or_timelords | This could prove to be interesting.

[The bit about other people waking up in your bed is actually a Rather Good Point. He frowns and rubs the back of his head as he considers that.] Well, macro-level physics holds, it's just...partial. It plays by the house rules, to each his own. My TARDIS, my physics. Except for you, you're your own physics, but that doesn't cancel out my physics, so no paradox, it's all a bit...

[Oh, hey, his other's leaving. Something about clothes. Well, speaking of which, he's still standing about in just his trousers. He snatches his jumper and jacket from the ichthyosaurus and pulls them on as he heads out after his other, still barefoot.]

Wardrobe's that way. [Not the way his other's going, where's he heading?]

[Left, right, left, down those stairs, and this is exactly like his TARDIS, except that the mental connection is missing, and that's just another weird, unsettling thing on a weird, unsettling morning. He brushes his fingers against the wall and feels - well, not nothing, there's a tingle, but it's not his TARDIS. Being in this familiar space and not feeling her, that's just not how it should be.]

[The other - his other, he supposes, but whatever - is following him, and he's saying something about the - oh right, the wardrobe. There should be something to wear in the wardrobe. It's a rather extensive wardrobe, after all.]

[He turns around, and there's another little detail that makes this experience just another touch creepier; the other Time Lord is dressed exactly like his Ninth. Well. That means the brown suit should still be in the wardrobe. Or at least a duplicate of it.]

Right! Wardrobe. This way, right?

You'd know as well as me. [He grins at his other, reflexively, but the expression dies quickly. This could all be a lark, a new problem to solve—with himself, of all people—and the last time he worked with himself, together they'd saved a life that had been nothing but dust and memory—but something's wrong. His other—it's not panic, but it's like he's trying to run by everything around him so fast he won't see it through the blur. The Doctor knows running, knows why they do it. There's something here his other doesn't want to stop and think about.]

[It started the moment his other saw him.]

Yeah, that way. Second left after the calender room, three doors down, past the armor—[OI, that won't help]—armoire. The armoire room. Past that.

[If his other heads off in that direction, he'll follow, but at a distance. To see if that makes a difference.]

Past that, yes that's right, molto - armoire room? I don't have an armoire room.

[But then, he doesn't have a leather jacket like that. Or the sound of drums in his head.]

[He doesn't wait for an answer but walks off towards the wardrobe. Calender room, yes, he's got one too, three doors that to his knowledge lead to a dining room (rather old-fashioned and British, complete with sinister chandeliers), a storage room with all kinds of knick-knacks, and a graveyard (he's been meaning to move it for ages, but for some reason, he never gets around to it), and there's the last room the other spoke of; the armoire room.]

[The Doctor stops and looks around. He can't see the other Time Lord; maybe he didn't follow him. He hadn't realized how nervous that guy had been making him until now, when there's sudden relief at the absence of the steady drumming echo at the edge of his mind. The curiosity's stronger now. Who is that man? And if he's the same but not, then what does the 'but not' part entail?]

[This room is a room he doesn't have on his own TARDIS. It's different. It might be worth taking a look. The Doctor steps up to the door; let's see if it's locked.]

[Well, it is; but the lock's isomorphic, so it responds to the other Doctor's touch after only a moment's hesitation. The TARDIS knows something's wrong—but the DNA's a match, a closer match then even her own Doctor's now (these days, his own's a touch off, contaminated by pieces of her she let slip into him, when she remade him), so what can she do?]

[The Doctor in black turns the corner just as the door's sliding back.]

Oi, no! Don't touch that!

[And he starts running down the hallway, which won't help, because there's no way he can get there to close it in time and running really lets the cat out of the bag, but he has to try anyway.]

[The door, meanwhile, will be opening on a small room—a glorified walk-in closet, really, it's nothing compared to some of the TARDIS' rooms. Hooks and straps and magnetic clamps cover three of its walls—all securing guns, from a wide range of times and places, some of them nothing a 21st-century human would even recognize as a weapon. They have one thing in common—none of them are light arms. They're designed for going up against armored opponents; a few could even take out tanks or small spacecraft. A worktable stands against the fourth wall, with tools hanging on a retro 21st-century pegboard above it.]

[Oh, the guns have something else in common.]

[They're perfectly maintained. Not as display pieces, but for use. Which, judging by the lack of dust and tell-tale wear, many of them have seen. Some of them quite recently.]

[The shout from the other Doctor startles him, and he's starting to turn when the door slides back completely. His head snaps back, and he stares.]

[Those are not armoires.]

[He takes a slow step into the room and lets his eyes wander across the walls. Guns. Guns mounted to the walls of the TARDIS, guns of every shape and kind, as long as it's a shape and kind that will wreak destruction on a grand scale. He recognizes most of them, but there are some that even he can't place. It's an armory. An armory on the TARDIS.]

[Something turns inside of him, and there's anger. Guns, war, destruction, they make him so angry. He turns around, and there he is, the other man, standing in the doorway. And the echo is back at the edge of the Doctor's mind, a steady beat, and it only makes him angrier. His jaw is set, and the expression in his eyes is hard.]

Why are you keeping guns on the TARDIS, Doctor?

[Ever since he arrived in the multiverse and discovered how very different his life has been, his choices, from the lives and choices of his others, he's known that there were parts of himself he could never show them. Just as there are parts of themselves the other Doctors hide away from their companions, their friends. The mistakes, the destruction, the hurt. Those pieces of the self that cut and wear, that might make others shun them.]

[Two other Doctors know about the choice he made on the Game Station. None of them know about the armory.]

[He stands in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame. The other Doctor's anger is terrible and fascinating—because it's his anger, an anger he's felt and used and been driven by but never seen. It looks the way it feels, even when it's coming from a version of him in pajamas. Hard. Distant yet precisely, needle-sharp present. Certain.]

[He's fairly certain he's looked like that when he's killed.]

Because they're necessary. Because the Daleks survived the War. Doctor.

[His tone isn't defensive or angry. It's a statement of fact, tinged with slight challenge. It's tempting to be defensive, but why? This is him, as much as the outrage in his other's face is his other's. This is what he and his universe have made of each other.]

[Oh, this Doctor isn't the Master. The Master enjoys guns and death and war, he pursues them out of pleasure. This Doctor is worse. This Doctor thinks they are necessary.]

Guns, [the Doctor makes a gesture at the room,] guns are never a necessity. They are always a mistake. Using a gun makes you as bad as the one you're firing it at.

[His voice isn't raised, but every word is perfectly enunciated, and his jaw is tight. He takes a step closer towards the other Doctor.]

If you had learned anything in the War, that would have been it.

[He doesn't back down, his own eyes as dark and old and challenging as the other Doctor's, anger held back but ready to snap forward at any moment. A constant anger, perhaps unlike his other's. An anger that never leaves, never since the War. Never since the drums.]

Well, I'll tell you what I've learned when the War's over. Properly over, that is.

[He tips his head, from where he's now leaning against the doorway, indicating the hallway.]

C'mon, you'll want your suit and that coat.

[And he wants to get him out of here before he lets himself get angry or defensive, too.]

[Oh, and he knows that tune. It was his own for quite a while; 'won't rest or sleep till every last Dalek in the universe is dead'. It makes the anger recede somewhat. He knows the feeling that comes with this motto, remembers the constant hate that's always there, sometimes sleeping, but never gone entirely. It's the old cliché of the weight that you don't know to be there until someone takes it away. It's still resting on this Doctor's shoulders.]

[He swallows, partly because his mouth is dry, partly because it helps getting control of the anger, and ignores the other Doctor's attempt at deflection.]

The War is over, Doctor. Everybody died, and there's nothing left, but it is over.

[This Doctor knows the weight's there. It reminds him, every moment of every day, tapping on his shoulder—1-2-3-4. Once in a very great while, it quiets, or he almost forgets—and in those moments, he can feel the man he's supposed to be, the man standing in front of him now, his Tenth, free of his Ninth, free(r) of the War.]

[He rubs at one eye, his version of something like a sigh. He hadn't wanted to get into this, but he can never seem to avoid it. Right now, they're talking at cross-purposes, and that won't change unless he explains.]

You're right. Everybody died. [He doesn't want to do this, he doesn't want to think about this again, it brings it up fresh every time, but...]

[He pushes off from the doorframe and stands straight.] Let me show you something. [And he raises his hands, reaching for the other Time Lord's temples, but not touching, not yet. He's waiting for permission.]

[There's weariness in the other Doctor's demeanor, as if he's heard all of this before, as if he's tired of repeating himself. But he'll have to, one more time, because something has made this other Doctor different from him, and the Doctor needs to know.]

[He needs to know what saved himself from becoming the man standing before him.]

[When the other man reaches out, his fingers spread out in the traditional gesture, asking for permission to create a connection, the Doctor tenses at first. So close to the other Doctor he can hear the drums; it's more than an echo now. He's got the drums, he's got guns; this other Doctor is a warrior, and the Doctor doesn't trust warriors.]

[He'll have to, though. If he wants to know, he will have to trust this other version of himself. He drops all his mental shielding and sends out an invitation, his eyes sliding shut almost on their own.]

//Show me.//

[Alright. A deep breath, as he closes his own eyes and puts his hands on his other self's temples, and then he opens contact. If he could, he would muffle the drums; but they're beyond his control, and in telepathic rapport like this, unavoidable—as much a part of him as the memories he shares.]

[He lets his own shields down fully, too; if the other Doctor pries too closely into sensitive areas, he may pull back, try to shield, but for the moment, he'll let him see whatever he needs to, to understand the differences between them.

There's the Time War, the end of it, that choice and that burden, a common point between them, as is much of the history that goes before. Beyond that...everything starts to come apart.

No companions, for years following the Time War. Loneliness and anger and remembering the man he was, before the war, and searching for that man, across all of time and space. A restlessness, a scratching pressure at the back of his mind, that wasn't the drums yet but that would grow into them. No rest, no peace, no reasons, and no explanations. The last Dalek, and destroying it, and still finding no peace, though that may have been the first day of the drums. He can't remember; he isn't certain. They crept up, somehow, until they were a part of him and it's hard to know when they purred up from silence to thunder.

The Game Station. Jack, but no Rose. A choice. The same choice. Again.

And he chose killer.

Waking up after, as a new man. The rush of that, because, really, his Tenth is all about the rush, the wonder, the brilliant run from sight to sight, experience to experience, and, in the post-regenerative haze, in those first few moments, he hadn't had the memories to mar that outlook.

Coming awake properly, and wandering the station. No bodies, only gray dust; and he couldn't remember who he was or what had happened. The Earth below, gray clouds like duststorms continents wide and no green anywhere, and he'd known that wasn't right. Daleks, unmoving, dust pouring out through their casings, and that had stirred memories.

He hadn't wanted them back.

There was no point in changing his clothing, the way he usually did on regeneration. He was the same man. He had made the same choice. The new personality fought this, but he knew he was right. The personality was wrong. It hurt him. It wanted to reach out, to show off, to laugh and run and share the brilliant universe with friends. With humanity. It wanted to be close. It wanted to forgive.

More running, and discovering that some of the Daleks had still survived. Hunting them, always. Killing them without mercy and with cold-hot satisfaction.

Becoming the hunted, when the Family of Blood caught his scent. Using the Chameleon Arch to escape, leaving his human half back in the 20th century (and John Smith still lives, still human, still separate, a man who chose to go to the Great War, a shame) and the watch, himself, his Time Lord self, in the TARDIS.

Centuries of imprisonment. Until the TARDIS pulled him out of the watch and remade him, gave him the body he wears now, his Tenth recreated, right down to the Gallifreyan mark of exile on his arm. Gave him a second chance.

Resentment and gratitude and surprise and...something like humility. He hadn't even thought...Had never expected her to save him.

A new depth of connection with her, another change to get used to, another shift of self.

Like the drums. Which were constant now, loud and always and driving.

More hunting, and more exploring, and more anger, until...here.

The multiverse.

Learning how life had gone, for his others, in their universes. Learning what the drums meant to them. Gaining the first companion he's had since the War, Astrid, saved from her stardust existence by himself and one of his other's.

She's not even from his universe; he never met her, when she lived. Never saved the Titanic and failed to save her. She's stolen, and he doesn't understand their relationship, it's moving too fast, there's something wrong with it, but it's something. Perhaps it's a start.]

[There's more. Memories of hunts and of agreements struck with the remnants of a sentient star, light in his eyes and his own voice inviting others to burn with him and the screaming of Daleks as they steam to death in their metal carapaces. Errors made, and casualties. The few times he's let others die because it was for the greater good, and there was no way to save them and keep the exterminators from escaping, as well. The drums, everywhere. Long hours in his laboratories, the medical bay, trying to explain them away. No luck. Days spent in the rebuilt Zero Room and still no silence. Wondering if he's more a new man than he's ever been, and if there's any way to find his way back.]

[...He'll ask, if he can, to look into his other's mind. A mental question. He wants to see if there's anything, anything at all, of the man he is now in his other. If the drums are there, even the slightest echo of them, in any moment.

He won't admit it to himself, but he also just wants to see. The good memories. The Earth still whole, and the friends. Things going right and wrong, but right more often than wrong.]

[He can feel the other Doctor's fingertips on his temples, hot where they make contact with the telepathic connection points, and then all sensation ceases when the sound of drums fills his head.]

[They're loud, and they're insistent, and they send him reeling for a moment until he can see past them at the man behind the drums. He's open, inviting him into his mind as he himself is inviting the other man. And he doesn't waste any time.

The Time War, and the choice that ended it. It's there suddenly, all the horror and the hate and the guilt of that moment, and it takes the Doctor's breath away. But the other is moving on, almost brushing it off like it's nothing, like it's only the first horror of many. He is going down a different path than the one the Doctor took himself, and for a short moment, the Doctor wonders if following him isn't madness. He's here, though, and there's no going back, so follow him he does.

Down that path lies loneliness. The Doctor has known loneliness, but never this strong, never this insistent. It's a chosen loneliness becoming a forced one, getting more necessary and irreversible with every hour that passes. Oh, he remembers this, he remembers being here, but he also remembers that it stopped when an average human girl had, maybe out of understanding or maybe out of ignorance, broken down the walls and made him feel again.

Not so for this Doctor. There's hate, there's loneliness, and there's the War, the War that never ends, the War that goes on and on in his head and his heart, poisoning him from the inside. When he kills the Dalek, the Doctor is not at all surprised; he himself nearly would have, if not for the innocence of a young, human mind to stop him. Instead of the warmth of a connection to another, this Doctor finds the drums.

Earth. The hurt of the loss is physical, it tears his hearts out. The other's ability to feel had been dulled at that point; it had hurt him, but the strong, solid walls that hadn't been chipped away at and eventually broken down protect the innermost part of himself. At what price, though. He's reborn, and there's a moment of ignorance, a moment of clarity and newness, before the past weighs down and drags him back to his old self. It makes the Doctor want to scream; this is wrong, so wrong, this is not how it's supposed to be. But he's an observer of things long past, and there is nothing he can do.

Hunting, always killing, because this is what they are now. The drums beating a steady beat in their head as they roam the universe, seeking, destroying, moving on. Every death they bring feels like another piece of his soul taken away, and when the Family of Blood picks up their scent, it's almost a relief. Running, running is better that killing, less deadening. But no matter how fast and how far they run, war still finds them, finds their human half, overshadows his life, claims its tribute.

They're hidden now, though. Hidden away in the watch, in the TARDIS, in a cave deep under the earth, and it's a relief at first. No more killing, no more death, just silence.

Silence, but not complete. The drums are there, beating away, and with nothing to drown them out, nothing to satisfy them, they grow stronger. Harder. More demanding. They want, they need, they must have. But they are imprisoned, they can't give. All they can do is listen, and feel.

Until there's freedom. The most loyal of companions, the one that had been at their side all that time, taken too much for granted to even be recognized for what she was, the TARDIS gives them life. They don't know if they want it; there's safety in captivity. But it's not a choice. Nothing ever is, not really.

War again. Their old mistress, their old master. Death and violence, and still they are trying to find that connection, the one they know must be there, the one that restored them. It's still about love, it must be, it's what gave them life. It's there, it just needs to be found.

And finally, they're here. In this place where there are others, others who have found the love they were looking for. If they've seen it, it must exist, so they seek it and find Astrid. And the Doctor denies, no, she is not stolen. She is found. Found by you, found for you. She will help you, if you let her. You just need to let her.]

[The mystery of the drums, still unexplained. I can help. Let me help you, maybe we can find the source, maybe we can find the cure. You and me, we can try all of this again, we can try new ways. We can try everything. They weren't there before, perhaps they're don't have to be a part of what you are. Let me help.]

[His mind is open, laid out, nothing is hidden. And he's giving permission; take anything you need, this is all rightfully yours as much as it is mine. Maybe it's more yours than mine, even. You've paid a much higher price.]

[He's been in contact with another Doctor-who-had-Rose before, so he knows something of what he'll find. The quiet. The running and laughter and the tragedies, the friends lost and hurt, both unintentionally and because it had to be done. Memories taken away, so that they might survive.

Such regret. Over such small things. Things that had to be done.

But he understands that, the regret. It doesn't hurt him.

The love does. The true friends.

Those memories, he touches lightly, hesitantly, as though they might burn—or as though they might hypnotize, a moth drawn into the flame. If he looks too hard, he might never look away. He might try to take, and they're nothing that can be taken. They're the wake of time, the marks of events long since past, never to be relived.

He tries not to see, as he searches. He tries just to listen. To the quiet, though no matter how far into his other's mind he goes, his own drums still follow him, a mental pulse like the beating of his hearts.

He listens for an echo. Any echo, in any memory.

Goes far, far back. Back to when the Master—when Koschei—says his began. When they were very, very young.

There are differences there, between them, in the far past just as there are in the recent past, and those surprise him.

But there are no drums. Anywhere.

He's alone.

When he pulls back, into his own mind, he brushes by certain memories a second time. The Daleks, New York, the other helping them, even though they'd killed so many human beings. He can't understand; there were only four of them, then, it could have been over, and instead his other helped.

The Titanic. Astrid, every memory he can find. Turning them over, because she expects him to understand, to have shared those experiences, and he doesn't. They're secondhand to him, and they always will be.

Davros. The beach. The metacrisis.

A decision he approves of, and his other doesn't.

His other's response to that decision.

Too dangerous to be left on his own. Born in battle, full of blood and anger and revenge.

And that is what he hates, about being around his others. The shame. Knowing that that is how they see him.

Knowing that that is how some part of him, under the drums, sees himself.

He lingers, one last moment, in the quiet, and then snaps back into his own mind.]

[It feels wrong, and right. It feels dark, like entering a building after hours out in the sunlight. He'll adjust. He's adjusted before.]

[The drums grind away some of the shame, as he opens his eyes. Help. He should let his other help. He should say yes. He should.]

[The other Doctor wanders around his mind, carefully, almost warily. There is hurt here, and there is love, but it's the love that hurts him. Because no matter what the Doctor said, no matter what he offered, it's not his love. The Doctor understands that. He wishes it could be different. He wants to share, would love to give, even.

The other Doctor goes deeper. As deep as he can, goes back, goes to a time so long ago, when the Doctor first started to run. The Schism, the Vortex, the oppressing infinite vastness of it all. It still makes him want to run, even though it's only a memory, glossed over by centuries of flight. And yes, he was a different person back then. He changed when he left. Or so he'd thought for a long time. Lately, he's beginning to wonder.

But no, there are no drums. He's never felt them, not in himself. He doesn't know where they take their origin, but they are not a part of him.

The other Doctor pulls back. Along the way, he brushes by some memories, memories that are the Doctor's. Memories of times they don't share.

It's already over. It's been over for a long time. Killing the Cult of Skaro wouldn't have made any difference. It wouldn't have brought anyone back. It simply would have ended more life.

Astrid is a hurtful memory; she died for him. Like so many others. He is grateful that she was found, thankful she's not drifting amongst the stars anymore. Although, maybe his Astrid is. Maybe she's still lost. Like Donna. Like Rose. Like so many others.

And then there's anger, resentment from his other, and no. Don't. He didn't have a choice, he didn't know what to do. He had been lost. So much had changed, and none of them could see it, with their small human minds and their small human worlds. Even his duplicate hadn't, because even though they shared memories, he wasn't a Time Lord. And there hadn't been time to explain. There never is.]

[Then the other Doctor leaves his mind, abruptly, and the silence is deafening. Everything is so still, so quiet, and blindly the Doctor reaches out, putting his hand on the door frame for balance.

The world slowly bleeds back around him, sensation by sensation. His vision is blurry, and as he blinks, tears make his eyelashes stick together. He raises his other hand to his face, and there is wetness on his cheeks. He wipes it away, quickly, not wanting the other Doctor to think that he is pitying him. It's not pity. It's grief.]

[When he raises his eyes to meet the other Doctor's, his throat constricts. He doesn't know what to say. He has to say something, words are what he does, words are his power. But for once, he is at a loss. All he could have said he already expressed when their minds were connected.]

[The tears shock the Doctor in black. Even when it's hurt him most, the life he's led, when he's walked the streets of London and known exactly, precisely the moment when the world around him ends, because he ends it, he's never cried. The grief sits in his chest, twists around his hearts, strikes him dumb or makes him talk too much, too fast. He chokes it back, and runs.]

[He meets his other's eyes, when the other Doctor looks up, because...if he didn't, what would that mean? He's as much the Doctor as this other Time Lord, this other one who saved the Earth. They're not the same man, but they're equals.]

[His universe was not a mistake. He wasn't dealt a bad hand. It was the only hand, and he made his choices in full knowledge, picking them out of the warp and weft of time, taking the paths he felt were right.]

[Except...]

[He did cry once.]

[Before he'd come to himself, before he'd remembered, as he'd walked through the Game Station. He'd been crying, and he hadn't known why.]

[That was how he'd first seen his face. His new face. In the reflection on a picture window, as he looked down at the gray Earth. Tear-streaked, a grieving man, even though he hadn't felt any grief, hadn't understood the tears.]

[A mirror image, mourning. Just like his other is now. The same face.]

[He looks away, quickly, because with the memory of the moment comes the memory of the sensation, and he can feel the old regret burn at the corners of his eyes. He isn't going to cry. He isn't.]

[His throat works, tight, and he rubs the back of his neck with one hand.]

[The other Doctor looks away, and he is losing him. This moment decides it; if he wants to help his other self, he needs to keep him from slipping away, stop him from hiding behind these walls again.]

[And, oh, he does want to help him, because this isn't right. This isn't fair. The other Doctor is trying, he's not given up in circumstances in which the Doctor isn't sure he would have been able to keep going, and his reward should not be a lonely life marred by the steady, unforgiving drive to kill. This is the Doctor's chance to try and help his other to find what he's looking for, but if he wants to do that, he can't lose him now.]

[He reaches out, his fingertips brushing against the leather of the other Doctor's sleeve.]

Doctor. Doctor, look at me.

[He's offering something here - comfort? Maybe, it might be a part of it, but what he is really offering the other Time Lord is friendship. Friendship and acceptance, as equals, each in their own right. Trust me.]

[He almost pulls away from the touch, a reflex falling somewhere between the defensive rejection of a teenager trying to maintain his cool in the eyes of his peers and the habitual contact-avoidance of a leper, fearful of infecting others.]

[It wasn't wrong. He'd make the same choices again. Even without the drums. He thinks.]

[He can't be sure.]

[What if there were other options, and he just couldn't feel them, through the pressure of the sound? What if he's on the road to making other choices that feel right but wipe out more millions of lives? And he can't see that, can't hear the voice, his voice, the one that tells him to stop?]

[The voice talking to him right now. His other's voice.]

[So he looks back at the other Doctor, his eyes sheened over with the tears he's holding in check.]

Right. You—[He runs a hand down his face—don'tcrydon'tcrydon'tcry]—you'll help. I have some...some theories. You'll need to see my notes, that may take—[And, dammit, a tear gets away from him, and he stops talking abruptly.]

[It breaks his hearts, seeing the other Doctor struggle, fighting to keep control. He knows it's part of what he is - of course he knows, he's looked into the other's mind - but it still makes his throat close up once more.]

I'll help. [He moves a little closer, and his hand that is still hovering in mid-air carefully goes to the other Doctor's shoulder. It's a gesture that could initiate a hug, if the other Doctor is inclined to accept that offer.] I promise I'll try my best.

'Course you will. [He wipes the errant tear away and manages a grin.] It's what we do. [And he accepts the offer of a hug, but perhaps not quite the way the other Doctor offers it—the moment of flippancy and the grin have helped him find his rhythm again, and it's a quick bounce-and-grab, the hug he gives friends when they're just about to run off and get into some kind of incredibly-exciting-and-not-*too*-dangerous trouble.]

Oi, you're still in your jim-jams. [He's just now realized this, as he pulls back from hugging his other, hands on his shoulders, taking in the stripy pajamas.]

[And in the very last second, the other Doctor steps back from the edge, from the gulf that is his past, his burden. A grin, a short, abrupt hug, deflection. It's kind of a relief; the Doctor's still feeling somewhat rattled himself, and if the other Doctor's choosing to deflect, so can he.]

[He still uses that quick hug to briefly tighten his arms around the other Doctor and communicate that yeah, it's what they do, and if they're together, there's little to nothing they can't do. They're brilliant, after all.]

[At the other Doctor's observation, he looks down at himself. Oh, yes, he is. That's a little absurd, and it makes him laugh.]

I'd better find myself something to wear, then. And shoes, [toe-wriggle], I think we should both find shoes. It might be me, but it feels a little like your TARDIS is chillier than mine.

[Or maybe it's the array of guns he's still standing in the middle of. Better not to deal with this right now; the way he's feeling, he's quite sure it would be the perfect way to shatter the fragile bond of trust he's managed to form with this other him. He puts a jovial hand on the other Doctor's back and leads them out of the armory, a little too casually flicking the switch that will close and lock the door behind them.]

Okay, where was I? Wardrobe, that's it.

[Oh, right, he's still barefoot, too. Hm. Well, he's got plenty of spare Converse in the wardrobe; he'll pick up a pair while he's there, and go by to retrieve the ones he left back in the storage room later. Maybe. Or maybe he'll just leave them there, because he's sure to sleep in that room again, and maybe he'll be barefoot and need shoes the next time, one never knows.]

Chilly? Really? [The Doctor frowns thoughtfully. He used to notice things like that—to have to ask the TARDIS to adjust settings for him or to wonder why she refused to do so. Ever since she freed him, he's not sure if she automatically adjusts for him or he for her, but little things, the light levels, the temperature, the gravity, they always seem...right. Which isn't right. But it's not wrong, either. Just...different. Really different. He doesn't like to think about it.] Seems alright to me. I'll see if I can't get her to turn up the thermostat.

[The hand on his back, and the easy way his other guides him out of the room and shuts the door irk him slightly—this is his TARDIS, not his other's, and to feel the other assuming even that bit of control hooks at the drums. They object. He should get this other Doctor out of here, they say. He says. They say. He can never be sure.]

Right. Wardrobe. Same as yours, is it? Through here. [And the wardrobe door is only a few short steps away. The Doctor pushes it open and leads his other in, glad to be away from the armory and the confrontation and emotions of the past few minutes.]

[It's the same as his other's—spiral staircase, racks and racks of clothes, mostly Earth fashions, from every era.]

The coat and the suit are...well, I reckon they're where you found them. [He hasn't moved them, but he knows exactly where they are. The clothes he never knew he was meant to be wearing, until he came to the multiverse.]

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