Harry's Café

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When Time has gone on for a very long stretch, and the Doctor has been and gone, there stands a café, a strange place, where strange people meet and gather. It sometimes changed place, or at least appeared to, popping up in the most strange and unimaginable places, to suit the most strange and unimaginable groups of clientèle.

Susan found her way there one day after school; Ian and Barbara a few months after making it home from their many adventures with the Doctor; Dodo had wandered past, but never thought much of it; Jo seemed to never be rid of the place; Sarah Jane often wrote up her notes there, unafraid; Tegan would go there to remember, sometimes; Ace came and went, looking different every time; Grace found it only once or twice, but traded stories of both the strange and the familiar; Mickey went there often, sometimes without even realising which place it was, to drown his sorrows at first, and later for the atmosphere; Martha never seemed to care for the place, but she came back time and again; Donna temped there twice - the first time, she became locally famous, the second, they stared, and hardly said a word; Wilf found the place once, and that was all; Amy and Rory came whenever they could, and were respected - to a point... and River Song would sit in there for hours on end, simply talking, but only when there was no one else around.

Jack, of course, was a regular - but only really up until a certain point. Then, his visits became sparse, few and far between. But they still happened, and in the general scheme of things, it wasn't really all that long until he started coming back again, same as he always had.

The proprietor, of course - the Harry that the sign invariably declared as the café's owner, despite the many years that went by - was the strangest of them all. He with the salt and pepper hair that might once have been black, and the beard - which, he said, was simply for old times' sake. He'd sit at the bar, which was a round thing, always dressed smart and charming to any and all who came by. Some would look at him and think that they recognised a familiar face, but look away, thinking that they had surely been mistaken, never quite meeting the man's eyes. And they were old, old eyes, eyes that had seen far worse things than even the hardened soldier, fighter, warrior or victim that ever stepped foot inside, eyes that had seen far more grief and loss and excitement than those who hadn't been home for such a long time.

Fights were not to be allowed in the café, but were on the street, if they didn't draw attention - "This place is a state of grace," he'd say, but the look on his face when such things happened, oh so rarely, was one of pure nostalgia.

The café itself had a warm, friendly atmosphere, similar to the room you grew up in as a child, where everything was safe and secure. Yet there was, at the same time, a quality of age to the place, of a kind that few could put into words that would fully describe the sensation. It would creak and groan at times, and at others there seemed to be a sad, melancholy sort of song coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. At times, it would seem as though the owner talked to the building itself - sometimes fondly, sometimes decidedly not so. There would be strange looks sent in his direction, and fond smiles of old times shared, but never anything said to his face.

And then, one fine day that was the middle of the night somewhere, with a sky that had clouds bearing rainstorms somewhere over its planet, a man walked in wearing a long military coat and a swagger. He collapsed on a seat right in front of the bar, stroking the coral-esque top. A jaunty grin was on his face as he called out which didn't entirely meet his eyes, eyes that were too old, far too old, eyes that remembered wars fought and battles won, lovers loved and labours lost, years come and past and never forgotten, that never forgot what it was to live.

"You know, I still can't quite believe she chose you of all people," he said, making the owner smirk at a memory filled with irony. "Whatever." He shook his head. "You can make mine a hypervodka on the house, Saxon."

Harry 'Saxon' glared at the man mildly. "How many times have I told you to not call me that any more?"

Jack Harkness laughed. "Never enough, Saxon. Never enough. And where's that hypervodka, eh, Old Girl?"

A shot glass found its way resentfully underneath the correct pump, which then proceeded to pour by itself.

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AN: Harry is the name that the Master took when he was running for Prime Minister. And then there's that line of 'it ought to be' which wouldn't leave me alone.