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