Blimey, but he was wet. So much more than moist in so many places he ought not to have been. He threw back the sheets and flung himself at the door, swaying in place in the narrow doorframe to keep from gaining too much momentum and breaking in his nice new arse on the concrete flooring. New arse? Why yes, it was new, wasn’t it? He’d regenerated after that sudden, stress induced cardiac infarction, hadn’t he? Oh yes. He scrambled back inside the room and shut the door at the sound of footsteps. There was a table, a mirror, some books, lovely books, those. He’d had this room before, it seemed... UNIT! Of course! But what was he doing there? He’d been sweating. Picking up the mirror he knew would be by the small desk lamp, he studied his face.
“Angular, full of freshness. The vigor of youth.”
At least he wasn’t ginger. That particular obsession just hadn’t held the same lustre after Donna. Then he saw it. The note, stuck with so much care beneath his copy of Kahlil Gibran. A Dear John letter. He didn’t have to read it to know. His lips crept into a soft grin despite themselves as he replaced the little slip of paper back under the book and reached for the petite metal tray someone had slipped in through the slot. Chocolate digestives and ginger beer. He couldn’t very well stay mad at someone who knew him well enough to have his favorite breakfast in bed made and ready for him.
A knock rang like a mouse against the door. Someone was waiting, possibly the designated driver.
The Doctor smiled at it all and scrubbed a hand through his thick brown hair, not bothering to shore up his errant leftward forelock with anything more than a trailing thumb. Now you understand, Jack. Satisfied that he felt nothing more than a small, short pang at this expected betrayal of monkey emotion, he then tied the drier of the sheets around his bony, muscled waist, Egyptian style, grabbed up the bottle of ginger beer, uncapped the lid and poured a little of the lovely amber liquid on himself, careful to save enough to drink later, after he’d fed his triplets. Then he swung open the door, and a loud rush of air left his considerable lungs in a rather loud howl of disapproval. Completely false, of course. He was happy to know that Jack understood. They would see each other again, anyway, several times before the end.
“Damn you Jack Harkness! Hey, you there! Soldier!” the Time lord slurred, taking a great delight in the confusion that arose on the young man’s face as he wrapped an arm around the private’s shoulders and hung on for dear life, “... oi! Haffen yew effer seen a drunken Time Lord befow? No? Ha!”
He shook his head, trying his best not to snicker as the soldier called someone up on his portable.
“Ah, I believe he’s... awake, sir.”
Leaning on each other, they stumbled and bobbed to the lift. The Doctor played with the buttons on the way up, playing the tipsy as well as could be expected for someone who’d just been dumped. Oh, but the look on Andrews’ face was so very worth it as the two of them exited the lift at the command area.
“I am most definitely awake, young man. Most definitely. ‘Ello, Andrews!” he said, throwing off the act and straightening out the kinks in his new, decidedly youthful body.
“Look at me, I’m jailbait!”
Andrews’ brow lifted two whole fingerlengths at this, but he said nothing.
“On a more serious note, I fancy a spot of tea. Save this for later, would you? Keep her warm, eh? I want to indulge, really, but, not now.”
Then he capped the bottle of beer and handed it to the man, who took it without question.
“After all, I’ve three newborns who need feeding, and really... it’s never wise to drink and drive.”