"Well, we can cancel the rest of the auditions outright, you've got the part," he gives him a playful little salute. He's amused as ever, and he technically asked for that — he's only too pleased that Tom has decided to really give it a go for a moment, and he laughs under his breath; it's the spontaneity in him that he appreciates, along with his embrace of the absurd.

"And it will always be fun," he tosses back quickly, making his own way a bit further back inside and crouching near the hearth to poke the logs, keep the fire going. Tom could wander around anywhere he likes, of course, and the Doctor would think nothing of it. There's a comfortable sofa, a larger cushioned chair in the corner near a stack of books; those are new — adventure books, a gift from — he smiles to himself, and there's a flicker of fondness as he thinks of them and where they came from, and continues to be coy about the strings.

Over his shoulder, "Universally liked, eh? I wonder if the universe would agree..." He muses, with no real serious thought, and flips it back to him first. "How many do you have? Loads, it must be. Enough for a cozy, multi-colored sweater?" He teases, a light in his eyes.

The thing about the Doctor is that he always appreciates the company of others, however that manifests. Tom essentially inhabiting the small cabin as though it were his home now is just — how it should be. He could wander in and out as he chooses, really. He could stay for days if he wanted, for all the Doctor cares. Coming and going — as everyone he's ever known always has — that's status quo.

"Oh, all the best are complicated," he's quick to agree. On the matter of the book, there's...something. An emotion (or two, or three...) he would never choose to so freely share. By default, everyone is important to him; those trapped here especially so. And certain others — perhaps a bit more. Therein lies the struggle. It's knowing that anything he feels for anyone at all is so plainly understood by anyone he shares a string with that niggles at him, bothers him. In true Doctor fashion, despite it being A Thing of great frustration, it's absolutely Not A Thing, why would you think that, carry on.

"Very," he says at last, nodding to the book. It's Jurassic Park. "Do you like it? Do you know, I met a few dinosaurs in my time! Oh, magnificent they were, you can imagine. I'll show you sometime." When and how? Who knows, not important.

"You need something to eat — pity I can't make my specialty, but I've got something just as good."

While they fall into an easy rhythm chatting, the Doctor busies himself in the kitchen. It's still easy to hear Tom, and he's sure to pitch his voice up enough to be easily hear in return.

This response, though, is slightly more delayed than some of his usual quips. He has a canned reply ready to go, the wiring's just a little slow, like it's on the fritz, like Tom asking at all has sparked a brief short circuit. So, he pauses a few seconds, a pan clatters a bit on the stove as he mumbles under his breath about toast and tea.

Finally, and with his usual ebullience as he turns to smile back at him: "Oh, I don't hide them, they're just tucked away, perfectly safe where they won't get lost or run off and I know exactly where they are! Joy's always around, of course, anger's in a shoebox in the closet, fear is a dust mite under the floorboards — you understand."

It's strange, though, what he can feel from Tom through their joined string, and what he imagines Tom can feel in return, despite his best efforts.

"'Course, sometimes I pull every feeling out all at once for a game of blind man's bluff." Another pause, and then, "How do you like your tea, Tom?"

"An upgrade, actually! Syrup," he supplies, with an easy smile over his shoulder still, despite what's just been said, what's been shared between them. "Just a touch. Not heaps of it to go around."

Much to his dismay. The Doctor is absolutely the 'I'll have a little tea with my sugar' sort, generally speaking.

What he has to spare, though, will be given generously. He's selfish about bigger things, but not this. Not this sort of...little care, little attention, all the ways he can look after someone. It becomes immediately apparent that his words have a deeper meaning, perhaps even more than he'd personally realized, and when he comes back closer to Tom, seeing him grinning, the Doctor smiles softly back, tilting his head a bit, handing the mug over.

Rage conjures — oh, so much, so long, so many years far beyond this one.

"Stick with me, Tom, there's an infinite universe of wisdom like that, I promise," he says it lightly, but nothing is ever really light with him. Not now, especially. He's ever so curious about him, his words, the life he's lived, the way they understand each other, the mysteries he's still unfolding about him. Poke it with a stick, as ever. "Are we the right person? Did I open a door?"