Work Text:
When the Doctor steps out of the TARDIS, he's in a park they don't recognise. All the TARDIS disclosed is that this is Earth and there's no immediate danger.
He walks forward aimlessly until he reaches the edge of the park, a street running along it coming into view. There's some kind of march, a colourful crowd of people walking united to the sound of music, radiating joy out into the world.
The Doctor draws nearer, a moth to flame. And oh, it's a pride parade. Up close, the colours resolve themselves into individual flags and whimsical outfits. Longing pierces through them, in equal measure expected and strange.
Pride. Oh, the Doctor acts prideful enough, too prideful if anything, but he doesn't feel it. They give into the temptation to lower their telepathic shields and oh, he definitely doesn't feel anything like that.
Not over their identity and certainly not over anything else in his life. The Doctor has learnt to accept that they fit neither into Gallifreyan expectations nor human frames of reference, but the best he's ever mustered to feel about it was neutrality and the less said about their self-esteem in other areas the better.
The Doctor's eyes sting, standing just outside of something he's never before even considered he could want. They should walk away. It's not for him, this celebration of wonderful humans who bravely found their way to who they are and where they could belong, despite, despite, despite.
A stranger stops in front of the Doctor, assessing gentle eyes. Before the Doctor can run away or try to explain themselves, the stranger reaches out a hand and automatically, helplessly, he takes it.
The stranger pulls them into the crowd, fingers casually intertwined. The Doctor can feel it all so intimately now. They belong.