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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"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.

Martha made it to the wardrobe--again, much more open, this TARDIS space, she rather liked it--and began rummaging around for something to wear to the beach. A maxi dress, perhaps, that would be suitable, and some sandals, and a wrap because knowing the Doctor, things would probably end up not being what was expected.

"I'm glad you're not stuck," she called back. "Wait, a minotaur? Was this some sort of misguided metaphor for Crete, or...or are you not able to tell me because of spoilers?" That was going to get a bit awkward. "My parents're fine. Still back together, shockingly, though they do occasionally have huge blowouts. And Tris is doing well, just started a contract with the BBC."

"I don't think telling you would do anything," he muses idly as he takes a seat and crosses his legs, fixing his bowtie absently in an effort to continue to impress her. He could rely on the TARDIS to do it for him, but there are other laurels he can rest on just as easily. "As best as I can tell, it was a prison that fueled your fears to feed upon your faith," he says. "There was a room there for everyone. Unfortunately, the whole thing was defunct. We made it out."

"Not quickly enough," he adds, thinking of Rita and of Howie and Joe. And then, losing the Ponds to the monotony of real life. The Doctor's smile is weak, empty; hollow and filled with the loneliness that's started to seep in, given the last while of travelling alone. "I'm rubbish at taking care of my companions, at times, Martha Jones. I'm sure I don't have to tell you twice."

By this point Martha had found a suitable red maxi in light fabric (not quite chiffon, probably futuristic) and had put it on, along with a wrap, and was digging about for footwear. "To feed upon your faith?" she echoed, poking her head up before finally settling on some not-very-stylish-but-comfy Birkenstocks.

She was about to rummage some more, maybe ask if she could take some away to the hotel (asking him to take her home seemed wrong, like crossing the streams), when she detected the very familiar change in tone. Heading back down towards him, she said, not unkindly, "Well...I hope you don't want me to lie to you, Doctor."

"No, I think the time for lies is well over," he assures her, his hands folded in his lap as he offers her a polite smile. "Lovely choice, the TARDIS hasn't lost her touch, now has she?" he praises fondly. "Though, she is rather terrible about not giving me a fez when I ask for it. I think she's well aware how short a time it would last, given the predilection of my companions to shoot hats off my head," he scowls.

"She hasn't," said Martha, who usually would have badgered him further about this sudden remorse--she wasn't sure why she wasn't. "Though I think she just has a fashion sense of her own that she wants you to stick to, perhaps. Or maybe she's just taking the piss."

"She's sulking, is what I think," he accuses with his very own sulking expression, hypocritical to the extreme. He handles this with aplomb, however, making his way to the zig-zag plotter and wheeling the screen over with him. "Space Florida for Dr. Jones and some silver sand!" he says, slamming his palm down against a shiny bright red button on the console, forgetting the earlier serious conversation all-together.

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support group one: no one left behind

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