Chapter Text
The 40s. The Big Apple. A gorgeous spot of history, that’s for sure. The Doctor had to be careful in their waltz through time, especially around this spot. The dance floor was weak nearby, a residual creaking from their bout with the Weeping Angels meaning the Doctor always had to keep an eye out, to stay away from that shaky point near the timestream, lest the whole joint cave in around them, the one who couldn’t stay away. All this to say, the Doctor was generally a bit nervous traveling through early 20th century New York, which was altogether disappointing to them, a glorified sightseer. If it were up to them, they wouldn’t touch the place ever again (Okay, correction: If it were up to them, time would be made of heartier stuff, and they’d go with the Ponds to see a Rockefeller show, but casting aside rewrites of the fibers of the universe, yes, the Doctor would prefer steering clear of New York until at least the 70s.)
However, the Doctor rarely has a say in where they go (Correction again, they do. Mostly. Quite a lot of the time. But it’s awfully hard to pilot the TARDIS as just one person, and they’ve been in a bit of a spat lately anyways– She’s been shrinking herself down, breaking more often, and going off in wrong directions ever since The Doctor got this new face. The Doctor didn’t blame her. The short, shaggy blonde hair, the stark nose, the tough jawline? Maybe, were it not for the Doctor feeling more feminine in this face than usual, they’d like it better, maybe even love it. But with their current identity, it’s definitely one of their least favorites). Sometimes, the Doctor is victim to fate, and today, fate caused massive fluctuations in a strange, unreadable energy centered around 1940’s New York, and thus, off they went to New York. Oh well, they thought, wouldn’t hurt to stop by, poke around, catch a show. It’s been a while since they’d seen South Pacific. They popped their head out of the TARDIS in a crevice near Broadway and sneezed as the scent of ozone and smoke flooded their senses. The smoke was expected; the ozone was not.
The Doctor wiped their nose with the back of their hand as they stepped into the street, taking in the full glory of the Big Apple once more. They smiled– It never got old, traveling. The sky had begun to tinge orange with sunrise, casting the whole city in a subdued tannish hue. The smell of smoke and ozone took a backseat to the scent of eggs and tomatoes. Someone was having breakfast nearby, it seemed, in the nearby hotel. The Doctor noted it down in their brain, as they did all other human things, as something fantastic and interesting and awful stupid– To have brunch while a massive portal expands over the Empire State Building.
Of course the Doctor had noticed the portal. It honestly would’ve been more impressive if they had managed to miss the portal (but never impossible, thanks to the existence of one Donna Noble). It curled around the spire of the landmark in deep, greenish clouds, tainting the beautiful glow of dawn as a strange symbol glowed within, concentric circles with a triangle sandwiched between. The sight made the Doctor envious of Donna, hating the way their vision was drawn to the exciting, disgusting, absolutely mad thing. Something about it felt wrong, felt horrid, felt like exactly what the Doctor was looking for.
The Doctor grinned. What a horrible thing to wake up to, New York. Don’t worry, they almost said aloud, The Doctor is in. I’ll patch that wormhole right up, and you can get back to ending smallpox and celebrating the end of the Second World War or whatever beautifully insane things it is you’re about to do. But of course, the first step to patching anything up, of course, is figuring out what it is you have to patch up (Which, for the record, is highly recommended, though somewhat optional for the whole process. The second step, patching it up, is much more of a requirement). The Doctor needed first to get a more detailed reading, and that would need the TARDIS. They spun around to return to their ship, only to be greeted by a broad shoulder clad in scarlet.
The Doctor recoiled, hitting the ground. For all the things this new body was, coordinated was not one of them. The other figure hardly moved, seeming to not acknowledge they had been run into aside from the slightest wrinkle in their jacket. The jacket was pristine otherwise, pressed to such perfection the Doctor imagined that the iron which steamed it was still hot. The uniform was covered with gold accoutrements, shining orange and green in a twisted battlefield of the sunlight and the portal’s deep reflection. The ensemble was completed with a cylindrical hat, as perfect as the rest of his wear, strapped firmly around his sharp chin. Clearly, the man worked at the hotel. The man stared with harsh blue eyes at the TARDIS with two fingers on his chin. “Oh, this simply won’t do…” He muttered as the Doctor got to their feet.
“Hi, um, excuse me–” The Doctor started, and then stopped. The man had clearly noticed the TARDIS. He’s not really supposed to be able to do that. The perception filter should have kept him walking right on by, lest he was trying to get into this random alleyway or saw it materializing. The Doctor frowned, then smiled as the man turned around.
“My apologies, ma’am,” the mysterious person began, “but this box is obstructing the Baroness’... valet service.”
He’s lying. The Doctor knew he was lying through his teeth, and he likely knew it too. The TARDIS only left around 2 inches of clearance on each side, and the alleyway spat out right into the sidewalk, a fire hydrant blocking any potential car from exiting. Only an idiot or a maniac would ever think the alley could possibly fit a working valet service for a hotel as fancy and eager to please as this one. And as the Doctor took this in, the man’s pure blue eyes failed to catch any shadow as they stared right through the Doctor’s. Daring them to call his bluff, or begging them not to? The Doctor couldn’t tell, itself a strange and terrifying and altogether exhilarating feeling.
“...Right.” The Doctor eventually said. “Well, you know, it seems pretty heavy. Probably be pretty hard to just park there on any random day without anyone noticing. Maybe it’s just always been there, and you forgot?”
“Ah, that must be it,” the man agreed. Neither of them believed any of this, but it was best to pretend in cases like these. “Nonetheless, I must be returning to the breakfast service–” The man said, beginning to turn back to the hotel.
The Doctor snapped an arm out, latching onto the man’s. “OH, uh, actually, I was wondering if you could help me out a bit.” The man stopped, face twitching in mild annoyance before that serene smile reappeared.
“I’m sorry, but I really must be returning to my post, and anyways, I’m not very interested in speaking to anyone not staying at the Baroness.” He spoke.
“Oh, I see. Well, it’s a good thing, then, that I’ve just checked in a few minutes ago, isn’t it?” The Doctor said as they rustled through their jacket pockets. The man cocked an eyebrow. Have you now? He silently teased. The Doctor pulled out a wallet-sized bit of leather and flipped it open, proudly showing the man the blank paper within.
“There you go, checking confirmation. Certified guest of the Baroness, three-day stay, day two today… I had some flight issues, you know how it is…” The Doctor rambled on as the man stared at the paper.
Then he began to laugh. His uproarious cackles shot through the streets of New York as the Doctor stared awkwardly. They were being reminded of a scene from a film they watched a few decades ago. The psychic paper was virtually foolproof to humans. Get a strong enough basis, and only a couple dozen humans would be able to see through it, if that, and any who could would likely be artisans, bastions of creativity or intelligence, mentally impressive enough to see through the psychic quality of the paper. And yet, the Doctor felt as if they had just told this man they had broken their foot hiking in Parisian mountains. The man cleared his throat, and his smile grew as he returned the papers.
“Of course. My apologies, Doctor. Allow me to show you to our dining area.” The man said with a deep bow, lingering just long enough in the doorway to make clear that neither of them believed he was fooled. He spun on his heel and confidently strutted within the building. The Doctor hesitated. They looked at the psychic papers, studying the implanted information closely.
Booking information, it read. March 28-31, it read. Room number, card information, it was all there (well, as there as it could be, on the blank pages), the picture perfect booking sheet. The Doctor looked at the name.
Ms. Jean Smith.
The Doctor stared at the title quietly, apprehension mixing with excitement and a roiling panic bubbling underneath the surface, wondering a billion things at once.
“Doctor?” The calm voice called to them from the doorway. The man had begun holding the door open, inviting them inside.
“Who are you?” The question escaped the Doctor’s chest, dark and hoarse, their teeth baring from their downturned lips. The man chuckled.
“No one important, Doctor. I am simply the Doorman.” Was all he said, gesturing once more inside the Baroness hotel.