This is my first story published here on . I don't think it's brilliant and neither do I think it's the best story out there, but, after a long writer's block full of frustration, I do suppose it's somewhat good.

Sorry for any nonsense in the text below and the chapters that will follow. I hope you'll enjoy it, though.

I don't own Glee nor Doctor Who. I'm not even English/American, damn.

- T. NT.

The door of the TARDIS swings open with an uncharacteristic creak. There's a few seconds of silence in between the motion of the time machine and the mess of tangled, ripped clothes and burns and curly hair which leaps out of it with something that sounds like a warning scream. Stumbling over his own clothes and trying to get the burnt trenchcoat off by twisting and attempting to escape the bowtie nearly choking him, the Doctor finishes his twelfth regeneration with curses in an accent he recognizes as American. It's like he's being attacked by brown material from all possible directions, bit, stung, kicked, slapped, anything like that. The fact that he can't quite find his legs or arms for a good chunk of ten seconds stops him from moving like a human and more like a biped worm—but then, as he manages to finally throw off the huge trenchcoat, he realizes something.

Humans are staring at him from different corners of the room.

He can't hear anything than the distinctive chirps of a frightened canary huddled in the corner of a cage sat down on a table, though. No screams. No 'what the hells'. It's quiet, so he tries to focus on the surroundings rather than the boys. Large and bright, the room arches above and ends in the middle with a chandelier above a person whose mouth is hanging open in silent shock. The Doctor manages to move his gaze from the fine details of the wood of the door and the trophies in a small glass cupboard which is inside the wooden wall covered by a large flag on which a drawing of a singing canary is in between three words: "Dalton Academy Warblers". He sees the humans clearly now, if not slightly blurry. Blonds and brunettes and dark-haired people look like they've seen a ghost—and it's him whom they've seen, which makes everything even more awkward.

The Doctor grins. Not that he's happy, but humans tend to be happy if he smiles. Under a mop of black curly hair which sticks to his sweaty forehead, hazel eyes follow a circle around himself. He notices the teenagers coming back to life, so he stifles the urge to slowly step back to the TARDIS and get out of there, an instinct which has often saved him from regenerating again. But even if he manages to stop the characteristic 'back away, slowly, leave, and pretend nothing has happened', he can't stop the words which roll out of his mouth slightly slurred:

"Am I . . . ginger?"

"You're a Time Lord?" asks the Asian kid, Wes or something.

His eyebrows are raised in disbelief, and the Doctor can't stop glancing from his face down to the clean clothes he holds. A split moment passes by, and then he huffs loudly and grabs the clothes, beginning to strip down his.

"Yes, Time Lord, alien, Gallifreyan, whatever you little humans like to call me," he says. "It's complicated."

"It's . . . complicated," quotes Jeff.

His tone is amused, earning him a glare from most of the teenagers around him, and he scrunches his faceup in a way that makes the Doctor want to both hug him and punch him. Which is pretty bad, since he isn't violent at all. He manages to finally unbutton whatever has remained from his shirt and throw it on somebody's head or on somebody's couch, but they say nothing as he picks up the clean shirt. White. Something average, very average, which will probably help him blend in better than the last one.

"Is this a school?" he asks as he slips his hands through the sleeves. "You all wear those cardigan things." Impatiently, he points to the uniform Thad is wearing, then to Nick's. He hopes those are their names, since they were so happy to see him that they've bombarded him with names and names and names that are so easy to remember, but sometimes so hard to grasp. "Private school, I reckon, yeah?"

They nod. In sync, which makes the Doctor stop from taking his trousers off, and stare at them for one long, long moment. But he then decides that they're not aliens, just humans, and proceeds to shove off the burnt trousers and step out of them, leaving them on the floor. He doesn't even bother to pick them up—they're going off to the bin anyway. Unexpectedly, the uniform ones fit him good, and so does the blazer which gives him a bit of resemblance to his last regeneration. Or that's what he thinks when it comes to clothes.

"So, I'm not ginger," he says, touching his fingertips to his lips. He makes a few steps towards the TARDIS, then he turns suddenly on his heels and looks at the teenagers with a frown. "How do I look like, then?"

"How do you not know how you look like?" asks David.

The Doctor waves it off with a small movement of his hand. "Am I at least blond? I liked blond hair, that regeneration was handsome. Pretty handsome for my standards, anyway," he says, and grabs one of the curls brushing against his forehead. "Why aren't you scared of me?" His tone is curious, and he goes a little bit cross-eyed as he tries to unfold the tangled curl. "Most of the humans are."

Black, completely black. That's how the curl is. He drags other in front of his eyes repeatedly, trying to seek at least a flash of maroon or just brown, but it's only black. With a sigh, he lets go of it and is about to say something when sharp pain shoots through his ribs, like he's been shot or stabbed or both at the same time, like he's been burnt on the inside—and, for a moment, he goes blind, only hearing his own cry of pain. In the next moment, he finds himself kneeling on the floor. He's slightly teary-eyed, but that's about it.

Trembling, he stands. In the next moment, he slumps into an armchair freed by Jeff. Rubbing his ribs, the Doctor stares at the startled group of about twelve guys, who are a few feet away. They look like they've seen somebody die, or just like before, when they've seen him burst out of the TARDIS.

"Regeneration stuff," he answers before being asked. "Not dying. And you still didn't answer my question."

They don't say anything for a moment, and it's slightly . . . no, it's extremely irritating for an impatient Time Lord, who needs his answers as quick as possible before somebody starts attacking them all or something like that. Right as he's about to go off like a bomb, the answers comes shyly from Nick, who's sitting next to Jeff, looking nervous.

"We've seen . . . things."

"Things?" asks the Doctor, sitting upright. It's getting interesting, he thinks, and tries not to be too enthusiastic and then have his hopes crushed—but it's too late for him to be calm. "What things? Other Time Lords?" he adds so quick it's actually quite hard to understand his fuzzy words, but they do.

"Shadows," says the boy, jumping slightly when the floor creaks underneath the Time Lord's feet as he leans forward in his chair. "Voices. Cracks."

The Doctor doesn't say anything for a long minute. He can hear his own hearts beat, quicker than before, and it's slowly becoming hard to breathe. But he's dealt with those—he's dealt with those, hasn't he? He's managed to fight them, to close them for good . . . hasn't he?

"Cracks?" he finally manages to ask. It's no time to panic, he reminds himself. Keep calm, Doctor. But his hand finds the sonic screwdriver he'd slipped, unnoticed, in his pocket. "What kind of cracks?"

They don't say anything, but look at each other, fearful and tense. The Doctor wonders, briefly, about how close he and the kids had gotten in the past twenty minutes—from total strangers, to a small friendship . . . and now, they're telling him things. About cracks. Like they know he's the one who can save them. Or, at least, try to save them.

"Cracks?" he asks again, voice high. On a much calmer voice, gripping the sonic screwdriver even tighter, he adds, "Tell me. I'm going to understand. After all, I'm a mad man in a box."

Nick's mouth twitches upwards in a small smile, but it vanishes when he speaks up. "They're not always there. Sometimes, they are. They just . . . are there. On walls, ceilings, but we never go near them. We're . . . scared." He says the last word on a small voice, as if expecting to be called a coward. The Time Lord knows that feeling, but says nothing and nods for him to continue. "They appear when something happens. Something important for us happens. Just . . . when something happens."

"What do they tell you?"

Just as he asks it, the room's doors swing open and slam against the walls. A flushed teenager halts suddenly at the sight of the blue police box standing tall in the corner and the Doctor senses that he's shocked to see it; but there's a spark of understanding in the shock of his eyes and he looks at him. Right at him, and, for the first time in years, the world seems to shift out of its place for the old Doctor.

Blue eyes, mess of brown hair yet still somehow perfectly shaped, reddened cheeks and pale forehead skin, with small beads of sweat sliding down on it, the boy is simply gorgeous. It's like he's perfect, simply perfect, with beautiful lips and slender figure and natural gracefullness that makes the Doctor ashamed of his own clumsiness. Perfect skin, perfect eyes, perfect eyelashes, perfect everything—

With creaks coming from the floor, the Warblers stand up one by one, turning to the boy. He doesn't notice them at all, he doesn't pay any attention to them, not even when Wes softly clears his throat and begins to step towards him.

"Kurt," he says, but Kurt cuts him short.

"You're finally here," he says, biting down his lip. It's clear that his words are headed towards the Doctor, who gets up, still mesmerised. "You're here, Doctor."

The last few feet between them are closed in great hurry, and Kurt latches himself around a confused Doctor, who can't do anything but hug him back, staring from one Warbler to the other. But nobody says anything, as astonished as he is.

He simply hugs Kurt, who holds on to him like for dear life, and buries his face in the taller teenager's shoulder, trying to make himself stop feeling comfortable hugging him.

But the place in between the Master's arms has never felt as much as home before.