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What kind of things? Interesting things? I love things. Ask anyone.

There's a room here for everyone, Doctor.

Even him.

There's always the problem and the peril and the chance that one of their adventures takes them to somewhere dangerous. These days, it's practically written in the small print. Here, though, an inescapable hotel with terrible fears in each of the rooms where one is personalized for you like a very painful nightmare version of an individualized jammy dodger, well, that's not the usual fare.

Still, what's usual? He'll find a way out. He'll save the day for Amy's sake, for Rory's, for the others. It's just that as he's walking down the hall, there's a room. Right in front of him, a room numbered eleven and calling out to him. His feet are moving before he can even consciously make the decision and oh, that's clever, that's something he'd like to better understand when he isn't feeling the constant pull towards a simple little hotel room door. Monsters and devils can wait when there's a mysterious door involved. It pulls you. It calls to you in whispered voices. It wants you and who's the Doctor to ever deny?

It's a simple gold-polished handle. It's a painted door. It's room number eleven and it will contain the very worst of his fears. Geronimo. There's no hesitation when he opens the door to find out what's waiting for him, what could possibly frighten the Doctor so terribly that he brings on a monster, and finds...

Chicken.

There's chicken on spits turning around and around in a rotisserie and a kitchen surrounding them. He steps in and there's chicken. He steps back and he's back in the 1980's earth-styled hotel with supposedly no escape. Behind door number eleven, there's chicken. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he carefully hangs a 'do not disturb' sign on the door and follows the smell of barbeque wafting before him to explore why his worst fear appears to be the kitchen in yet another hotel.

Or maybe it's what Rita means about the halls changing. Maybe he's been banished to the bottom and has to work his way back up to the top. The Doctor whips out his sonic screwdriver and approaches the spinning chickens with severe suspicion, scanning them for alien life or maybe hidden nightmares? The trouble is, the scans reveal that they're chickens. Normal earth chickens.

Oh, and they're also quite tasty, according to the readings.

"And here I am surrounded by chickens with Casanova nowhere to be found. Typical," he remarks under his breath, thinking that'd be more than a debt repaid with one of these tasty things.

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Over the past several weeks, Jane had been in and out of the Nexus Hotel more times than most people would find strictly necessary. Her curiosity at how the place functioned had quickly won the battle against her fear of becoming stranded there, and she was through one door or another up to a dozen times per day, taking what notes she was able and attempting to find some pattern in the results. Acknowledging the potential danger of the situation, she had initially attempted to prop open her door home, only to find the efficiency of the tactic completely arbitrary. After the fourth attempt, she'd given herself up to the adventure of science and flung herself carelessly through as many portals as she could reasonably manage.

Today she'd been perusing the hotel library, which she found to have a stunning selection of literature from across time and space, presumably stocked by various guests over the years. What she hadn't found, however, had been anything particularly useful to her research, and had thought to return to her guest room to regroup and had found herself stepping in the kitchens instead.

"Oh," she said, briefly startled. This was the first time the hotel had sent her someplace within itself.

"That smells…really good."

And apparently, his darkest and deepest fears also included perfectly lovely young women who enjoy chicken as a meal (or for other purposes, he's not there to judge). He snaps the sonic screwdriver shut with aplomb, excited to have a new audience to ask questions of and to generally prod and poke. "Organically fed, apparently," he says, tilting his head to the side as he drags his finger over his tongue and sticks it in the air, measuring the temperature of the room. "And likely to burn soon if they're not...oh, yes, of course," he says, when a kitchen worker appears and shuffles the Doctor out of the way without a 'by your leave'.

He turns to the young woman curiously, taking several long strides until he's looming in her personal space. "You don't sound as though you're fearing for your life," he says, studying the pupils and the stance and again, measuring how much she appreciates the smell of a chicken. "How long have you been here?" he asks, ducking down to her height and then easing his way back up, eyes on her the whole time.

Jane reared back, eyes rounding, and resisted the urge to place both hands on the man's chest and push him back a step. There wasn't time to address his first remark before he'd asked her a question, and she faltered briefly, swaying in place, before taking one very large, pointed step back.

"Here as in the kitchen here, or here as in inexplicable luxury hotel here?"

The trouble is that a kitchen is a kitchen is a kitchen (except when it's not), so when she says that they're in an inexplicable luxury hotel, that does give the Doctor a bit of pause. "No," he says stubbornly. "No, I was in an inexplicable 80's style hotel," he replies, as if that's bound to make up the difference. "With very authentic cheese plants," he draws out the words suspiciously. "You weren't trapped in the same hotel as the rest of us. I've found yet another layout. What's in the rooms? Things?" he asks, already bolting off to inspect the kitchen; pulling open fridge doors, peeking under cupboards, dragging his finger along walls and licking it.

As Jane watched the man spring off to take stock of the room, she had to wonder whether this was how other people felt around her when she was wound up about work and bouncing from place to place: A little curious, a little concerned, but mostly taken aback. She might have felt she'd found a kindred spirit but for the fact that she was already beginning to believe the guy certifiable.

"Cheese plants," she quietly echoed, and then sucked in a big breath. "Right. Funny thing about rooms, they usually have things in them. That's pretty universal. Are you okay? Do you maybe need a doctor?"

"Need a doctor? I am a doctor. The Doctor," he clarifies, enunciating the difference with great pride. He waves the sonic screwdriver in a fluid 'S' pattern around the cupboards and stares at the readings before he turns around to walk back to the woman. "You're not frightened. You think you're in a luxury hotel, which means that either my deepest, darkest fear is of marble floors and gothic arches or I've somehow stumbled into yet another parallel universe of sorts," he says, realisation dawning on him as he says the words. "Clever," he muses, to himself.

"I don't think I'm in a luxury hotel, I know," Jane replied, having been at the Nexus long enough by then to at least be secure in that much. "And parallel universe is accurate. Or seems to be, anyway."

The way the man—Or Doctor, as he said—was talking still seemed nonsensical on the surface, but Jane remembered clearly how bizarre Thor had sounded upon their first meeting. Erik had thought him insane, but Jane had given him just a little bit of the benefit of the doubt, and had been proven right in the end.

"Do you go to parallel universes often?" she asked, secretly hoping the answer was yes.

"Seeing as the last I went to nearly stole my ship and killed my friends, I do try and give them a wave as we pass," the Doctor admits. "I'm more of an all of time and space bloke, myself," he boasts, tugging on the lapels of his shirt as he straightens his posture and presses his heels together to stand there, as tall and proud as any Time Lord can be. "I've got a ship," he says. "Though, she is somewhat lost and I don't exactly know where she is, even in the last hotel I was in," he confesses, some of the steam fizzling out of him. "She won't be happy over me losing her," he says, and that takes yet another little hit from his pride. "...again," he adds, trying to sneak that one in.

"You have a ship that travels time and space," Jane said, both a clarification and a hope for confirmation. A year ago, she might have simply dismissed such a claim as pure fabrication, but at this point such skepticism seemed more blind than belief.

"I'm Jane," she remembered to say, and thrust out a hand to shake, hoping it was a familiar gesture. "I study astrophysics with an emphasis on interdimensional travel."

The Doctor regards her hand and reaches out to shake it delicately, but does take that as the opportunity to lean in and press a kiss to both her cheeks in the familiar earth way (though, didn't Craig say he shouldn't? No, he would never say something like that, Craig loved those kisses!) and peers at her with wonder and relief.

"Normally, I'd kick the door open and ask if you wanted to take a look under the hood," he says, given that he does like to impress the smart ones; that always comes in handy later. "That said, she is a bit missing. Still. So, it's a pleasure to meet you, Jane of astrophysics and guru of interdimensional travel. Only interdimensional, though? You know, I'm good friends with Einstein," he boasts. "Once I've made sure my friends haven't been devoured by a praise-happy minotaur and I find my ship, I could take you there," he offers. "Though, of course, if my ship gets destroyed by the minotaur in the 80's style hotel, that would put a damper on that plan, wouldn't it?"

The kisses had startled Jane, although in retrospect she wasn't sure why, all things considered. She was still frozen in place, eyes gone wide, when the Doctor began going on about Einstein and minotaurs and the 80s. She allowed herself a moment to sift through the rapid-fire information before she replied.

"That would be amazing," she finally said, figuring it for an honest enough answer. Going back in time to meet Einstein would be amazing, regardless of whether it was actually possible. "Einstein, not the minotaur."

"If you think about it, wouldn't it be even more amazing if it was the minotaur with the Einstein levels of knowledge when it comes to physics?" he says, wrinkling his nose with sheer delicate delight at how amazing that would be. "Now," he says, searching around him in a circle. "Somewhere here is a door that leads me back to the hotel I was just in where my friends are being hunted by said minotaur. I've stumbled through a convenient loophole in time, it appears, but convenience can only ever truly be temporary."

He turns once more, gaze landing on Jane. "What do you know about code rewriting itself to change the physical layout of a place you're in to deliver you unto a deity form standing guard of misplaced prisoners?" he asks, as though he's asking if she'd like jelly on her toast, please and thank you.

Jane drew a deep breath, mouth open as if she were about to give an appropriate reply, and then huffed it reluctantly out again. "Nothing, sorry," she said, although her face had gone a bit pinched in thought.

"Are we talking about a computer virus? If it was written with a specific objective in mind, wouldn't it then override anything in the way of that objective? If it was efficiently coded, it would in theory be able to change the constructs of the system it was in. Free up a pathway, or create a new one."

"Could be a computer virus," he muses, sliding the tip of the sonic screwdriver through the fringe of his hair. Thoughtful as a million possibilities filter through his mind and then he considers whether a computer virus could do what he's been handling. "It seems to want to trap people. But why," he says, hand over his face as he drags it down, the skin as malleable as gum in the process. "Why? Why can Rory see exit doors? Why does everyone have a room? Who is him?" he asks, peering down as if asking her this precise question. "And why should he be praised?"

"He's an egomaniac?" Jane attempted, although she was at a complete loss, only following the conversation by the smallest and most tenuous of margins. She might have been able to help more had she been provided more solid information, but it sounded like that was in short supply.

"Possibly," the Doctor agrees, narrowing his eyes as he thinks about the likelihood of that being the case. "Potentially. Now, Jane, why are we talking about the hotel I've just come from when the hotel I'm in has chickens?" he asks, a slightly madcap glint in his eye. "What do you say, we split one of these bad boys?" he suggests, sticking a toothpick in between his teeth as he does his best to add a bit of swagger to the suggestion of splitting rotisserie chicken.

The feasting in the hotel wasn't the same as a feast on Asgard, of course, but Thor could find little fault with the fare. It was hearty and plentiful and it was to that end that he had gone to the kitchen to see about getting more.

And it was there that he saw a man muttering about the chickens, waving around some kind of device. It seemed strange but, then again, Mjolnir barely left Thor's side and he could not really speak to strange.

"What do you intend to do with this feast, then?"

"If I had an army, I'd feed them. Followers, too, but I don't know if Amy likes chickens all that much and Rory might feel a kinship," he rambles, drawing out his nose and twirling about as he paces, as if the very tall man will know something about his erstwhile companions who have yet to come stumbling into the door behind him.

So here he is, alone. "Hello," he greets the man brightly. "I'm the Doctor. Have you found your room yet?"

"I have been here several weeks," Thor said, thinking about the room he had in the other wing of the hotel. It was serviceable, if not a lavish appointment, and it served his purposes for as often he was in it (which wasn't often at all.)

"Have you just arrived?"

"I did my arriving some time ago," the Doctor remarks suspiciously, regarding the man with a roving glance over his truly impeccable body. "You've been here for weeks, but you're not cooked. You're not praising anyone," he says, eyes widening as though he's found his next object of interest. "If you've been here several weeks, then you must not have a room. Tell me, when you try and leave, does the hotel let you? Or is it simply an extravaganza of walls?"

"I have not yet been able to leave," Thor confirmed. It was something that hadn't troubled him much, considering that Jane was present and safe, but it was something he would eventually have to address if he wanted to move on with their lives.

Thor was not the sort of man overly concerned with long-term planning, though and the idea of staying in the hotel for a while longer was incredibly appealing even if he did, eventually, want to return to his rightful place in Asgard.

"I just keep finding room after room without end."

"Room after room, and you don't overly mind the nightmares within them?" he wonders, arching his brow as he ponders the curiosity of such a happening. Then, of course, he takes a better look at the area around him, checks the scan on the sonic screwdriver and smacks himself in the forehead. "Of course! Of course, why didn't I see it! It's another dimension layered on top of the original labyrinth. Clever old universe, a maze within a maze," he says fondly. "That means that when you go room after room, there's nothing frightening in them, is there?" he trails off, realising he doesn't know his new friend's information, at all. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch your name..."

"Thor, son of Odin," Thor said, not sure he followed this madman's logic at all. It seemed like all his words ran together and tumbled over one another in something vaguely resembling speech but none of it was intelligible.

"And you?"

"The Doctor, son of...actually, no, I can't pronounce it properly and he'll give me a right smack in the head from the beyond if I get it wrong," he says, beaming away like this is the most brilliant conversation he's had in days. No, years. Decades. "Thor, you say? Thor. Son of Odin. Thor Odinson," the Doctor echoes, looking up at him with the respect you give to a god who's got a day named after him. "You can call me the Doctor. Everyone does. Don't ask why," he advises.

Thor was happy to refer to him by his title if he preferred it though it seemed a little strange. Then again, Director Fury was exactly that: a title.

"A pleasure, Doctor. Could you indulge me in a pint and toast?"

Pint and toast, was it? Well, the Doctor was more than happy to sit down with the god of thunder and drink a pint or two. "I hope you don't mind my offering a bit of a trade," he says. "You see, I've come from a hotel where my friends are very likely in danger. You wouldn't happen to know about the ramifications and the likelihood of a timeline stopping or time moving differently." If he has to find out for himself, that is going to cut into his pint and toast time.

"I do not," Thor conceded.

"I do know that time can travel differently from one realm to another, in my own limited experience, but the relative flow of time here compared to somewhere else, I do not know. I haven't traveled back and forth yet to find out."

That's exactly the sort of thing the Doctor is for. "Do you have a rope?" he asks, suddenly, turning back to regard the door he'd wandered in through. "Before we settle in for that pint and toast, what do you say to a little test, hm?" he asks, eyes bright, wide, and potentially a bit mad.

"I think we could find it," Thor said, looking around the kitchens until he found a utility closet that seemed promising. He had never longed for Stark before but he felt that in this situation, he mit be of more use. If he could put his arrogance aside, that was.

Thor, too, could be arrogant but it was usually with just cause. He wasn't certain about Stark's intentions.

"Right, then! Here's the plan," the Doctor announces warmly. "You're going to tie a rope around my suspenders and I'm going to try and jump into a parallel universe without actually breaking through the barrier of worlds," he explains rapidly, as though it's a bit like frying an egg. Only making a perfect egg is much harder, as so many chefs have told him after trying his eggs.

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