Title: Space Oddity

Fandom: Hetalia: - Axis Powers

Author: Me, obviously

Genre: adventure, friendship, sci-fi, drama

Characters/Pairing(s): America, England, Prussia, Canada(/Ukraine), Russia, Lithuania, Hungary(/Austria), Spain, Greece, Liechtenstein, Belgium, France(/Jeanne) + others

Rating: T

Warnings: mostly language, but the normal Doctor Who warnings apply; mild to moderate violence, psychological mind fucks, lots of sad, punches to the guts with feelings, oh and there's overt sex references much later on.

Summary: 4th July 2000; a blue box crash lands in a garden in rural Kansas. 6th July, 2012; it rematerializes in New York City. Alfred Jones is at the centre of both instances, but the Doctor doesn't know why.

Chapter Summary: The problem, he thought, was that New York was boring.

A/N: I know this idea's been done before, but I'm hoping I'm a little more original, since I've not read any of them. Enjoy, lovelies~!

The Boy Who Waited

Alfred's house was big. It was big, and it was empty. Sometimes his brother was there, sometimes he wasn't. He didn't like being alone, but he understand that the grown-ups had to work, and he had plenty of friends at school that he could spend time with, so it wasn't all bad. There were rooms that were locked, and rooms that were empty. One room he never went into; there were things in there that he didn't understand, but made him sad.

On his seventh birthday, he was kneeling at his bedside, talking to the ceiling, thanking the Lord for all the presents he'd gotten; that handheld games console was really sweet! Thanks! He wasn't particularly religious as young boys went; he was pretty sure there was something out there, but he was more inclined to believe it was giant alien spaceships than one divine entity like his family said it was. He'd asked if God was an alien once, and got an earful for it, so he tended to avoid it now.

But the thing was, God, if you're there, if you could do that kind of thing, he was kind of lonely. Like, he had a lot of friends, and he had his brother when he was around, and he had a family and a house and he had a really good day today.

But he was still kind of lonely.

Having friends was all well and good, but they weren't really close, y'know? They were people to spend time with and gossip about girls with and play games with. They weren't people he'd give all his secrets too. He couldn't tell them about how he wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up so he could go and find aliens, because they'd laugh at him.

He just wanted someone he could spend time with.

Could he help a kid out? Please?

It was the noise he heard first; the tree house getting smashed to bits and the really loud thump of something heavy hitting the ground at speed. Alfred stared up at the ceiling for a second, holding his breath, but then he's leaping to his feet and dashing to the window, and there's a big blue box in his back garden.

He threw on his Star Wars dressing gown, grabbed his superhero flashlight and ran downstairs. There was nobody else in. His brother was staying at a friend's house, and his family was working. He put on his trainers, unlocked the door and headed outside.

The box was balanced on one edge of the base, and as he watched, it teetered and fell. Some very loud swearing echoed inside, and he slapped the torch against his palm to make it work. The label on the box said 'Police Box.'

He was pondering what that meant when the doors burst open and smoke billowed out. He waved an arm to get it out of his face, and coughed a little. Something inside the box coughed back, great big hacking coughs like someone had tried to eat the smoke. Silly thing to do, that.

'Hello?' he asked, and took a step closer.

A head popped out, followed quickly by two arms, and a lot of really angry swearing.

'Fuck the fucking swimming pool with a whole load of fucking – oh, hello.'

Alfred blinked.

The man licked his lips and glanced up at the house behind Alfred, and then at the fence and the grass, and then over his shoulder to see the remains of the tree house.

'Oh,' he said, and looked back at Alfred. 'Terribly sorry. New controls. I'm used to the gears being on the right, see, but apparently I'm a leftie now. Not to mention the fact that she's changed the handbrake to that big red button, which she could have told me about but no. I didn't mean to crash land in your garden. I really am sorry.'

'You're British,' Alfred said.

'You're not,' the man replied. 'Mind yourself.'

And then he tumbled out of the box and collapsed on the grass, wearing a suit at least a size too big with a leather bomber jacket over the top that pretty much made him look like he was about twelve. Alfred thought he might be drunk, but then realisation struck like a bolt of lightning.

'Oh man!' he shouted, and pointed the torch at him. 'You're an alien!'

1

'Yes, well done,' the man waved him off. 'Congratulations. What gave it away? The 1960's police box? The fact I'm English? How I fell from the sky?'

'No!' Alfred crowed. 'That uniform's from the Second World War!'

The man stared at him from his spot on the floor. 'I don't know which is worse, that you know that or that I'm still wearing it. This is really very nice grass. Where are we?'

'Kansas,' Alfred told him.

The man laughed. It was a nice sort of laugh, Alfred thought. It was low and easy and a little bit rough. The kind of laugh a hard-bitten hero has when faced with impossible odds and no time. It was the sort of laugh he really hoped to have when he grew up. (He wouldn't, it would be really high pitched and girly, but he could dream.)

'Kansas. Of course it's Kansas. Say, have you ever read The Wizard of Oz?'

'That's a book?' Alfred asked, and stepped back to give the man a chance to get to his feet. 'I thought it was just a film with that lady that sang that song.'

The man sighed. 'I'll see if I can find it in the library.' He paused. 'Providing it hasn't moved.'

Alfred stared at him. 'What?'

'Never mind. Listen, have you got any food? I'm starving. Always happens, but I don't always crash land in some poor sod's back garden.' He sniggered and then pulled a face. 'Oh Christ,' he sighed. 'I've got one of those heads.'

Alfred stared some more. 'I can't reach the cupboards,' he said. 'But mom did the shopping a couple of days ago.'

'Lead on,' the man said.

He was tall, Alfred thought, grabbing his hand to pull him along. Laughing that laugh again, the man – alien, Alfred supposed – let him, stride more than long enough to keep up. Alfred barely reached his hip, but he was small for his age, and had been given many assurances that he would grow into his height later. He was tall and pale, ivory against Alfred's summer gold, with hair the colour of wheat and eyes the colour of – oh what was that stuff called, that stuff that messed Superman up – kryptonite, and he'd look like a superhero too, if it wasn't for those eyebrows.

He looked kind of silly though, wearing clothes too big for him and a smudge of dirt on his nose. But that was okay, Alfred decided, it looked right.

Alfred led him through the back door and into the kitchen, making sure to shut it behind him.

The man looked around. 'Where're your parents?' he asked.

Alfred shrugged. 'Work,' he said, and pulled the refrigerator open. 'They're always at work.'

'Oh.'

'What about your parents?' Alfred asked, and turned a box of fish fingers over to look at the date. 'Where are yours?'

'Who says I have parents?' the man asked. 'I'm an alien remember? What if I don't have parents?'

'Don't be silly, everyone has parents, even if they're not around anymore.'

The man pulled the bomber jacket off and dumped it on the back of one of the chairs before leaning against the counter and folding his arms. Whilst he did so, he said, 'Is one of your parents not around anymore?'

'I 'unno. D'you like custard?'

'Custard? Been a while since I had it.' He paused. 'What do you mean, you don't know?'

'Don't really see 'em,' Alfred said, and dumped the fish fingers on the counter before shutting the fridge and climbing up onto the counter to look for custard powder in one of the cupboards.

'Get down from there, love,' the man chided, and Alfred turned to look at him, ears red.

'Love?' he asked. 'Is that a British thing?'

The man crossed over to him. 'I think so? It's been a while since I was in Britain.'

Alfred pursed his lips. 'You're weird.'

'Says you. Get down, what are you looking for?'

'Custard powder.'

'Right. Down we go,' he said, picking Alfred up under his arms and depositing him on the floor. 'You're heavy, y'know that?'

'Says you,' Alfred grinned back, and got a flick to the forehead for his trouble.

'What's this – fish fingers? Fish fingers and custard? What? No, that's disgusting. Put these away, okay? I'll just – I'll make toast. Toast is good.'

Alfred pouted, but did as he was told and then sat on the chair with the jacket on it and watched the alien wander around the kitchen. He had a bit of trouble getting the toaster to do what he wanted it to, but got there in the end. He was rooting in a cupboard when Alfred next spoke.

'But you're an alien,' he said. 'Toast is boring.'

'Look,' the man said, and turned to look over his shoulder at Alfred. His arm was still in the cupboard up to his elbow, and as he moved, something in his back cracked loudly and kind of painfully. 'Just because I'm an alien does not mean I eat fish fingers and custard.'

Alfred puffed his cheeks out, and said nothing. The man - alien - made a pleased little noise in his throat and fished out the ketchup.

'But,' Alfred said once the alien-man had sat back down. 'You burnt the toast.'

'It's not burnt.'

'It's black,' Alfred said.

The alien smothered ketchup over it. 'It's red now,' he said, and shoved the slice in his mouth.

This body, the alien thought to himself, had no taste buds. There was no way the toast wasn't burnt, but it tasted just fine to him. When he'd finished eating, he folded his arms on the table and looked at the little one sat opposite him.

'What's your name?' he asked. 'It was pretty rude of me to have not asked earlier.'

'Alfred,' the human replied.

The alien stuck his hand out. 'I'm the Doctor.'

Alfred took it and shook as strongly as he could. The Doctor's hand was cool, on the wrong side of cold, wiry and strong and rough on the palm. Alfred's hand was very small next to it, but it fitted nicely. When he let go, the Doctor retreated to his side of the table. Alfred leant back against the jacket. It smelt of rain and dust and old leather, cigarettes and alcohol and something – something he wasn't quite sure about, but it was an alright sort of smell altogether.

'What sort of doctor?' Alfred asked. 'There's all sorts of doctors – there are doctors that work with dinosaurs, I learnt about it at school.'

The Doctor smiled. 'Just the Doctor.'

'But what sort?'

'I'm not any specific sort. I'm just a doctor.'

'With a blue box.'

'Yes.'

'Oh.' Alfred was quiet for a while. 'Are you sure you're a doctor?'

The Doctor chuckled. 'Yes, I'm sure.'

''Cause I think you're an angel.'

If the Doctor had been intending to laugh again, Alfred didn't know, because he was choking, garbled noises in his throat as he gasped for air.

'Excuse me?' he asked when he got his breath back.

'Yeah! I mean, I asked God if He could send me someone I could spend time with, 'cause I'm – well, I'm really lonely! I'm on my own a lot and this house is kind of big and He sent you, so you gotta be an angel, right?'

The Doctor's smile was strained, and Alfred thought he was about to cry. He opened his mouth to apologise, but the alien beat him to it.

'Oh, well in that case,' he said. It would take Alfred several years to realise that that was a poor attempt at a joking dismissal.

'Do all doctors have blue boxes?'

'No,' the Doctor replied, and something in his face was very sad even though he was still smiling, Alfred thought. 'Just me.'

Alfred frowned. 'That sounds lonely.'

'It's alright,' the Doctor shrugged. 'I make do.'

For a while they were quiet. Alfred picked at his nails and turned his face so he could smell more of that jacket, commit it to memory before the Doctor vanished like everyone else. The Doctor fiddled with his uniform, examining his hands and messing with his hair. He grumbled something that sounded like "still not ginger", and Alfred looked at him.

'Why here?' the Doctor grumbled eventually, and propped his chin up on his hand. 'If I'm here, it's for a damn good reason. Even crashing, the TARDIS has more co-ordination than to just randomly throw herself into a garden. Random isn't in her circuitry.'

'TARDIS?'

'Time and Relative Dimension in Space – never mind, it's the name of my ship,' the Doctor said, waving a hand. Alfred had no idea what 'Relative Dimension' meant, but it sounded pretty cool. 'She doesn't do things by accident, she never has. There's something here she wants me to see or do.' He looked at Alfred then, his very green eyes very intense and very bright. 'Is there something you need fixing, love?'

Alfred shook his head. 'I'm just lonely. Not very many friends here.'

The Doctor looked at him some more. And then he smiled a soft little smile. He had dimples. 'Do you want to come with me?'

'Where?'

'Anywhere. All of time and all of space. I can take you anywhere and anywhen. We could see dinosaurs. We could go to the last days of the Earth – to the other end of the universe – they've got an amazing restaurant there, run by some delightful people – I say people. We could go to Barcelona – a planet – where they've got dogs with no noses.'

'All dogs have noses.'

'Not these ones. What d'you say?'

'Will it be dangerous?'

'I won't let you get hurt. We won't go anywhere dangerous. I promise you, you'll be safe.'

Alfred thought about it. 'How long for?'

'As long as you like.'

'Will I be home in time for school?'

'I can bring you home for ten seconds after we leave.'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'Okay,' Alfred said. 'Dogs with no noses?'

'Dogs with no noses.'

Alfred got to his feet and the Doctor followed suit, so Alfred led him upstairs to his bedroom where the Doctor helped him pack.

There was a second where there Doctor paused as if confused. He was, a little, though he wasn't sure why. He looked around the room, but nothing seemed important. There were four pictures above Alfred's bed, two pairs of shoes on the sheets waiting to be packed away, two jackets and two coats on the coat rail by the door, the things on his desk lined up neatly; four pens and two pencils, a ruler and eraser, two colouring books and a pad of paper. Two pairs of bookends, holding up two stacks of books on the shelf. Two glasses of water on the bedside table, half drunk.

'Alfred, do you like even numbers? Two, four, six and so on?'

'They're the same as odd numbers, right?' Alfred asked, absorbed in his packing. 'Don't see much difference whether they're odd or even – what's the weather like on Barcelona?'

'It's pretty average,' the Doctor replied, going to the window and looking out over the smoking TARDIS. 'T-shirt and jeans. Sensible shoes.'

'Okay. Are you alright? You look kind of sad still.'

'I'm fine,' the Doctor assured him, and ruffled the boy's hair when he passed him. 'Keep packing, okay? I'm just going to park the TARDIS again so you don't trip.'

'Okay.'

The Doctor took the stairs two at a time, hearts hammering in his chest. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his bones, but he couldn't pinpoint it, couldn't tell what. He paused to snoop around the ground floor; family portraits, a TV guide, a Monopoly board. Family things. He rifled through some envelopes on the mantelpiece until he got a name; Jones. That done, he skirted his way through the house and dropped into the TARDIS, narrowly avoiding taking his face off on the door.

Carefully manoeuvring himself down to the central console, he flicked the appropriate switches, yanked a lever, and with a whine and a groan, the engines started up again. As she righted herself, the Doctor pulled a screen towards him.

'Alfred Jones. Kansas, the United States of America, Earth. 4th July, 2000. Search.'

There was nothing, a stream of static. No data available.

'The Summer Olympic Games. Sydney, Australia, Earth. 2000. Search.'

A stream of data; all the medal winners, full records of competitors, lists of who attended what. The Doctor frowned.

'Math – Erszébet Hédervary. Adipose 5. Sigma-Seven-Delta. Search.'

A photograph of a grinning brunette surrounded by white. He pushed the screen away and turned back to the console.

'Alright, old girl,' he said. 'You can land now, if you would.'

The engines churned, there was a dull thunk, and then silence. The Doctor scrambled back to the doors and yanked them open, mouth open to call for Alfred, only to let out a noise of confusion instead. He shut the door. Opened it again.

He turned back to the console.

'You've parked us in the wrong place again,' he told her.

The console room's lights took on a pinkish hue; embarrassment, or as close to it as she could get.

He heaved a sigh. 'Never mind.' He looked outside again. 'Love,' he said, turning to look over his shoulder. 'Are we even in Kansas?'

The lights went blue; no.

'Well, fuck. Do you still take the same key?'

The engines churned and he shrugged. 'Well we don't have time for that, do we?'

She fell still and silent again, shutting down to finish repairing herself. There was a less than polite boot up his arse from the door slamming shut, and he found himself locked out.

'Well, that's just dandy.'

Shoving his hands in his trouser pockets, he slipped out of the alleyway and looked around. A metropolis – no flying cars, so it was four-digit Earth at least – stretching too high and too far. But there was a gaping hole in the skyline, a little too conspicuous.

'Hold up,' he said. 'What's that then?'

Traffic, of course, was horrendous, but he managed to get across the road and round a corner before running into trouble.

Trouble being a very silly young woman.

He was rooting through his pockets, hoping he had the Sonic Screwdriver still, stood in front of one of those newspaper vending machines and scowling at the New York Times inside.

'Can I help?' she asked.

The Doctor shook his head and pulled out a handful of Belgian Francs.

'No, I'm good.'

She stood there, and stared at him.

'Can I help?' he asked, aware he was pulling a face.

He shoved the Francs away and rooted some more. The Screwdriver was nowhere to be found, of course. He did have his psychic paper though, thank God.

'You're British,' she said.

'English,' he corrected, and then stopped. 'Well. Whatever. Listen, can you tell me where I am?'

'New York? In America?'

'What about the date?'

'Sixth July, 2012.'

'Cheers.'

And he strode away, lamenting leaving the bomber jacket on the chair in Alfred's dining room.

Alfred.

2

There must be a way to get in contact with him. The more he stood in the middle of a fairly quiet street, staring at the buildings around him, the more he became aware that there were people staring at him. He was wearing a World War Two uniform that was too big for him, and the general consensus, probably, was that he was drunk, or at the least, hung-over. He felt it, all dizzy and disorientated, lost in this new world. He'd not been to New York City before.

'What do I do?' he murmured to himself, dug his hands into his pockets, and started walking back in the general direction of the TARDIS.

He got lost, of course, wound his way through the streets until he found himself on an intersection between three different streets. In front of him was a large department store, and there was a poster in the window saying there was a café. Making sure he had his psychic paper, he slipped through the revolving doors and headed straight for the café. He needed a drink, whatever they had that wasn't god-awful coffee.

The psychic paper bought him a mug of hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin. He wasn't fond of blueberries, but it was better than nothing, and he settled into a corner table to think things through.

He'd go back to the TARDIS, go back to Kansas ten seconds from where he left Alfred, and no one would be any the wiser. It would only take as long as she needed to finish regenerating anyway, and Alfred wouldn't know the difference. He'd take the boy to Barcelona, and then to that satellite that was nothing but an amusement park. Maybe he'd take him to the Library, teach him about all the things in space that he couldn't show him. Just a quick spin around the galaxy. He'd return later, when Alfred was older, maybe, take him on a proper journey.

Matthew, Erszebét, they'd both left gaping holes in his ribs, the former especially. Erszebét had never been his to claim, but Matthew had been so wonderful, all bright eyes and eagerness to understand. He hoped the kid was okay now.

Draining the last of the chocolate, he got to his feet and made for the door.

'Wait a minute!'

He paused, turned, and caught a flash of brown leather before it was gone. It was that woman from earlier.

'Here,' she said, and handed him a city guide. 'You looked lost, so I thought it might help.'

He took it, eyebrow raised. 'Thank you.'

She rocked up onto her toes and kissed his cheek, then blushed bright red and disappeared.

'Okay?'

The Doctor turned and made to leave again.

'Alfred?'

'Twelve years,' the boy replied, but he wasn't a boy any more, he was a man, an adult and he'd grown well, all broad shoulders and strong jaw. His eyes were still so blue and he was wearing glasses now, rectangular things that removed any trace of boyishness that might have been there still. 'Twelve years you were gone.' And God, but didn't he sound broken for it. A shop floor was no place to start a scene, but there was no way to get him out; he was wearing a name tag, he worked here.

Something buzzed in the Doctor's ears, but he ignored it. 'You're wearing my jacket.'

'It's the only thing you left behind.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't realise we'd gone so far ahead. I'd planned to go back, when the TARDIS let me back in.' He grinned sheepishly. 'I've been locked out.'

He couldn't stop staring. Where was the little boy he'd left a half-hour ago? There was nothing of him left, and yet he was still in there. Alfred had aged so well, and he wasn't done yet, he was still so young. Alfred stood there staring at him in return, and the Doctor let him look, wondered what the twelve years had turned him into in Alfred's mind.

'You're so short,' Alfred said then. 'You used to be so big.'

The Doctor laughed, had heard that before. 'I know,' he replied. He licked his lips, drew his eyebrows together in a frown. 'The offer still stands.'

'What offer?'

'Barcelona.'

'All dogs have noses,' Alfred said, serious, but there was laughter in his eyes.

'Not these ones,' the Doctor grinned back, and let Alfred sweep him up into his arms.

Alfred was warm and firm under his arms, a solid presence. He was all muscle now, the kind of muscle one gets from living a very energetic life, rather than training for it. The Doctor imagined Alfred played a lot of sports and walked everywhere. He was wrong, of course, Alfred begged lifts off people, but he did at least play a lot of sport.

'I'm glad you're back,' Alfred murmured into the alien's neck.

'I'm glad to be back,' the Doctor replied, inhaled the smell of barley and fresh coffee on Alfred's collar. Once Alfred had set him back on his feet, that buzzing began again. 'Have you got a faulty circuit somewhere?' he asked, 'I can hear a buzzing noise.'

'What sort of buzzing?' Alfred asked in reply. 'Could be the lights.'

'No, no, it's like a, a.' The Doctor waved a hand, all loose wrist and flappy fingers. 'Static noise. Like the sort of noise when there's open electricity.'

'There's none of that here,' Alfred told him, and looked around, scratching his head. 'I'm pretty sure that's dangerous.'

'No, I know, that's why it's bugging me. Listen, you don't have my screwdriver, do you?'

'Screwdriver?'

'It was in my – your – bomber pocket.'

Comprehension dawned, and Alfred went red in the ears. 'Oh, that thing that makes the whizzing noise. It's uh, in my bedroom. At university. Is it important?'

The Doctor shrugged. 'Nah, not really, just be handy's all. I'm going to go take a poke around, alright? Just keep working, and I'll – wait, what time do you get off?'

Alfred stared at him.

'What?'

'From work.'

'What about it?'

'You said – oh, never mind. My shift ends at five. It's three-twenty now, so meet me back here, alright?'

The Doctor grinned. 'Not going to try and stop me from going off by myself?'

'No,' Alfred shrugged. 'It's not like you can get anywhere, is it?'

The Doctor just laughed and slipped around him to leave the café and head for the upstairs men's department.

As it turned out, the buzzing he heard was an inter-space, post-regeneration migraine, and after sprawling out in a cupboard for some half an hour and spitting out excess regeneration energy, he was back to normal – as normal as he could ever be, anyway – and on his way. Not, as he found, after bluffing his way into the manager's office for a poke around, that there was any way to be going. There was literally nothing of interest.

It was perfectly normal.

It was just a department store.

'Oh, how dull!' he exclaimed to himself, strolling through the men's section with his hands in his pockets. 'What's the use of you all if you're not going to get yourselves into trouble?'

The mannequin standing posed the same way as he was walking said nothing, but he'd not really expected it to. The Doctor sighed, eyed the suit the mannequin was wearing, and bemoaned the fact the only money he had on him dated from seventy years ago.

When he went to find Alfred again, the boy was waiting for him, wearing that bomber jacket. It fit him like he was meant to wear it. The Doctor wondered if he was. They stood their looking at each other again, the Doctor's hands in his trouser pockets, Alfred's in his jackets, and then the Doctor shrugged.

'Your life is terribly boring,' he said. 'Come on, let's go find adventure.'

'Some of us like terribly boring lives though,' Alfred said, and led the Doctor outside.

Instead of replying with words, the Doctor gave him a look. Alfred went pink.

'Alright, alright, maybe I was waiting for you because I was bored of routine, can we just get a move on already?'

It was the Doctor's turn to go pink.

'I suppose we can, yes.' It was a hurried agreement, a little flustering.

Seven hundred years he'd been doing this, picking people up and taking them for a spin, and some lasted longer than others, but Alfred was, undeniably, the first that had waited for him. Some left willingly, others by force, some never wanted to go and some never wanted to see anything but the back of him from the moment he turned to leave them be. But no one had ever waited for him to come back to them, had never been so sure that he would.

Alfred was meant to come with him.

3

'Good,' Alfred grinned, and flung an arm around the Doctor's shoulders. If he noticed the Doctor's reaction, he didn't say a word. 'Then let's go! There's dogs with no noses on that I have to take photos of!'

'You can't take photos,' the Doctor complained, but made no move to remove Alfred's arm. 'It'll mess up the space-time – oh, sod it, take your photos if you like.'

About halfway back to the TARDIS, the Doctor stopped. Alfred kept walking for a few steps and his arm fell away when there were no skinny shoulders to support it. The boy turned, confused.

'What is it?'

'How far away's this university of yours?'

'Other side of town,' Alfred shrugged. 'Half an hour maybe?'

'Fuck it, I'll get another one.' Regeneration always gave him a new screwdriver anyway, the one Alfred had would burn out soon enough.

'Another one of what?'

'The screwdriver,' the Doctor said, shuffled in his suit and continued walking.

He really needed to change out of this uniform, it was much too big now, but he still hadn't found what sort of person he was yet. Was he a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of Time Lord? Was he the sort to wear a stick of celery in his lapel? Did he like jelly beans? These were important questions he hadn't yet answered and until he answered them, there was no point in changing. Besides, it fit well enough that he didn't much have any problems moving.

'So is Barcelona still T-shirts-and-jeans sort of weather?' Alfred asked.

The Doctor looked at him, gave him a long once-over and almost tripped over a littering Starbucks cup whilst looking at the taller man's shoes.

'Ah, you'll be alright, I reckon. Might be a little warm, but it's not much hotter than here. It's not Hawaiian shirt weather, that's for sure.'

'Cool.'

Whilst the Doctor tried to navigate them back to the TARDIS, they didn't much speak, the Doctor too busy trying to remember where exactly the old girl had parked herself this time, and Alfred too busy thinking about whatever it was he was busy thinking about. She must surely have finished regenerating by now, and finished adding the last little touches to make herself presentable. The lipstick and eyeliner, if you would. Couch cushions in the library and a huge array of rubber ducks by the bathtub. He really hoped there were rubber ducks this time, bath time was always so boring without rubber ducks.

Not, of course, that he'd worked out what their purpose was exactly. He mostly thought they were fun things to have in the bath.

'Doctor?'

'Hmm?'

'We aren't lost, are we?'

The Doctor laughed, high in his throat. 'No,' he replied. 'Not at all. Not a single bit.'

'Doctor.'

'Yes. We're lost.'

Alfred laughed then. 'Well, this is an adventure. Do you recognise anything?'

'Everything looks the same to me. It all looks boring.'

'That's just rude,' Alfred huffed, but he was still laughing.

The Doctor glared at him. 'I've never been to New York before! It's not my fault.'

The problem, he thought, was that New York was boring. There was nothing interesting going on to give him a point of reference. Oh, he supposed it was interesting to everyone else, all the humans living here and the aliens that stopped by with their perception filters making them blend in, though some did it more effectively than others, because really, a suit made of meat was not the height of fashion no matter what anyone seemed to think.

Nothing interesting was happening at all; there were no explosions, no megalomaniacal aliens, no past adventures going wrong and coming back to haunt him, not even one measly attempt to undermine the government. What was wrong with this city, this country even?

'There aren't even any pig-humans,' he groused to himself, forgetting, for a moment, that Alfred was there.

'Pig-humans?'

'Never mind. Oh! I recognise this street, this is where I got accosted by that bloody woman.'

'You got accosted?'

'I'm English,' the Doctor said.

'Ah,' Alfred nodded.

The Doctor jogged down the street, ignoring the people who stopped to stare, and came to a standstill in front of the newspaper bin. He looked around, and carefully retraced his steps back to the TARDIS, standing pride of place and completely invisible to everyone walking past her.

Only.

She wasn't there.

'What?'

'What is it?' Alfred asked, looking around.

The Doctor extended both hands to where the TARDIS should have been, but wasn't. It was just empty space.

'My TARDIS! She's gone!'

'What?'

'I swear to all that is even in existence!' the Doctor snapped, and span on the spot to look around, coming back to a rest next to Alfred, his arms folded and pouting. 'If someone's stolen her to make a paradox machine or turn her into a weapon or some kind of battleship, I swear to God I am going to write a stiff letter of complaint.'

'You are so British,' Alfred told him.

'I know, it's a bad habit. I mean it though, if someone's gotten their hands on her, there's no telling what's going to happen. It's just bloody typical. I've not been regenerated for five hours and look, my TARDIS had been stolen.'

'Did you leave it unlocked?' Alfred had precisely zero right to laugh, but he was doing it anyway.

The Doctor hit him, a fist to the arm, and panic had begun to set in, deep in the marrow of his ribs.

'This isn't good,' he said, and tugged at his hair. 'This isn't good at all. You don't realise what this means.'

He rubbed at his forehead, tried to think of any reason she could not be where he'd left her. It wasn't like her to just get up and fly away, not unless there was a reason for her to get out of town. Unless there was danger. Danger dangerous enough to pose a danger even to her. Slowly, the Doctor turned to look at Alfred.

'It's you, isn't it?' he said. 'This is all about you.' He slapped his hands to Alfred's cheeks and pressed them together, cooing, 'Oh, you brilliant, brilliant girl! You knew!'

4

And then he was bounding away back the way they'd come, dragging Alfred by the wrist.

'We need to go that university of yours,' he said as they walked briskly through the streets, and the Doctor fell back a pace to let Alfred lead. 'I need that screwdriver, else we're never getting to Barcelona.'

++End Chapter++

NOTES::

There are a few shout-outs in here, so if you missed some, here's a rundown.

When the Doctor mentions the restaurant at the end of the universe, that is, obviously, Hitchhikers.

There are a whole bunch of shout-outs to the different doctors.

The function of a rubber duck is a fond reminiscence of Arthur Weasley.

Doctor, oh my God, you can't accuse Lady GaGa of being an alien! …Can you?

But who cares about that, right? So, I've started another project, wow genius me! This won't be very action centric. There will be a lot of running, but not many guns and fights and explosions. I'm going for the more psychological route on this one, rather than lots of death and murder. I know that sounds boring, but fingers crossed, it won't be!

++Vince++