or_timelords | This could prove to be interesting.

The Doctor has canisters and boxes and packets of tea scattered across one of the kitchen's tables; there was a particular kind he wanted, and he was curious to see if his other had it, and and his other did, but not where he keeps it, and while he was looking for that one kind, he found other kinds that he doesn't have, and some of them seem to be from places and times he hasn't been yet, and so of course he had to look through them all and hey, look at this, it's that performance tea from the Emperor of the Shattered Sundial, he'd almost forgotten he had that! ...Does he still have that? Well, regardless, his other does, and it's very good tea.

He glances over from where he's pouring hot water into a glass mug, the ball of tea at the mug's bottom beginning to unfurl intricate layers of herb "petals" as it's submerged.

"What, already?"

"Yes, already." And he can't keep from adding, "my Keppler arc may be bypassed, but it seems like I can still maneuver my TARDIS when I need to."

It's kind of a petty thing to say. He doesn't say it in a petty way, though, but with a smile and a wink. Without waiting for his other to reply, he returns to the console room. He still needs to go to the wardrobe and change into his proper outfit, but first he wants to make entirely sure they're actually in the other Doctor's console room. It looks like it on the scanner monitor, but the Doctor knows better than anyone that looks can be deceiving.

He crosses the room, opens the doors and - ah. Now. That won't do.

He's staring at a close-up of the glowing round ornaments that decorate the walls of the TARDIS. Seems like he parked her the wrong way around. Okay, so that is a little embarrassing.

The Doctor strolls into the console room, mug in one hand. The tea in it's steeping, the little ball of herbs spreading out into a full red faux chrysanthemum, complete with yellow center and green leaves at its base. It smells like flowers, too, and honey, warm and dark and far-away enough to be tantalizing instead of cloying.

"D'you remember the Emperor? He told me, us, me, well, you could set your clock by how long it takes this tea to bloom, there's an equation, compensates for differences in water temperature..."

He takes a sip of the tea as he properly takes in the view through the doors. Hm. That would explain why his TARDIS feels amused.

"Well. Full marks for precision, but I'll have to dock you on orientation..." Which isn't meant any more harshly than was his other's comment about the Keppler arc. In fact, the Doctor is smiling as he takes another sip of his tea. Nice to see he's not the only one who has trouble with parking.

"Mmmyeah." The Doctor rubs a hand over the back of his neck. Well, parking was never something he was very good at. "I'd better turn her around, then. And yes, I remember that," he continues as he returns to the console; good opportunity for a change of subject, there, "but the equation was based on time as a constant. Bless him, the Emperor did love his sundial, but he wasn't the brightest when it came to elementary physics."

Not that it makes much of a difference when it comes to the time it takes tea to bloom, but it's just principle when it comes to things like constant versus relative time. Believing in time as a constant, that's like believing in a geocentric solar system; it's quite ridiculous.

The tea does smell very good, though.

"Now," he says, not really thinking about what he's saying, "let's hope I'll be able to do this without losing this time line."

Oi. That's actually a Rather Good Point. He's not very familiar with the progression of time in the multiverse, and if he were to lose this current time line, with both of them in this TARDIS, his other's ship would end up drifting abandoned in space. Maybe it would have been a good idea for his other to stay on his ship while he himself relocated the TARDIS. Ah well, too late now. He gives his other a broad grin and initiates dematerialization.

It is very good; it's one of the best teas in the universe, made by the Emperor himself and given out only as a sign of imperial favor.

And he did try to explain to the Emperor about the fluid-relative nature of time, but his other knows how their attempts at explanation go. Really, you need the maths to understand it, and the time sense, and trying to substitute vague waving hand gestures for both gets no one anywhere.

"Oh, I don't know, I think he knew more than he was letting on, he had the oddest little smirk when I—oi, wait, what?"

But it's too late, his other's already set the TARDIS in motion and there's that grin—the grin that says 'Well, I hope I know what I'm doing, but I'm sure I do and it will all turn out for the best and if it doesn't, well, um, won't that be interesting? Allons-y!'

He jumps over to the console, wedging his mug of tea between a bank of toggles and a twist of wires, his attention entirely for the scanner and the other instruments.

"You can't lose it, they're in contact, they'll help. Yours will help?" He can't imagine her not helping, but he's found that TARDIS have reasons he can't begin to understand, half the time.

"Come on, come on, come on..." He watches the scanner with the intensity of a sports fan watching the last few moments of a ballgame, hoping his team will pull off that last-second win.

The Rather Good Point seems to worry his other much more than it worries the Doctor - and, well, yes, it would; after all it is his TARDIS that would end up lost in the multiverse. He sprints over to the console - and what, no mugs on the console, especially none with content. This has ended badly more than once.

"Don't put that there, it'll fall -"

And when he lets go of the steering lever to reach out for the mug, he can feel his TARDIS starting to drift, deviating off course ever so slightly, but slightly enough in this case.

"No!" His hands are back on the controls, and he's pleading with his TARDIS, mentally dragging her back on course. "Nonononono -"

They almost don't make it. The Doctor manages in the very last millisecond to locate that particular point in time and space that he's aiming for. When he does, he yanks the lever up with a jerk and initiates materialization. The TARDIS shudders as she makes that last little unexpected jump, and the mug does tip over, spilling tea over the controls. The Doctor can feel the TARDIS' dismay and displeasure, but he snatches the mug up too late, and the tea has already started to seep into the wiring.

"Now look what you've done, you got tea all over my console!" It's more an unhappy tone than one of outrage, and the Doctor tries to mop up the tea with his sleeve best as he can, not bothering to check the scanner if they really are where they're supposed to be.

They actually are in the other Doctor's console room, the right way around this time, but when they exit the TARDIS they will notice that a few of the wall lights got smashed as the TARDIS materialized a little too close to the wall.

The Doctor feels his connection with his TARDIS attenuate as his other reaches away from the steering lever, and there's nothing he can do. He hates that, hates being helpless; anger and irritation and the sound of the drums flood into the hollow in his chest caved out by panic. If his other only kept his TARDIS in proper repair—

But then the connection snaps back into place, and it's alright, his TARDIS is there, so they must have arrived without incident. Though...she seems a bit put out. About something. Huh.

What? He glances over at his other, who's complaining. It sounds like he's complaining—they made it, what would he be complaining about?

A spark fizzles deep in a snarl of the console wiring, and a wisp of steam, smelling of ozone and flowers and honey, wafts over towards him, from where his other is dabbing at the controls. OH. ...That was bound to happen, wasn't it? He really needs to solder some cupholders on, one of these days.

"Here." He riffles through his pockets, and comes up with...a loofah, well, that'll work, why does he have that? And a handkerchief embroidered with winged snakes in a quaint countrified pattern. Also some Peeps, in assorted colors, hm, those are a bit absorbent. He squashes loofah, handkerchief, and Peeps all down on the damp part of the console. Peeps also make for decent insulation, that ought to keep some of the sparking down. "There we go."

"We've made it." He hugs his other one-armed, around his back and shoulders, grinning. "Fantastic! Come on, open the doors, see if you've got her the right way about."

The corduroy doesn't really soak up the tea very well, and there's sparking and quite a worrying smell. The TARDIS is angry and in pain - well, or rather discomfort - and it's making the Doctor anxious. When his other dumps a colorful heap of - somethings - on the console, the attempt at help is not exactly appreciated, not by the Doctor or by the TARDIS.

"What are you doing?" The Doctor reaches out and picks up a soggy, sticky pink object that used to be - a marshmallow Peep? Oh, now really, come on. "This is not helping!"

There are more of those marshmallow duckies, and in the still-lukewarm-liquid, they're dissolving rather quickly and spreading a sugary coat over the controls. More sparks fly, and the smell changes to integrate the unpleasant odor of burned marshmallow mass.

The Doctor doesn't really pay attention to the other's arm around his shoulders, trying to pick the marshmallow candy off the console without getting either the console or his fingers too sticky. He's having little success, his hands covered in a sugary coating and holding a couple of deformed Peeps each.

"Now, seriously, Doctor, look at this mess; I'll have to replace the century fine tuner completely, it's unusable with sugar all over its switches, and I don't even know if I still have a model like that around, I used the last one after the whole Davros debacle, and why don't you go check yourself? I'm sort of busy right now."

The Doctor peers over his other's shoulders at the mess he, the Doctor in black, has managed to make.

The Peeps sag down into the wires, coating the century fine tuner with goo, their little food-coloring eyes spreading out and disappearing into the morass of yellow and pink and green muck as it melts down into the seams of the fine tuner.

Um...well. Oops. He really should have just contributed the loofah and the handkerchief. Though he has had some luck with juryrigging systems with stale Peeps, those must have been fresh. Damn.

"...Mm. Sorry." He runs his hands through his hair, feeling rather thick. "I think I've got a fine tuner, it's 71st-century Kort-Binary make, not the newest, but...it's in good condition." Which his other's isn't. Anymore. Um. "Let me go find that. Won't be a moment."

He heads out of his other's TARDIS, looking back at his other as he opens the door to leave. Not a great start, really. Meanwhile, his own TARDIS is feeding him a mix of reactions, exasperation and irritation and the amused, rubbernecking interest of a bystander watching the aftermath of a small but unique accident, like the collapse of a display of cereal boxes onto a few shoppers who were already arguing because they'd bumped into each others' carts.

The Doctor's standing there, hands full of Peep pulp, somewhat lost as to what to do next, when he can feel his TARDIS' anger surge. His head snaps around to his other who's standing in the doorway, his fingers in a precarious position on the frame.

The Doctor is about to call a warning, but the door is already moving. All he can do is make his TARDIS slow the momentum a little, so when the door slams on his other's fingers, it's not quite hard enough to break them. The Doctor hopes, anyway.

He drops the by-now-grown-solid-again Peeps - he has to shake his hands to unstick them - and hurries over to the door. Really, that wasn't necessary at all!

"Are you okay?"

The Doctor doesn't make any sound when the door slams on his fingers, except a small shocked intake of breath. OUCH. No, not ouch; ouch doesn't begin to describe it, because he did make another sound when the door slammed, and that was "snap." Several snaps. He can't think exactly how many snaps right now, because his entire brain is involved in trying to work the pain down to some level he can deal with and still have some spare nerve endings left over for conscious thought.

He shakes the hand—his right—without thinking and that really doesn't help, and his next reaction is to ball the hand into a fist and hold it tight against his chest, and that's a bad idea, too.

His good hand against the doorframe, he leans there, as he tries to find some way to hold the broken fingers that doesn't hurt and his head begins to clear.

Unfortunately, the drums clear first.

"What was that?" He glares at the Doctor as his other rushes over, his eyes dark with pain and anger. Someone just hurt him, and it wasn't an accident, and if it was your fault, Doctor...

Oh, oh this is not good.

The Doctor can see that the other Doctor is not okay, he's swaying and cradling his hand to his chest, and the Doctor sends an angry jab at his TARDIS, what the hell was she thinking?

He comes to a halt next to his other and reaches out, about to tell him to let him see - he really hopes they're not broken, they could get them fixed, easily of course, but he's broken his own fingers times enough to know it hurts - when the other one raises his eyes. The Doctor stops in his tracks as the other's drums at the edge of his mind gain volume and insistence.

"I'm sorry," and he really is, he really would have hoped they would get a better start than this, "I'm so sorry, the TARDIS can get a little unreasonable, I tried to stop her, but she was too quick, are they broken? Tell me they're not broken."

He's holding out his hands, but he's not quite touching his other, on the one hand because of the cold anger in the other's eyes, and on the other because his hands are still covered in sticky Peep goo.

The Doctor is hurt, because his other can't control his TARDIS, can't stop it from attacking his guests, and all his other can manage is contrition. That terrible, constant contrition, apologizing for the failure to stop pain, apologizing for his own actions when they don't come to the desired ends, when they lead to hurt and death and loss.

"You're so sorry." The Doctor in black spits the words back, scornfully. He's said them himself, but not so often now as he used to, and he's never seen himself when he says them. The sincerity, the seeking for...what? Understanding? Forgiveness?

One part of his mind says it's wrong, disgusting. Apologizing like that, for his TARDIS, when he should just have control. When any harm someone comes to by his ship's hand should be by his choice, and why apologize for harm you choose to inflict, even if it hurts you to inflict it?

The other part of his mind flickers back through his travels, his adventures, finding places where he should have said those words and didn't. Too many places.

Deep breath. Think about the hand. He didn't mean this to happen; he's you.

"Index and ring, I think. Clean breaks." He holds out his injured hand, bruises already swelling and purpling where the door crushed across it. "She does this often?"

Yes, he's sorry. He really is. He knows that look of derision, that expression that would be a sneer if his other were taking more pleasure in it. It's the way the Master looks at him when he tells him to stop apologizing, he's a Time Lord, he has the right.

Except he doesn't. He doesn't, the Master doesn't, and this Doctor doesn't have it, either. And they should know that.

He doesn't get angry, though, or say anything at all about the matter, because he knows it's not the time. This is why he's here, this is why this Doctor needs help, but now is not the moment.

And this Doctor might be different to the Master, after all, because he regains control. It's visible as well as audible in the receding of the insistent drumming at the edge of the Doctor's mind.

The Doctor winces as he takes a look at his other's bruised hand. He almost apologizes again, but thinks better of it. He's as gentle as possible, wipes his hands on his trousers and almost doesn't touch the other's fingers as he examines them. He nods, "Yes, I think you're right, index and ring, and no." He shakes his head emphatically. "No, she really doesn't, she usually doesn't even acknowledge anyone I bring over. I think she was just lashing out; I tried to warn you, but - well." He's not sure why she reacted quite so violently; his other probably ended up being the victim of the TARDIS' wrath that had been building up all day, but maybe telling him that wouldn't be such a good idea. "You'd better get this fixed."

He almost wants to turn around and lead his other back to his own TARDIS infirmary, but then thinks better of it and pushes the door to his other's console room open fully, making a little 'after you' gesture.

The Doctor can take a hint; his other's TARDIS doesn't approve of him—and really, he can't blame her, after what he did to the console. Still, breaking his fingers. That's taking things a bit far. "Glad to know I'm the exception that proves the rule."

He swings out the door, careful not to jostle his injured hand, relieved to set foot back in his own TARDIS. "I'll show you where the fine tuner is, shall I? It's on the way to the sick bay, I'll take care of this—" his hand "—on my own—OI."

And he's come around the corner of his other's TARDIS, and can see the walls of his own TARDIS now, the crushed rondules where his other's TARDIS has ground itself into the wall.

Well. He's not the only one who's gotten bits broken in the last few minutes.

Yeah, no, the TARDIS doesn't like his other. Evidently. He's not an exception to a rule, though; she doesn't like most people, if she notices them. Granted, she's never broken anyone's fingers before, but then, no one's ever covered the console in marshmallow goo before, either.

Pursuing the matter seems somewhat futile, though, so he follows his other outside, proceeding to firmly lock the door behind himself - he doesn't think she'd go and hurt anyone else, but it's better to be safe than sorry, and it's symbolic gesture, too, serving to underline the angry disapproval he's still sending out along their mental bond - when he almost drops the key at his other's outcry.

"What?"

He quickly steps around his TARDIS, one hand on her solid wood as he leans around the corner - and oh. Oh no. He sucks in a breath and squints at the damage; then at his other, wishing for some way to apologize that doesn't involve the words 'I'm sorry'.

"That - I'm really - I mean, I didn't - I'll just - "

And if the Doctor were someone to swear a lot, this would warrant a few curse words. He drops his shoulders.

"Do you want me to, you know." He cocks a thumb over his shoulder at his TARDIS door. He doesn't want to leave, not at all, and he'd have to find some way to meet up with his other again, maybe jump ahead a couple of years and contrive a second 'chance meeting', but this, this just isn't going very well, and there's no point in staying if his other doesn't want him around.

This is all entirely new to the Doctor; the TARDIS has always been his sanctuary, the one place where very little triggers the drums, where he can be as close to his whole self as he ever is, anymore.

Outside, beyond the TARDIS, there's always room to act. If something triggers the drums, the anger, he can run from them; he can yell; he can strike out, if the situation allows it and the target has earned that response.

He can use the drums to help, to be a hero.

But now, standing in the TARDIS full of personal, petty anger and the only target himself, another self who's the man he should still be, he can't find his footing.

His hands ball into fists at his sides, when he hears the other Doctor stumble over his non-apologies, and he starts at the pain in his right, straightens the fingers again.

"Shut up." He takes the few steps over to the wall, runs his left hand over a damaged rondule, asks his TARDIS questions-that-aren't-questions-but-sudden-understandings in his mind. It's surface damage, easily fixed. Painful, for her, but less than his broken fingers are for him. She doesn't blame his other, she doesn't blame her sister—well, not for this damage, she might have some things to say to her sister about that door-slamming trick, later. He rests his forehead against the wall, closes his eyes, and she trickles into the back of his mind, takes away some of the useless anger.

A second later, he straightens up and stalks the few steps to the inner door, which he flings open and then stands against, holding it open and quirking an impatient look at his other. "Well? Are you coming?"

He's still angry, and it reads in his tone and his body language, but he won't kick his other out of the TARDIS yet.

The Doctor snaps his mouth shut and waits for his other's verdict. He wouldn't have to listen to the other's mental resonance to know he's having trouble keeping control, he can see it in the way his other's shoulders tense and jaw tightens, but he doesn't have a choice - his other's drums are very clear, still an echo in the Doctor's mind but loud, distinct. And angry.

The Doctor watches his other as he runs a careful hand over the jagged edge of a broken rondule. He doesn't think it's any more than surface damage; if it were more, he would have noticed the impact when he parked the TARDIS. He knows, though, that it wouldn't really make a difference if it were his TARDIS that had been damaged, and from what he can tell, the bond between this Doctor and his TARDIS is even stronger than a normal TARDIS/Time Lord bond.

He reaches out with his mind, not to his other, but to his surroundings in general, remembering the benevolent presence he felt before when he was in contact with his other's TARDIS, and tries to send his silent apologies that way. Because he really is sorry, both for what happened to this other Doctor and for what happened to this TARDIS.

His other takes a moment, and when his shoulders relax, the Doctor can also hear the drums lessen. It's fascinating to watch, this obvious communication between the Doctor in black and his TARDIS; it seems to be so different to what the Doctor himself shares with his TARDIS. It would probably be something they should look into. If the other Doctor still wants him to stay and help, that is.

Apparently, he does. The Doctor feels relief at his other's somewhat grumpy invitation, and nods.

"Yes, coming. Of course."

He'll have to watch himself now, he doesn't any want more things to go wrong. And he'd probably better watch himself watch himself, because usually when he's trying to watch himself not to do anything stupid, he gets nervous and does something stupid. Okay, not helping. He decides to stop thinking and slips past his other into the inside of the TARDIS.

The Doctor shows his other the surprisingly orderly room in which he keeps the spare TARDIS parts (a room that bears a strong resemblance, in its tidy organization, workbench along one wall, racks and cases of bits and bobs and tools arranged along the other walls, to the armory—though here the coral desktop theme still carries the decor). The fine tuner's in there, he tells his other, kicking at a trunk to one side of the room, and then heads on to the sick bay. The other Doctor shouldn't have any trouble finding the tuner in the trunk, and the Doctor in black wants to get away from his other quickly, give himself time to think.

There's not much equipment left in the sick bay; he's scavenged many of the diagnostic devices for his laboratories, particularly his master laboratory, now housed in the Zero Room.

What's left is enough to repair his injuries. Simple, clean breaks, no complicated fractures—twenty minutes with his hand in a nanite field (trying to hold still, and the medic program in the field generator bleating at him, telling him to stop fidgeting) and he can flex the fingers on his right hand again, with only the barest stiffness. Even that will pass within the hour.

Such a small injury. He shouldn't have snapped.

The other Doctor must have found the fine tuner, because he's not there when the Doctor returns to the spares room. He reaches back into a recess in the wall and fishes out a few light-array panels for the rondules. One of the easiest repairs on the TARDIS, really—plug-and-play, about as hard as replacing a lightbulb.

Another small injury. When did he get so snippy?

Back in the console room, his other's still nowhere to be seen, but the other TARDIS is still there, and so is that clear, familiar mental signature, his but not.

He fishes his sonic screwdriver out of his jacket pocket, throws the jacket onto the console and gets to work, unlocking the broken light-arrays, unsocketing them, and replacing them with the new.

By the time he finishes, he's back in a good mood, a level mood. He stands back and looks at the repaired rondules. Not a hitch. The TARDIS agrees, and notes that he should have applied some of that mechanical finesse to not applying Peeps to his other's TARDIS.

On her side already?

A twinge at the back of his mind, her exasperation at him, and he grins. Aw, she's on his side still, no matter what she says.

He flicks a glance at his other's TARDIS doors. He'd knock, but...maybe his other needs the time apart, too. So, instead, he shrugs back into his jacket, and lounges in the console chair, using the scanner to catch up on routine maintenance checks.

The fine tuner is quite easily found; this storage room is almost disturbingly neat. Even the inside of the trunk is organized. The Doctor picks up the fine tuner - and yes, this should work, it might even be a later model than the one that's currently installed in his console - and is careful to put everything else back where he found it. Most of it is stuff he keeps in his spare room as well, only it's stored in a much tidier fashion. He idly considers that he really should get his own storage room organized at some point, but then, every time he does try to tidy things up, he ends up not being able to find anything. It sounds like a cliché, but it's actually true in his case.

When he returns to his TARDIS, the first thing he does is get a cleaning spray from the kitchen and scrape the sticky marshmallow coat off the console. He can feel the TARDIS' relief, mixed with a slightly apologetic twinge. Quite right, too. He's still angry with her, although now that he's got a quiet moment, he can feel her discomfort not only at being in this newly discovered multiverse, not only at having been compelled to take the passenger seat and not only at having her century fine tuner ruined, but also at being around another Doctor and another TARDIS who are so similar and yet so different at the same time. He can understand the last part; his other, despite the fact that he's decided to help him, still does make him a little bit nervous. It's nothing the Doctor would ever mention, but the constant echo of the drums is something he will have to get used to.

Replacing the fine tuner is not a lot of work; since he's replacing the whole component, it's really just a matter of taking out the old one and hooking the new one up to the wiring. The complicated part is calibrating it, but he can't do that when the TARDIS isn't in flight, and now that he's got her parked where he wants her, he won't move her unless he absolutely has to. Yes, I know you don't like it. I can't change that right now though.

Once the repairs are done, the Doctor gets to his feet and is about to pocket the sonic screwdriver when he remembers that he's not wearing his own jacket. The screwdriver he's been using is not his usual one, either; he used one from his stash he keeps in one of the boxes under the console. Right, time to go see if his clothes are still where he left them last night.

They are; as he enters the bathroom, his suit jacket and trousers are still flung over the towel rail, and the coat is in the bedroom, lying on the foot end of the bed, which is unmade. Well, it usually is, but he knows that this is where he disappeared from this morning. He takes out the sonic screwdriver and runs a quick scan, but there's nothing. Strange. He'd have at least expected some sort of trace of a teleportation device or something like that.

He shrugs and quickly changes into his proper clothes (and this feels much better, much more like himself), exchanging the blue Converse for his own beige ones after he fishes them out from under the bed respectively the night stand.

Before he leaves, he eyes the bed, almost longingly - for some reason, he's tired. He shouldn't be, he just woke up, and he's got work to do. He shakes his head, once, briefly, and heads back to the console room. He'll see if his other has returned already, and if he's maybe in a bit of a better mood by now.

When he pokes his head out of the TARDIS doors, he can see his other on the jump seat, fiddling with the scanner. He steps out of his TARDIS completely and smiles. "Hey."

"'Lo!" The Doctor in black grins from the seat and waves—with his right hand, a wave that involves wiggling his fingers ostentatiously. The stiffness worked out while he was repairing his TARDIS, and the bruising receded long ago. "Good as new." It's not clear whether he's referring to himself or the TARDIS or both.

He has his feet up on the console (the TARDIS never approves of this, but the only time she's really taken him to task was when he tried it right after visiting Skerpluck, a planet named for the sound made when travelers try to pull their feet back out of the muck that covers its entire surface) and his sonic screwdriver in one hand—he's finished up the maintenance routines and has been playing Viva Pinata on the scanner's XBox 360 emulator, using the screwdriver as a stand-in for a controller.

"You, too, hm?" The other Doctor's found his "right" clothes again, and now he looks like all of the other Tenth regenerations of himself this Doctor has ever met. The long coat with that dramatic flap when he runs, the suit tailored for the lanky frame of this regeneration, the tie that always stays tied... He's the Doctor. The Tenth all the way through, dressed to run forward into the future; the soldier he was during the War isn't there anymore, put away on a rack with clothing too dark for his new tastes.

"The fine tuner's alright, then? Found it in an antique store, would you believe it? Under a load of plaseramic bobble-head dogs, on Casb. 320th century." There were other parts compatible with TARDIS, too; the shopowners knew a salvager who'd found them out on a moon somewhere, thought they might be worth something. The Doctor tracked the salvager down, and had him take him to the site—one-third of a TARDIS console, defying physics, standing as though it were whole on the moon's surface. A craft fractured by the time lock, caught in and out of the War and proper time. He had touched it, and it had screamed silently and grasped for something in him, in his mind, the part that was his TARDIS, and then fallen back into the lock, disappearing into War time.

The salvager had yelled at the Doctor for losing him his find.

He'd thought better of it moments after.

The Doctor smiles and nods as his other waggles his healed fingers at him. "Good," he says, looking around at the repaired TARDIS wall as well. "Good, good." All fixed, his TARDIS, his other's TARDIS, and the other Doctor; maybe they can now stop breaking each other's things and proceed to doing what he came here for. Well, stayed here for.

"The fine tuner's perfect; I'll still have to calibrate it, but I can do that next time I'm taking her somewhere. Antique store, eh? If this were my universe, I'd say its the one some kid stole out of my TARDIS when I forgot to lock her once in Birmingham in 1874. I have no idea how he did it, you can't remove those screws without a sonic device, but when I tracked him down, he was really just a ten-year-old kid with some ingenuity and criminal energy. And he'd already sold my fine tuner, and really, he could use the money." The Doctor pauses for a moment, musing, remembering the small, skinny boy with the dirty feet and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. His name, if the Doctor remembers correctly, had been Jake. "I wonder what became of him."

He shakes his head, chasing the memories away, and slips his hands into his pockets. The other trousers didn't have pockets, so being able to do this feels comfortable and right. "I ran a scan in my bedroom, but there was no teleportation trace residue or anything. I do wonder what happened."

Something else they can find out in the lab. The Doctor is anxious to get started, but he doesn't want to interrupt his other if he's busy - working on his high score? Huh. Well, the Doctor has four-dimensional Tetris installed on his console; he knows these games can get somewhat addictive.

The Doctor, actually, is currently managing a rather successful farm full of Mallowolves, Crowlas, and Kittyflosses (yes, he keeps cats on his pinata ranch, hush). But he saved the game and set the scanner back to its standard Gallifreyan display while his other told him about Jake.

"1874? Well, no harm he could do with a fine tuner. The best human minds for millennia couldn't reverse-engineer an artron-activated system. Wouldn't do them any good if they did."

He frowns at his other's comment on his lack of findings, though he's less surprised than he would have been several weeks ago. "Mm. I thought you might say that. I reckon it's the multiverse. I've got a few theories on the place, basic universal sentience, laws of improbability, but they're only theories, haven't developed instruments yet that hold calibration out there." He jerks a thumb at his TARDIS' doors. "Physicist's worst dream or best nightmare—'s like the back side of embroidery, a mess, colors and knots everywhere and you can't see the picture for the stitches."

"Speaking of," he swings his feet down from the console and pops up from the chair. "Ready to see the labs? We can run a closer scan there."

The time spent repairing his TARDIS and managing papier-mache virtual wildlife has put him back in a decent mood; the influence of the drums is slight, though if he bothers to think hard about what he's doing—admitting that something may be wrong with him; letting his other self into the secret, worrying, very personal world of his work; inviting his other and his violent TARDIS to stay, a constant reminder of the different choices they've made—they tick up, scratching at the back of his mind, a warning.

A human race with access to the kind of technology to reverse-engineer a TARDIS - yeah, no, the Doctor has to agree. That wouldn't do anyone any good. He's not sure if the fact that the Time Lords had had that technology had done anyone any good.

"Hmmm." That theory of the multiverse - that it's like the backstage area of a play, all the order and the costumes stripped away to leave an organized chaos that works despite the fact that no-one knows which way is up - does sound intriguing. He would love to find out what's keeping the place together, because there has to be something; it can't be ultimate entropy, because if it were, linear time lines wouldn't exist, and nothing would be able to survive here.

His thoughts are interrupted when his other gets up, and the Doctor nods. "Yes! Yes, labs, we could run a molecular structure scan on me to see if I was transported recently. The only other way I could have got here is a time fold, I think, and my TARDIS would have noticed that. So would yours, I would imagine." But wait, that's not what he's here for. He follows his other as he leads the way to the labs. "You should probably try and see if you can conjure up some energy emission again. I'm sure that's significant; I've never heard of anything like that happening, except during regeneration, of course. You didn't by any chance keep some of that in a test tube or somewhere?"

He's got some theories, but he's not sharing them before he's tested them in the lab.

"Energy emission?" He throws a quizzical look back over his shoulder at his other, as they walk through the halls of the TARDIS—his TARDIS. It's been a busy past hour or so, and somewhere among waking up in bed with himself, sharing minds twice, and breaking...well, a lot, there was quite a bit of breaking, he'd almost forgotten about the intensity of that connection with his TARDIS—and its aftereffects.

Forgotten, or been trying not to think about it.

He runs a hand up the back of his neck, through his hair, looking away from his other. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, um, no. I didn't have any on me...Right, here we are."

They've arrived at the door to the Zero Room—replaced during the Time War. Romana had offered him a new TARDIS, the newest and best, top-of-the-line, a war model if he wanted, but he'd refused, accepting only basic repairs and refitting for his old girl—such as the replacement of rooms he'd had to jettison over the centuries.

He's isomorphically locked this room, too—some of the materials and machines inside could cause serious harm, if handled improperly, and he doesn't want any guests wandering in and hurting themselves—or throwing off any of his tests. The lock takes long moments to respond—longer than the instantaneous acknowledgment of his genetic/psychic signature it should provide. He's used to this—they're calibrated to his old "fingerprint," from after the War but before his reconstruction by the TARDIS, and no longer quite recognize him as himself—he's not yet bothered to recalibrate them because they still open and...it's just another thing he doesn't want to think about, enough so that he's stopped thinking about. Locked doors just open slowly, that's all.

"Mi laboratorio es su laboratorio," he says when the door finally slides back. "Adelante!"

Counters full of diagnostic equipment scrounged from the sick bay, purchased from various corners of time and space, or invented specifically for certain projects and purposes clutter the pinkish-gray room, with only narrow spaces separating them—not aisles proper, just spaces, and it looks like some of the tables can only be reached by vaulting over or slipping under others. Whatever organizational tendencies this Doctor has that his others don't do not extend to Science!—the priority here has been fitting in as much gear as he can, not in keeping it hospital-corners-neat.

Shelves of binders and notes held together with brads and tattered journals crawl up the walls, an old stepladder wedged in on one side used to gain access to their upper reaches. Everything handwritten in this room is in Gallifreyan, though print-outs and screen displays are in any number of languages.

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