all_inclusive | support group one: no one left behind

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support group one: no one left behind

When: Friday 6:00 p.m.
Where: Attic Observatory
What: Community Support Group

As Nick promised on his open advertisements, there are chairs and coffee in the Attic Observatory. There's even a table laden with what food products Nick and co could round up.

The process of setting up for a group meeting felt enough like Boulder that Nick took a short break to lean, palms first, against a wall. It was a short, easily displaced moment, and he has no intention of lingering on it.

This is about everyone, one way or another. For all the people stuck here, and everyone new, and all those in-between. Nick left the purpose of the group intentionally vague. In the future, he assumes it'll have to be narrowed down and split up for the sake of different needs, but for this first coming together of the displaced in any non-official capacity he wants it to be open for everyone. It wouldn't be right, otherwise.

So all newcomers will find Nick by the attic observatory door, nursing a cup of black coffee next to a clearly printed sign:

Hi, I'm Nick. Welcome to the first Nexus Hotel Support Group. Whatever your problem, we'll listen. Help yourself to coffee and food.

Underneath the words, Nick has drawn and crossed out a mouth and ear, leaving an arrow pointed at himself. His pad of paper and pen are obvious on his lap.

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Upon seeing her, the first thing the Doctor does is straighten his bowtie and make sure his fez is sitting absolutely and perfectly straight on his ... wait. Hang on. He reaches up to feel the angle of said hat to discover it's not there, which means it must have been hidden from him yet again. Amy. No, Rory. It was his turn to be in trouble, wasn't it? Still, at least his bowtie is as spiffy as ever.

How does one do this? The TARDIS had brought him here, parked him square and centre in the hall and gave him a little nudge as though it's off to school for him, sans packed lunch with jammy dodger. Now, though, he's brought nearly face to face with the glorious past and he's standing there grinning like the madman that he absolutely is. "Dr. Jones!" he calls over, elated and forgetting all about protocol and procedure and it's right up to her, shaking her hand, yes, that'll do, shaking it firmly with both of his. "Doctor Jones, pleasure to see you, wonderful to see your face," he says, ducking down slightly as he points to her with genuine delight and boyish enthusiasm. "How's Mickey, then?"

Martha had been drinking her coffee and finishing off the rather odd American-style doughnut when she heard her name called. Momentarily, there was quite a strange young man grinning like a loon at her and pumping her hand like he was a pensioner down the casino at the 20p slots.

Generally Martha took things in stride these days, all things considered, but the fact that he was going on at her like he knew her personally--except for the bit about someone named Mickey (who?)--was rather startling. And there was the fact that he was somehow not strange at the same time, which managed to be even more daunting.

She blinked a few times even as she shook his hand back (it was always best to be polite in this sort of situation) then said, "I'm really sorry, but have we met?"

"Yes. No," he corrects himself instantly, withdrawing his hand now that he's beginning to realize how offputting the constant shaking might be. Rather than that, he fixes the lapels of his jacket, tugging on them as he rocks from heel to ball of his toe, patent leather creaking as he does. "Technically," he amends, narrowing his eyes as he contemplates the etiquette of a situation like this. "I'm a big fan," he marvels, still grinning (because that, he can't stop). "Huge. Martha Jones, the woman who walked the world," he praises fondly.

"Yes, no, technically?" echoed Martha with a faintly sceptical air. She sipped her coffee, though it was still quite hot, not undrinkably so but just the other side of it. This turned out to have been a mistake, because she very nearly--not quite but it was damned close--did a cartoon-worthy spit take at his last comment.

Leaning back, she managed to swallow the liquid, then appraise the bowtie bloke from head to toe. Somewhere in the back of her mind, pieces fell into place. "You're never...Doctor?!" she said, shock merging with a bright smile that surprised even her.

The very sound of his name coming from Martha Jones' lips makes him preen the likes of which he hasn't in ages. He gives his bowtie one last good pluck and adjust, making sure his hair hasn't decided to betray him by doing something ridiculous and that's it, then, now their secrets are out in the open. "Not the same as you'd remember, I'm afraid," he does admit apologetically. "Though, yes, good morning, good afternoon, and good everything. I'm the Doctor, Martha Jones. And you're as brilliant as ever, you are. Don't think I don't keep my eye on you."

Was he actually checking to make sure he was looking smart? Martha stifled her laughter, though it did emerge in her ongoing brilliant smile. "Clearly not the same as I'd remember, look at you," she pointed out, laughing. "It works, somehow, this. The bowtie, certainly." Maybe she was wanting to see what he'd do with a compliment, though she knew better than to ever expect consistent results from the Doctor.

wouldn't looking different mean something terrible had happened to him--

She quashed the thought. "Hug, for old times, then? I should have known you'd turn up here somehow, it seems like your sort of party."

He preens with delight, thinking to himself that clearly, it took a real medical professional to account for taste and the fact that someone knew that bowties were, indeed, cool. That falls away when she asks for a hug and he surges forward to embrace her tightly. "I thought you'd never ask!" he crows, delighted. "You know, the TARDIS dropped me in front of a door and off I popped with a stern whirr of the engines because I don't think she'd let me back in even if I tried, not with a snap of my fingers, not with a key, not with anything. Which," he says, easing back with a scratch of the side of his head, "could be for the best anyhow. She was a bit feisty after the last round of repairs when I might have accidentally partially put one of her couplings into the wrong output. I say it tickled, but she wasn't best pleased."

"It's best not to argue with the TARDIS," Martha said, a little bit squished from the massive hug (he was marginally less skinny than he used to be, though slightly shorter, and regardless still strong as an ox). "Particularly if you've put her through a tough time, Doctor, you really shouldn't..."

She eased back from the hug finally, giving him a cheeky smile. "But you don't need me to tell you that. There's so much that's strange about here, maybe you can sort it out."

Maybe, maybe, now that he wasn't him anymore, they could at least meet on more level ground. Less about feeling second.

"I'll have you know she's the one putting me through my paces, now," he says, affronted at the very idea that... "Oh! Oh! Martha Jones," he says excitedly, grabbing hold of the hand not occupied with a cup of coffee. "I hope you don't have much to do right now because I've just recalled. I've redecorated," he says proudly. "Although," he admits, furrowing his brow, "I didn't have much to do with it. And she stores all the backups, clever girl, keeps them tucked and hidden away. Come along," he summons, giving a light tug as he's on his way. "A quick hop in the TARDIS, for old time's sake and I'll have you back in time for crumpets," he promises.

"I'm certain she is," said Martha, who was feeling rather protective on the TARDIS' behalf. The Doctor had already got a hold of her hand, though (so familiar, oh yes, run away with the faeries, Martha Jones), and maybe it was the oh-so-liminal nature of this place, or maybe she was no longer giving a damn and trying to be good, but she let him.

"I've heard that one before," she pointed out as they went. "And I'm supposed to help Nick clean up, so you better."

He opens his mouth and declines to mention the whole mess with Amelia Pond and the twelve years and the two years because he did manage to get back in time to save the universe, so he does suppose that counts for something. Eagerly, he fishes out the new key from his pocket and tugs her gently with him as he hops and skips, clicking his heels together as he takes a left turn, spins, and then corrects so that he takes a right.

"Here we are, then," he says, opening a door that leads down the hall to the first floor guestrooms. And, temporarily, the TARDIS. He unlocks the door, but doesn't open it yet.

Instead, he stands with his back to the door, brimming with the boyish excitement of a child eager to show off his brand new toy. "Geronimo," he whispers, giving the door a kick with his heel and tumbling inwards to his beautiful, sexy girl.

The heel clicking was new, and Martha watched this version of the Doctor, trying to learn his movements, his behaviour. As if she could in five minutes--she'd not figured him out in what had been months of subjective time, plus the year--

Not thinking about that, she decided. Happy to see an old friend. And she was.

She waited for him to open the door, maybe looking faintly sceptical, because the TARDIS still looked the same on the outside, lovely and blue and box and definitely bigger on the inside. Bigger and...more angular, less womb-like, brighter somehow. She smiled at the Doctor, looking around with big eyes. It rather suited him, to be honest. "She's lovely as always," she said. "A bit steampunk, this style, isn't it?"

"She's sexy, she is," the Doctor murmurs, enraptured with running his hand over the railing as he vaults up the stairs and begins to wheel his way around the controls, pressing the button for ketchup (not mustard, of course), reverse the polarity of the neutron flow, and lean all his weight on the parking brake. "Where would you like to go, Doctor Jones?" he asks, whipping his hair out of his eyes so he can focus his attention purely on her. "All of time and space. You know the drill."

"We're in a hotel if you two need a room," Martha said, gently teasing, after a moment of the Doctor cooing over the TARDIS and giving her pats, mostly because he'd go on for hours if you let him. She had, once, and it had seemed at the end like even the TARDIS herself was sick of it, considering they'd then crashlanded on Io and pissed off some locals.

"But yeah, I know the drill," she echoed, but found her mind completely blank as to when and where. Not that they'd be guaranteed to end up there, either. "How about somewhere tropical? Tropical and friendly but without problematic all-inclusive resorts."

"I have an infinite dimension of rooms if I want a room," is his wry and arch reply, though he's running his palm soothingly over the railings as if to assuage the TARDIS that they would never actually need a room when they had their console room and all its' trappings. "Tropical and friendly," he mulls over aloud, giving her a bright flash of a grin before he starts to work his way around the controls.

"Ibiza? No, too commonplace. The fourth moon of New Sweden dislocated from the Norse Galaxy," he says, but shakes his head immediately. "I forget," he says. "Are the Azores good or bad to go to in your time period? Because," he admits, scratching his fingers through his hair, "I've seen them when they're lovely and I've seen them when they're a fiery disaster of..." he winces and mouths 'burning lava disaster' to Martha. "And, of course, there's always the floating resort space stations, populated by helpful Ood?"

"You can't have a room IN the TARDIS be that kind of room for you AND the TARDIS," Martha retorted, "that makes no sense whatsoever..." But she trailed off anyway, figuring he'd probably tell her she was thinking too three-dimensionally, and also because he'd moved on too. "The Azores are good--what do you mean, burning lava disaster--and I'd really prefer to skip the Ood, if that's all okay with you."

"It does require twisting the Eye of Harmony just enough so that it bends and says 'ow', so maybe not today," he idly remarks, turning to regard Martha and thinks of where he ought to bring them. "I know," he says. "Amy and I went there a long time ago, but that was technically in a timeline that's been overwritten, so I don't know if that means I've never been. Space Florida!" he says delightedly. "Sand in whatever colour you like, customized sand," he boasts. "They sell a mean lobster roll there, too."

"I don't wanna know," said Martha, with regards to the Eye of Harmony saying ow. She added, "Amy?" though she wasn't sure she wanted to know who Amy was, either. What was with the Doctor and women? And how had he gone there a long time ago with someone who he hadn't met yet when they'd...it was maybe a little scary, how far ahead this Doctor could be from her.

"Customised sand? Would they do silver?" she continued, so that he might forget she'd asked.

"Little Amelia Pond," the Doctor says fondly, in the way that one does when speaking of the first face his new face saw. "I crash landed into her shed while she was praying to Santa. Or the police. I'm afraid she got a Doctor instead. Good news," he says, slamming on the accelerator to bring them onwards to Space Florida, "I learned that custard and fish fingers are possibly the very best thing a man can eat," he says with a delighted smile. "Silver sand! Silver sand for Doctor Jones," he says, beaming away. "I am right in the title? It is Doctor Jones now, of course," he remarks, as though it's a foregone conclusion.

Martha recognised the expression and found herself automatically reacting to it with vague irritation. She brushed it off as best she could, looking completely bewildered by the custard and fish fingers part. She clung to the console as the Doctor upped the TARDIS' speed.

"It is Dr Jones," she concurred. "I'm thinking...Doctor? I'm thinking we're a bit skewed, time-wise. Though I suppose you're probably rather used to that."

"Yes," he replies gently, given that they do seem to be in the midst of a gap of time. "However, as a friend of mine always sees fit to tell me. Spoilers," he says warningly. "I'm happy to tell you about the gaps between us, but that could prove dangerous to the fabric of the time and space continuum. I can, however, sum up. It likely won't be as interesting as yours, though," he says, jamming on the brakes and basking in the landing sound of the TARDIS. "What do you say?" he asks, awkwardly jamming his elbow lightly against her side. "I buy you a drink and you catch me up on the goings on of your life. Silver sand, mai-tais, and Martha Jones. What more could an alien ask for!"

The Doctor, it seemed, regardless of any Amy, was far more keen to hear about her than she'd ever quite imagined him being. It was rather flattering, to be honest, and she could feel her cheeks heat.

"It sounds like a plan," she said, "though I've not got anything to wear." The TARDIS would at least solve that problem, and maybe if Martha was nice to her, she'd solve some of the wardrobe issues that came with being randomly popped into a hotel. "And don't worry, I'm not going to ask about anything out of joint."

Like whomever Mickey was.

"You're free to roam through the wardrobe, all you like," the Doctor assures with an easy smile. He, however, is already wearing his finest of beach wear, though he does think a smattering of sunscreen on his nose might be helpful. "Tell me, have you been free to come here and go there with the Nexus? Or has it kept you trapped in place?" he wonders, gesturing to where the wardrobe has relocated in the latest refurbishment. "Data is very important, of course, research," he says, tapping his temple.

"Excellent," said Martha, who then thought a moment, frowning. "Wait, is it just there?"

She was heading towards the back--much more airy and open, these days, like him--when she heard his next question, and since she was fairly certain she was going to be out of earshot for a bit if she went looking for things in the wardrobe, turned around. "I got sent back home once," she said. "When I was fretting about it quite a bit. Got dropped back just shortly after I'd left, even though I'd been here for a few days, like...like the hotel knew I was worrying. This time, well, I haven't been looking so hard. I've heard about people who have, y'know, been able to move about."

"It's not far!" the Doctor calls after her, tweaking some of the wiring that he'd found sitting exposed and there and calling to him and absolutely messing with his mind because he wanted to fix it. Sonic screwdriver in hand and a determined look on his face, he fiddled as they spoke. "I've been able to move about freely, for the most part, but considering I had just been trapped in another hotel with a minotaur after us, I do prefer the luxury sort."

Absently, he looks up to the screen above him, displaying a date and a time that he's been trying to ignore for the most part -- one he's been running from. It takes a push of a button and a tilt of the screen for the Doctor to forget Lake Silencio ... for now. "And how's your family? The lovely Mrs. Jones? Your sister?" he prompts.

support group one: no one left behind

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