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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[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.

Without taking a breath, or really allowing Harry to reply without interrupting, he continues, "And um, I actually, ah, wasn't expecting anyone to be around, not so much actually, just sort of thought I'd pop in for a little, you know, peek around, check out the old place. What brings you 'round these parts? You know what they say about the Nexus though, right? No one comes here anymore, it's too crowded!"

[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.

He doesn't respond to the Doctor's sort-of answer to his question, but instead offers a slightly crooked, self-deprecating little smile. And if there's an edge of a grimace to it? Well, it's neatly enough hidden. 'Not Prime Minister anymore, you'll find. Bit behind the times, there, Doctor.'

As far as Harry can remember it, he decided to take a break from politics after suffering something of a nervous breakdown after the attempted double-assassination of himself and President Winters. It seems a perfectly logical reason, never mind the fact that Harry isn't particularly prone to nervous breakdowns, and certainly never mind the fact that he can never quite seem to remember why he ran for office in the first place.

After a little pause, the grin widens out into a proper smile. 'But it's a pleasure to meet you, I'm sure.'

And it is.

[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.

"I've been away for quite some time, actually, so uh, yes, rather behind the times. Terribly sorry to hear about the ex-part. Or not, if you'd wanted to leave in the first place. Never a job I'd want, running a country. Especially Britain. It's like the strangest, most peculiar things in the world all congregate there and then have a tea party on top of London. Care for a Jelly Baby?"

Without waiting for a response, the Doctor presses the sweet into Harry's hand and pulls out a pink one for himself, popping it into his mouth and chewing with a thoughtful expression.

Seeming to remember himself, the Doctor removes his feet from the couch and sweeps one pale, thin hand towards the opposite end.

"Oh, blimey, right, sorry. Have a seat, if you like."

[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.

"I dunno," the Doctor says, placing the bag of jelly babies in between them and sprawling off the couch, crossing his feet at the ankles. He lolls his head over to look at Harry, observing him. There's a slightly nervous edge to his smile - like the Doctor's been placed in a cage with a sleeping, deadly snake and has no way out. "I've never been really fond of politics. Never had the stomach for it, really. Mass murder, world annihilation, genocide, yeah, been there, done that, but politics? Hardly."

The Doctor pauses for a moment, and then smiles with a touch of sadness. "I don't think anyone blames you for leaving though. Whatever reasons you had. It's a rough job running a country or the better part of a planet. I certainly wouldn't want it."

[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.