"Hello, old friend." Harold nervously wiped his glasses on the edge of his shirt. It was all he could think of to say to the young man in front of him.
"Hello, Harold." The young man's voice was quiet, hypnotic, nothing like it had been in the past. He caught Harold's eye and held it, and the shorter man realized that young was entirely the wrong word. He had the oldest eyes Harold had ever seen.
"Would you like to sit down?"
"Of course." With an oddly graceful turn, the other man slipped behind Harold's desk and took a seat in his chair. Harold perched awkwardly on one of the two chairs opposite him.
"What shall I call you?" Harold rubbed his nose.
"I'm still the Doctor." The tone of voice held the lightest note of reproach, and it filled Harold's mind with visions of a summer from his childhood, a summer filled with a magical blue box and an even more magical man with dark hair and a bowlcut, a man who had turned his world upside-down.
"Why are you here?" Harold had long-ago learned that there was no point in being indirect with the Doctor. Much better to get to the crux of things.
"I'm here because I'm going to die." The smile that accompanied the words was like the last ray of sun at nightfall.
"You said you couldn't—die." The words belonged to the boy Harold had been, not the man he'd become.
The Doctor smiled again, a smile that filled up his eyes and nearly pulled a smile from Harold's solemn countenance. "Those were the words of a proud man to win the trust of a boy. And yet, not a lie. I'm hard to kill, but it's not impossible."
"What do you want with me?" Harold felt his right hand clutch his left, and he wondered when he'd turned into someone who always counted the cost.
"Oh, Harold," said the Doctor, giving him a sad, penetrating look. "I haven't come to take anything from you. I've come to give you something." Harold watched as he stood up and went over to the blue box, which was standing quietly in the corner of his office. The Doctor had once told him it was alive; he wondered now if that were true. "Come along!" The voice jolted him. As obediently as he had when he was twelve, Harold followed the Doctor inside the box's tall wooden doors.
Harold's breath left him. It was as large as he'd remembered!—larger, perhaps. Now, though, it was no longer empty and silver and cold. Instead, it was alive with red and yellow, glass, and aged metal. It was the home of a Doctor who had seen and done much more than the one who had met his child self, filled with buttons and artifacts and joy. Harold felt tears begin to form in his blue eyes.
After a moment, he felt a gentle hand touch his shoulder. "Here it is. I flew through two star systems to bring it to you." The Doctor handed him an ordinary-looking three-ring binder.
Harold blinked. He'd expected something a bit more, well, unearthly, perhaps a piece of moon rock or a component of alien technology.
The Doctor laughed and smoothed the bowtie that seemed oddly appropriate and oddly out-of-place on his ridiculously youthful body. "The government's given you a job, haven't they?"
Harold nodded. It was no use asking how the Doctor knew things. He just did.
"This will help you finish it up." The Doctor patted his shoulder again, and Harold followed him back into the dim light of the office, wishing he could stay in the blue box forever.
"It's about time for me to go." The Doctor smiled again. "I've loads to do before I say farewell to this planet." His tone was playful now, and he nearly danced.
"One thing—," Harold's voice was hesitant.
"Yes?" The Doctor stopped mid-strut.
"Why are you doing this for me, Doctor?" Harold stared at his hands.
The Doctor looked at him, and Harold felt as if every secret he'd ever had was lingering in the room between them. "You were a lovely boy, Harold, and you always wanted to be a knight." The Doctor disappeared into the box, and Harold watched it dematerialize, feeling as if he, too, had become insubstantial.