People listening to him, hanging on his words- there's a certain something about that which he enjoys very much. But still, he's happy enough where he is; at least this way, he stays out of the tabloids. Mostly, at any rate.