It was bright in the morning in Watford, 1989. Birds chirping, children rushing off for classes, the sky blue and decorated with puffy tufts of cumulus clouds just to break up the expanse of sky. The scenery was rather astoundingly lovely, as the sun lit up the fresh emerald green grass, and the Doctor had just ambled away from the TARDIS as he was wont to do, striding along and wielding his umbrella like a walking stick and generally looking very smug with himself. He listened to the domestic squalling from the suburban houses with a sense of fondness for the humans who lived there, most of their abodes with that polished gingerbread look and tidy lawns and facades that bordered on false if he hadn't seen them when they were little more than foundations.

From the one he was standing beside of, he had been noting the activities of the married couple within, presumably new to their marital bliss. The wife was chiding her husband for his tardiness. "Half past eight and you're late!" she called in a chirping voice that made him a little sad for a certain red-headed companion he'd left in the company of Sabalom Glitz. The man scolded went bounding by the window attempting to pull his socks up, his outline through the curtains vaguely indicating he was in his boxers and teetering in his efforts to juggle his weight from foot to foot. He grinned at the comical implications, until he caught the conversation from the other side of the street. The lady of the house chiding her would be butler.

"Coffee's cold, what a state."

Poor man, they should have known one can only make tea sensibly that early. He couldn't make out what was said next, but the man seemed very uncertain of himself and extraordinarily sorry. He doubted that this was the occupation that he wanted at all, at least one for a man of his implied self-esteem. "They've dragged you down," he thought aloud, turning to the large house and shaking his head, though not yet willing to actually cross over there. Knowing his luck some mad commuter would choose then to try to bump him forward a regeneration, and he wasn't quite ready to change quite yet, especially in the instance of death-by-commuter.

But he stood as attentive as a hound, watching as a fair haired youth of about twenty or the like, prim and tidy and in his uniform and apron, came stomping out the side door with waste for the bin, looking wholey unhappy with the situation. "Fate's got you scraped," he grumbled to himself. "Worked to death."

As he'd guessed. That was cause enough to cross over. At least he could give the lad a talking to. He was careful to look both ways, making an exaggerated effort to be sure that both lanes were completely and totally devoid of motorists, and planting his hand on his hat to hold it put went scurrying across even though there wasn't a car to be seen. He still suspected they were there. Lurking. Watching. Waiting. Drivers were a little like Daleks in the morning, minus the intuitive direction.

"Can't you turn them words around?!"

The boy hadn't seen him until he was nearly upon him, but once he was there he straightened so quick he knocked his head on the lid of the rubbish bin he'd been sorting things into. It slammed down as he peeled away to hold what promised to be a healthy sized goose egg, and stared at the little spry man in the question mark vest.

"Is it really what you want?" The Doctor insisted, without so much as a Hello, or a How do you do? Not even an introduction. Simply brandishing his hand at the posh house. "Is it really what you need? Is it really what you choose?"

Still confused, the young man boggled from house, back to the stranger, and even in a state of bleary confusion (he had gotten up when the sky was still dark purple with dawn) shook his head that, no. He hadn't chose this for himself. But what was he supposed to do about it? And what was he supposed to say to an obviously deranged vagrant meandering about outside of his place of employment and unfortunately board.

"The world is in your hands. The world belongs to those of us who still believe we can." The Doctor tapped his temple, crossing around the rubbish bin and taking him by the upper arm with a surprisingly firm grip. At least, if nothing else Ace might be able to talk some sense into him. He looked like the sort that would fall for a smashing grin. "And it matters what you do though they all look down on you. Because it's better that you've come from nothing than nothing comes from you."

He tried desperately to mouth a but I-, but it was lost as he was dragged off, back the way the Doctor came. "Come with us. Join with us." The stranger continued to insist.

The matron of the house seemed to finally notice the affair going on outside, and a flurry of stomping on wooden stairs that actually carried through the old glass windows, so aged they had acquired that inconsistency of thickness. Ah, excellent, a loud terrifying woman. One of the Doctor's least favorite things to deal with in any incarnation. He greatly suspected middle age marked a turning point when women became enamoring and golden to having the potential to be the most terrifying beings in the fabric of the universe "Don't make a sound!" The fussy, gray-headed spinster shouted as flung open the heavy wooden door, exerting a sort of strength that he suspected was near superhuman. And she looked every part of matron; her uniform immaculate and marmish and her hair done up so tight in its bun the Doctor suspected that it had stretched her forehead, and a distinct lack of laugh lines around her chiseled features from what he suspected was also a lack of laughing. "Count your pennies. Count your pounds!" she prodded her fingers, as if actually counting them, approaching the both of them like a hurricane as she drummed her point in. Because he most assuredly would not be earning more of those pennies or pounds if he just wandered off as it appeared he was going to do.

"There's no way out," the prim young butler said to the Doctor, looking distressed, thumbing toward the house as if he should really return. It was not wise of him to walk away from this particular matron.

"What will you do when all love gives up on you," the Doctor implored, not quite ready to release his arm, though a great deal of his attention seemed directed toward the old sow railing at them.

"Can't turn around." She crossed her arms, staring down the length of her long, pointy, snooty nose at the pair. "We've got a place and it's here for you."

"Though all we ever wanted was a different view," the Doctor muttered, cleaning out his ear as if accosted by the woman's shrill voice, and grumbled under his breath, "I never knew somebody live with so much pain." He shook it off, tone rising in determination, giving him an earnest look, expression tight and demanding. "If you open your heart, come with us and we'll take you away."

Caught between a rock and a hard place. But after a bit of debating, the tawny-headed boy decided he would be better off with what appeared to be the lesser of two evils; though he couldn't really be sure. At least he knew what tyranny to expect of the old woman. The strange man in the hat and the mismatched tweed at least was entertaining. He would brave him for the day.

There was always the shops again, if this didn't work out.

Character: The (Seventh) Doctor
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,328
Song: Join With Us - The Feeling