It's all AU.

He had settled a bit since he'd last seen Eric -- lost some of the sadness and most of the bitterness that he unconsciously projected, and regained some of his poise and confidence. He rapped sharply at Eric's door and waited patiently for it to be open, before saying simply: "Are you occupied?"

It was really very late. Or early, depending on how you looked at it. Not a time a human on a normal sleep schedule would be up. The city was much, much quieter, and the air had dipped into slightly cool, in a spate of actual weather. The perfect temperature for a Time Lord, actually, and the Master was enjoying it.

He looked up from the spot on a park bench and called out to the figure lurking - there really wasn't any other word for it - "I don't bite. Without reason."

It took him several days, but in the end he could no more stay away from Jean-Claude in this place than he could avoid himself. It was less about desire than need -- had it been about desire he certainly wouldn't have found himself rapping lightly at Jean-Claude's door, waiting on the (beautiful) bastard he loved as much as he loathed.

The old town seemed to have a large nocturnal population. Larger than the diurnal one, anyway. That was probably why the Doctor had shifted his sleep schedule to allow him to wander the streets in the late evening. The most fascinating creatures seemed to be around then.

One of them he'd been watching for a while, a not-human with long, unusually coloured hair, and a habit of hiding behind it. Even more unusual when he stopped in the moonlight, and - yes, there, something in the stillness. "Vampire," he concluded, tone laced with satisfaction.

Pam had just finished wrapping strands of his hair in foil to help the dye work its magic, and Eric had been headed for the basement. A second's dizziness, and he was walking down stairs that did not belong to Fangtasia. Windows let him know that it was night outside, not a surprise considering he felt no unease at being up.

He paused, then headed for the nearest door in the staircase and walked out into what could only be a hotel's corridor. He stalked over to the nearest person, quite forgetting and frankly not caring at all about the foil in his hair. "Where am I?"

Nighttime in New New York, and Mitchell was out walking. There were more strange scents in the air, even more than when he'd first arrived and it was puting him on edge, curious and anxious in equal measure. He knew Jean Claude's and Jason's, but these new ones were different.

He was that finely tuned that he physically jumped, whipping around quickly as he heard someone approaching him from behind.

After his conversation with Romana, Asher was forced to admit that he did need Jean-Claude's help. He still had no shoes, he still knew very little of this place that he needed to know. Such as what was meant by not feeding freely and how to handle the day time. He was still uncomfortable, at the very best.

Forced to admit did not mean that he liked either the reality or the admission.

He stopped short of the room he'd seen Jean-Claude in, propped his good shoulder against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. He bowed his head, curtain of shining hair falling around his face and hiding it from view. And, simply and passively, he waited.

The problem with dramatic exits were that they were rarely well thought out. This one was no exception. He was dressed, yes, but he was still injured and he wasn't wearing any shoes. He also knew nearly nothing about where he was, or how many of the things here worked.

So, he made it to the elevator and then became rather stymied. With his head tilted to the side the fall of his blond hair covered the worst of his visible burns. He pushed a button experimentally, and narrowed his eyes to see what would happen. At the very least his feline curiosity had distracted him from his inner turmoil.

Asher was, not to put too fine a point on it, starving. He was also lost, confused and in pain.

It was perhaps not surprising that when he opened his eyes and saw Jean-Claude his reaction was not one of relief. It was quite probably rather surprising, all things considered, that he started to laugh.

How he'd ended up, filthy and near mad with pain and hunger and grief, on Jean-Claude's bed, was anyone's guess. It might even have been the psychic city.