intergalacticstarlight:

masterfulxrhythm‌:

        “Well hold onto your corset, you slut,” Koschei teases, still with that wicked, savory grin, “cause you broke your brain while trying to build us a baby-making machine. Literally.” 

He clears his throat and rattles off the particulars.

      “A short in the Chameleon Arch.  You tried to use components from that to help solidify the creation of the memetic primer–the information transference node, part of the genetic loom–without having to make it entirely from scratch.  You bastardized one part of our TARDIS–our time travel device, coom on, tell me you haven’t forgotten that–in order to build another part.”

He pauses and holds out his hands.

    “Okay, rewinding.  Every Time Lord–that’s what you and I are–has a Chameleon Arch dedicated to recording their biodata, and rewriting it should the Time Lord elect to do so, to the point of being able to change species, with or without changing appearance. You and I have both elected to do this before, to become human. That’ll coom back to you, trust me, in both cases the, ah, consequences, were  … vivid.”  

From the Doctor, he retrieves a little fobwatch, which happens to be singed along the edges.  

    “So yeah.  You broke your biodata nodule, genius.  Trying to extract some of it and put into a loom, so your half of the baby we’d planned to make together was accounted for.”

He pauses, and squats in front of his husband, face just laden with wryness.

    “Did you joost call me scary, and then stimulating, implying that this arouses you?  Oh jolly good. You’re definitely cooming back from the accident, now.”  

He claps him hard on the back.

‘Thete’s’ face is absolutely burning, Koschei’s piquant grin and subsequent comment about him being a slut of all things rendering flesh to ash and converting his blood to liquid fire. He can’t be certain, the title Doctor notwithstanding as his memories are still scattered to the winds, but he’s almost positive there isn’t any of that liquid-fire-blood left in the rest of his body. This man- this gorgeous, wonderful man is his husband and for what feels like the millionth time in so many minutes he’s astounded by this fact.

“I’ve got the feeling it would arouse me whether or not I had my memories…”

He begins with a cheeky sentence, but trails off having finally registered the words that had come from Koschei’s mouth. His own mouth falls open silently, chocolate-umber eyes widening just a fraction. Before he can blink his mind is swimming with information to the extent that he can’t speak for quite some time.

It would be a blessing if he didn’t have need to actually engage in this part of the conversation.

His eyes merely follow Koschei’s hands as he seems to locate a charred pocket watch hidden in the confines of the suit jacket he’s wearing, mouth still open, unable to articulate even the simplest of phrases. The proximity of the other man as he squats in front of him certainly doesn’t help, but the clap on the back seems to jolt him out of his confounded state. Blinking rapidly and inhaling a long, sharp breath he scuttles backward and climbs to his feet. The words come then, whether he bids them to or not, free-flowing and instinctual though not all together intelligent at first.

“W-What? Our- our WHAT? That’s-… We’re… Y-You just said-…”

He clears his throat, shakes his head to rid it of the fog that’s settled inside it, and tries again. He’s in shock, clearly, and that once-burning face is now going pale in the wake of discovery.

“I was- I was attempting to take apart something called a- a Chameleon Arch to get to the biodata nodule, and it’s- it’s a system that’s used to transform us from a Time Lord whatever-that-is, into another species such as- as a human, and I shorted it out and this-”

He gestures to the room around them vaguely.

“-this is our TARDIS? A… a time machine? I don’t- I… I don’t remember…”

Apparently he’s used up his reserve of intelligent words for the moment and now he’s back to stumbling over them dumbly, backing away from the other man and rubbing a hand against his temple. Swallowing thickly his eyes travel to the pocket watch in the other man’s hands.

“That thing. That watch. If you open it, my memories will come back, won’t they.”

It’s an assumption, not a question, and to his bones he feels he’s made the correct one. His voice is shaking now and he looks properly terrified of the small metal object. In his inability to remember himself, in his inability to recall his wish to avoid vulnerability, in his inability to recall anything of himself and Koschei together, he speaks the absolute truth and doesn’t waver. Doesn’t dramatize. But he does start to tear up, face damp as the words tumble out again.

“I’ve… I’ve done something horrible, haven’t I. In the past, I’ve done terrible things. I can- I can feel them inside. I can’t remember a lick of it but I can feel them, these dark, shameful things in the back of my mind. So many dark, shameful things, so many regrets. I can almost hear them, it’s like- it’s like I’ve got two hearts beating in my ears and I can hear them screaming. Echoes of screaming, whispers almost, if you- if you open that thing what sort of man will I become? Koschei, I’m… I’m terrified of the man I might become.”

He doesn’t know it, but he’s said those exact eight words to Koschei before, when they were adolescents, before it all went wrong. In this his moment of pure, unfiltered horror about himself and the ghost of the scars left behind from his past, he’s never seemed more like himself.

     “Oho, darling.”

There you are, my Dreamer, leadened only ever by your own self-doubt.  

The Master croons his fond concern, placing the fobwatch aside for the moment, ridding his beloved of the source of his dread.  But the source of his crisis remains within.  So his steadfast pursuant–his best friend–creeps quietly over to where he cowers.  

     “I’m gonna tell you something you told me before I was ready to accept it.  Here’s hoping you’re more mature, more …gracious, than I was. In fact, I know you are.  So here goes.” 

He takes the Doctor’s face in his hands, without stepping on his feet in the customary manner, without invading his space. 

     “I forgive you.” 

He pauses, to search frightened dark eyes.

     “Sweethearts–yeah, there are two, we both have two… . sometimes it feels like I gave you one of mine and you gave me one of yours … and that’s important, because … who are you? Well, you’re me. And I’m you.  We met as children, and we learned … very quickly, that we would never be alone, because while no one else ever fully understood us, we understood each other.  So.  Yeah. You’ve done terrible things, all on your own. And guess what: so have I.  But when we’re together we both somehow seem to just … do better.  Loads better.  That’s why we’re married.  That’s why we decided to make a kid.”  

     “You are imperfect but you are mine.  And you are safe.  This remains a constant--both your imperfection and my companionship–whether you choose to regain your memories or not.  And how’s this for a closing argument: I chose to forget for a long time too.  Something like … seventy years.  I had another name, Yana.  And if I hadn’t opened my fobwatch, a lot of terrible things wouldn’t have happened. But.  I would have never come back to you, either.”