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Clothes and the Man

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He's got nothing to wear.

It's the least of Mike Yates's problems, but the one that lurks in his wardrobe and confronts him every morning. Where there were uniforms, there are empty hangers. His civilian clothes are threadbare leftovers from his student days, plus a couple of direly respectable suits like a bank clerk's. Too many choices, and none of them right. He keeps changing outfits like a woman. Like a poof.

Captain Yates of UNIT had simpler mornings. Simpler nights, too. He was never tempted to go to one of those sorts of clubs and let one of those sorts of men do things to him. It was against regulations.

Mike Yates, untitled, undefined, misses regulations a little.

He walks in London, watching people be themselves, define and proclaim themselves. After a month of walking, he finally walks into a shop. It's on Carnaby Street, and Captain Yates would've given it one scornful, soldierly glance and walked out again.

When the assistant asks what he'd like, he's got no idea. And then he thinks of the Doctor. The freest man in the universe, who accepts no law but his own.

"Velvet," says Mike Yates. "I'd like something in velvet."