900 years of time and space and I've never met someone who wasn't important before.
He says these words as he opens the door of his weathered wooden blue box. He runs his fingers along the wood, the wood that has seen galaxies and nations and all of time and space. They've gone through a lot together, him and his box.
Madman with a box. After all these years.
He steps out into the winter chill, adjusting his tweed jacket. The night lights sparkle above him as snowflakes drift down from the sky in a beautiful dance. She'll be waiting for him. Snow. Gwendolen Snow. She just doesn't know it yet.
The café is on the corner, with a string of twinkling lights on the balcony above. He ducks in the door, the warm atmosphere beckoning him to come in. He hasn't been this warm in a long time. The aroma of coffee and cinnamon. Warm, orange light. He steps into the dim atmosphere and glances around. Ah, there she is. Sitting in a booth, with the orange light reflecting in her hair. She is alone. Lonely. Even better.
He pushes through the café, muttering a few "excuse me's" as he goes. It feels strange to be polite, to be around people, like a glove that doesn't quite fit. He hasn't done this in a long time. He's always been alone.
But hopefully not for much longer.
"Having a pint?" He says, nodding toward the plastic tumbler sitting on the table. He slides into the booth across from her. "I've never quite had the taste for it, but the night is still young."
She gives him a wary glance, an arching of the eyebrow and a hardening of her gaze. "Who are you?"
"Ah, but, see, I think the better question is—who are you? It's infinitely more interesting than who I am. Wouldn't want to bore you."
She blinks. A common reaction. "Gwen," she chokes out, way too fast, then has the expression of one who wishes to take their words right back. She shakes her head slightly. "Gwendolen Snow. Now seriously, who are you?"
"The Doctor. Madman with a box… proud owner of a sonic screwdriver, and Time Lord extrordinaire at your service." He leans forward, folding his hands and setting them on the table. "I got your letter."
"…What letter?"
"The one you wrote on one of the worst nights of your life. It's in here." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crackly piece of paper, yellowed with age. He opens it, clears his throat, and begins to read. " 'I just want an adventure. I want to get out of here. Feel the wind in my sails. I'm lonely. Always lonely. And longing for an adventure. Someone, please… come take me away.' " He folds the letter back up and stares into her eyes. "I am that someone."
"Wh—where did you find that?" Her eyes are full of questions, her muscles tense. Ready to run.
"In a trunk in 22nd century France." He smiles, his voice drops to a whisper. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me."
"It's… it's not a secret." She smooths her hands down her skirt and fidgets with her glass. "Now if you'll excuse me, I… have to go. My boyfriend—"
"Gwen. Don't lie to me." He puts a hand on hers, stopping her. "You're afraid. You're running."
"Who are you?" Her voice rises in intensity. "You think you can just come in here and… ruin my life?"
"I'm not ruining your life." Another smile softens the corners of his lips. "I'm changing it."