Tirhena walks down a familiar side street, toward her cafe on Grovesnor Square. After so many years, she barely notices the people, traffic, or even buildings she passes. Background noise. Ephemera. Fleeting images, no more substantial or lasting than a wave on a beach.

How many times have I made this walk now? My feet have touched these exact spots on these exact stones before. How many more times will I take these same steps before I can go home?

She knows how pointless it is to think this way. But sometimes, it feels good to wallow.

Just as her mind starts to settle in for some serious self-pity, she passes in front of the U.S. Embassy. Automatically, she tenders a friendly greeting and customary offer of free tea and scones to the fresh-faced Marines on early morning gate duty.

Such sweet boys. Shame what happens to their country in 2043. Oof. ... Wonder if I'll still be here for that. ... What am I saying? Of course I will.

Before she can contemplate where to hunker down for the big 'Happening' in 28 years, something, from the corner of her eye, catches her attention. A flash of blue.

Not just blue, but the bluest blue that ever blued.

Immediately, she feels stupid for even thinking that. Then, she feels properly foolish for what she thinks next.

It's him. I knew he'd come for me. He's really the only one that would.

Of course, it couldn't be him. None of them cared anymore. The only thing left was the war, and she'd tried to run. Even if it ended, they would never forgive. Best forget about it and wait to slowly go insane on this backwoods planet full of barely sentient meat sacks.

It can't hurt to look though. I have time for a quick stroll in the square. No harm in just making sure. Verify I'm losing my mind.

Without making a conscious decision, Tirhena finds herself turning into the green space; drawn inexorably toward the flash of blue she may (or may not) have seen. She turns a corner around a clump of trees and hears a distinctly Scottish voice.

"Oh no. No, no, no, no. What're you doin'? Where are we? This is NO' the seventh moon of Baraxias 9. You. Are. Useless sometimes. D'you know that?"

*thump*

"Ouch! A splinter? Really? Very mature."

Then she sees it in its' full splendor. A big blue police box; the TARDIS belonging to her favorite, and most despised, species-mate.

Species-mate. Is that the right word? Well, humans don't really have a word for it. At least not for another century or so. There's a word in Kosnaxian, but it's unpronounceable without two tongues. Of course High Gallifreyan has a word for it - it has a word for everything- but somehow I can't remember it now.

"Y'a lil' lawst, hon?" she asks the grumbling Scotsman, exaggerating her distinctly Mid-Atlantic accent.

"Lost? Am I lost? Not exactly. I know exactly where I am. I know precisely when I am. It's just that - here is not where I want to be. It's not when I want to be. In fact, there's virtually nothing about here and now that I want anything to do with!" the man replies, sounding more agitated with each sentence.

He still has his back to her, glaring at the time machine. After giving the corner a firm kick with his heavy Doc Marten boots, he turns around; fixing his strikingly blue eyes on her.

"Now, what d'you want?"

"Well. I was just strolling through, heard you shouting and thought I'd stop and see if I could be of any help."

He looks incredulous.

"You? Help? *scoff* Not unless, you know how to fix the chrono-dynamic targeting computer on a Type 40 TARDIS"

"Ooh. Hard luck. I've only ever worked on Type 90 and up. Best I could do it hit it with a wrench." Tirhena replies with a cheeky grin.

The man's eyebrows unknit. His face reshapes itself into a wary smirk, and he extends his hand.

"Heh heh. I'm the Doctor. Madman in a box, bumming around all of time and space."

"Tirhena. I own a cafe on the other side of the square; and I make bitchin' scones."

She shakes his hand firmly, and closely watches his reaction for any hint of recognition. Nothing yet.

Maybe I'm missing something. No. No, definitely not. I've never seen this face before, but it's absolutely the Doctor. I'll know it when he catches on.

"Did you say 'scOHns'?" he asks, mimicking her own accent back to her. "What is a 'scOHn'? is it anything like a 'scAWn' ?"

"A bit, just far less pretentious sounding. Care to try one?"

The Doctor gives her another wary smirk.

"I can't decide if I like you, or if you're too cheeky by half."

"Are the two mutually exclusive?" Tirhena inquires, watching his reaction closely. "Why not come along and have a bit of breakfast while you decide. I'm sure time travel must take a lot out of a person."

He shrugs noncommittally. "Nothing that hasn't grown back - so far any way."