He had met her because he hated getting forced to earth against his will and getting drunk, or at least trying to get such, sounded like a good idea to him. Then again who would tell him no; the Tardis who never spoke to him anymore? The android replacement of his oldest of enemies and friends who seemed to find much more amusement out of sneering and smirking at everything he said and tried to do in a bitter combination of hatred and pity? No he was on his own when it came to his drinking habits and that suited him just fine in the longrun. He was meant to be alone, it did the universe so much more good if he was left with no true companion outside of the robot that was the vessel for the consciousness of the Master. Not only was he harder to kill as an android but he was the Master, already impossible to keep down. That left him with some sort of connection but it was hard still, and being dumped on Earth with no explanation, no visible reasoning, left the Doctor feeling bitter and in need of a stiff drink. Or not so stiff, as long as it was good he didn't much care.
How he always knew where the nearest bar was to the Tardis was almost startling; stepping out, he made sure to lock the door behind him and take the cell phone from its cradle in the phone box on the disguised time machine. A quick glance at time and date preceded the device being put away before he started off. The crisp night air bit at his skin, and would have been more troublesome if not for his naturally low body temperature and as such was just a mild irritation; the renegade Time Lord continued on as if it was nothing, slipping in amongst the others who wandered the night, looking for something or other. People were always looking for something or other, a way to fill the holes in their lives, the spaces left in their souls that made them worry if they were truly complete. The human condition, the condition of far more species than there were humans; the Doctor saw it in their actions and eyes but ignored it, knowing his limits perhaps too well at this point in life.
A few blocks and took a turn into an alleyway, following more instinct than knowledge of the area; there were far less people in this part of the street, only himself, a drunk who seemed to be trying to get his bearings by leaning against the nearest wall and dry heaving, an old cat watching from a nearby fire escape as if it was god and they were its unwitting worshippers, and near the farther part of the alley, a man who seemed to be talking to a pile of rags. Correction: flirting with said rags. Upon getting closer, the door to the bar he'd been looking for was closer to the man than to the entrance to the alleyway, the Doctor was forced to make another correction; not a pile of rags but a person, wrapped in a blanket, a small one at that if the ease of confusing the possible child, and potential little person, was any indication.
Part of him wanted nothing to do with it, humans had done such things for as long as they have been able to understand the concepts of love and attraction. What they did on their own time and in their own lives, despite some evidence to the contrary, was none of his business. But the sight of obvious yet another drunk, and of course it had to be the aggressively affectionate type as was the Doctor's luck, hitting on someone who either was dead, asleep or just not interested was somewhat tiresome. And part of him wished for a fight; it would clear his head a bit at least and relieve a little more of the tension he was hoping to drown in alcohol.
And so he bypassed the bar, for the time bring, and approached the man; getting closer revealed the drunken man's actual words, an awkward combination of drunken bravado and disgusting innuendos. The Doctor lifted a hand and tapped him on the shoulder, not only interrupting him mid-explanation of things better left unexplained, but as was come when the extremely drunk are suddenly touched or interrupted, throwing the man completely off guard. Enough to make him stumble back away from the Time Lord, looking at him with owlish large eyes before scurrying off, knocking over things in his stumbling escape. The Doctor simply raised an eyebrow, watching this display with mild amusement before turning his and attention back to the bundle of blankets, finally speaking, "Are you alright?"
No response, not even movement; it made him wonder again in he had saved a corpse and what a waste that would have been. He sighed and turned to go back over to the bar door, opening it and going inside; he definitely needed a drink now he figured, closing the door behind him. He didn't notice the figure's first movements, shuffling to get up and move over to the door to follow him inside.
The place had the unmistakable scent of a proper bar; beer, smoke, regret, all mixed together to make a rather distinct aura. It was nothing new to him and without hesitation he approached the bar, "Gin and tonic, heavy on the gin, please."
The bartender, a burly looking bald man with a silent face and many tattoos, nodded and got to work on his drink; the Doctor sat at the bar, waiting, and heard the door open once more. He preoccupied himself as he waited by contemplating how best to try and make it so that those who kept sending to do things for them wouldn't be able to use his Tardis to do so anymore. He barely paid any mind to the gentle footsteps, nor when they stopped and this someone set something down against the barstool beside him before climbing onto said stool. The Doctor really only came back out of his thoughts when he heard the bartender's voice for the first time, "You again, kid?"
He raised an eyebrow, wondering what man was going on about and then looked to his side. There, still wrapped in the ratty blanket, sat the small being from before, just now the Doctor could see their, her, face.
It truly was a child, probably no older than six or seven years old; her long black hair was matted in dirt and what looked suspiciously like blood. Her face was dirty as well, as if she hadn't been inside in a long time, yet she didn't smell as a homeless person would. Above all though the Doctor noticed her eyes, an unnatural crimson color, notably blank as she looked up at the bartender mutely, her mouth set in a slight frown. The man seemed not to care, turning away momentarily before setting a glass of opaque liquid in front of her. The Doctor raised an eyebrow, "I must wonder when bars started serving milk, not to mention allowing in children."
"You a copper?" asked the bartender.
The Doctor shook his head, "No, simply an intrigued bystander."
"Then sod off; I ain't giving the little thing anything alcoholic, just milk, and its better than leaving her to starve," scoffed the bartender indignantly.
The child held the glass with both hands, sipping the milk quietly; the Doctor watched her for a moment, taking note of the odd parcel besides her, wrapped up in an old cloth but long like some sort of staff, leaning against her stool. He raised an eyebrow then turned to the bartender again, the man setting down a glass for him, "So this girl comes here often?"
"Yeah," said the bartender and moved some to serve another person, "For a month now; she comes in every night and sits here. I figure she has nowhere else to go."
"She's quite dirty," the Doctor commented.
"Yeah been in some scrapes that one," the man said with a chuckle, "Though she showed up like that to begin with; somethin' certainly happened to her before."
Finishing her drink the girl set the glass down and looked at the bartender; he reached out and ruffled her hair, "Doesn't talk much or at all actually."
"Never said a word?" the Doctor inquired glancing at her again.
"Never" came the response and the girl pushed the bartender's hand away before picking up her parcel from before and holding it. She then looked at the Doctor and nodded quietly, as if trying to say something without words. He raised an eyebrow at her then nodded as well, "I suppose you are thanking me then?"
"What for?" asked the bartender.
"Nothing much; some gentlemen was bothering her and I intervened, if you could call it that." The Doctor smiled a little at the child; she didn't seem all that needy, despite her obvious homeless state. He wondered about the thing in her arms of course but that was something for another time he supposed; he looked to the bartender again, "You seem to like this child; why haven't you taken her in?"
"The missus would never allow it; got too many kids as it is," the man replied with a chuckle, "I love kids personally and I feel bad for the little thing so I give her what I can easily give."
"What about taking her to a shelter or orphanage?" inquired the Time Lord.
The bartender frowned, "Those are all hellholes filled with nothin' but monsters and thieves; she'd be better off like this than in there."
The Doctor wasn't sure about that and looked at the girl again; she seemed less than interested in the conversation, playing with the fabric on the object. When she noticed him staring she blinked and tilted her head as if confused by his interest. He wondered if he should say more but the door opened before he could and loud laughter could be heard; upon looking over he saw it was a group of men, the rough type who tended to drink heavily and pick fights. Often enough with him as it was; not feeling up for a confrontation the Doctor turned to his drink and focused on it, drinking half of it in seconds. An unsavory way to go about it but nothing life-ruining; the child beside him watched the newcomers and one of them noticed. All four of them approached and the apparent leader, if only because he was meanest looking and burliest of all, snarled at her, "What the fuck is a little brat doing here?!"
"Didn't know this was a bloody daycare," another slurred slightly.
A third reached out to grab her, probably to pick her up and throw her; the Doctor with a decision that wasn't really a decision. Interfere again and help the little girl, or stay out of it and drink his gin and tonic until they turn on him, and he knew they always would. Just like he would always protect those who needed it when they were in trouble in front of him; that was probably what drove him to move, grabbing the man's arm before it reached the girl, getting the mans attention, "Excuse me good sir but I wouldn't do that."
"Why, poof? This your little gay brat?" the man said with a snort, his fellows laughing along.
"Perhaps she is, though I am no poof and she is no 'little gay brat'," the Doctor responded; he gave them a mildly challenging, mildly amused looks, "What will you do about it?"
The man frowned, no longer jovial before trying to pull free of the Doctor's grip. No such luck a small smirk crossed the Gallifreyan's lips. A growl and then things got crazy.
The Doctor didn't really remember what happened next; all he knew was that there was yelling and punching, his drink got spilled, someone got hit by a bottle of alcohol perhaps by the bartender, a bar fight broke out and he found himself running from the establishment with the six year old under his arm, and her parcel still in gets, making his way back to the Tardis. It took him a few moments, and blocks, to calm down and think over what he just did; he looked at the child and she stared back and he wondered if that was right for a moment. But her eyes, so blank before showed light and confusion and interest and he couldn't resist a small smile as he set her down, "Well then, the Master will certainly have some words to say about this. Come along then child..."
He offered her his hand and she was still for a moment, as if contemplating it before reaching out and grabbing it. She nodded a silent agreement and he walked the rest of the way with her, back to his Tardis again.