i always will – Icarus

intergalacticstarlight:

[ @masterfulxrhythm ]

“Happy Father’s Day, hearts.”

As he says the words with a subdued exhilaration, he gently places a small, wooden, indigo box on the desk next to the keeper of his hearts. After he does so he steps back, observing, waiting, hoping perhaps. He does a lot of that- the hoping. Ever since their few long talks, their more abundant adventures, ever since he asked Koschei to become his and had been met with a resounding ‘yes’ the fear began to transform into something else. Hope for the future. Their future together.

He’s aware of course that it’s a piffling tradition not observed by most species- both the holiday marked as Father’s Day and the gift he’s made for him [yes, made himself, both bits of it]- but it means something to the Doctor, so he hopes it means something to his other half. Within the small indigo box are two small items nestled on black velvet.

One is a ring made of a deep crimson metal with sparkling golden script- circular Gallifreyan -inscribed along the band on the outside. It is their names- their true birth names -combined into one long, flowing word in such a way that there can be no mistaking the nature of the ring itself. The second item is a small phial no larger than three centimeters [1 inch, give or take] with a sample of the Doctor’s blood. His genetic signature, the stuff that makes him, well, him. The exact thing required if they would want to, say, Loom a child?

They’ve both been parents in the past, but those days have gone and the Doctor isn’t keen on reminding them both of what they’ve lost. So instead, he’s chosen to remind his Koschei of what they could have in the future. What they could create together.

If he wants to.

Somehow exceedingly appropriate to the gesture being made, the Master has been tinkering with the water-borne microbes of the last planet the pair visited, playing with a centrifuge and microscope all day, wearing thick goggles and gloves. He finishes placing a dropper of saltwater on an empty petri dish, in the dearth of glass slides, to place it under the scope, when the Doctor slips the indigo parcel beside him.

His lover whispers something; he lifts the goggles, which had covered his ears, with an inquisitive expression.

“Hm?” he chirps, in an invigorated mood as the result of his discoveries.

Dark eyes dart to the parcel, to the Doctor’s mouth, and back down again.

“ … Oh, yes. Yeah. Right, the humans do that, don’t they? Okay, luv.”

Obliviously–indulgently, he thinks–he chuckles, slips off his gloves, and flips open the box lid.

The ring catches his eye first. He tucks his chin in for a moment, absorbing as best he can a feral myriad of potent emotions. He is again a child of seven in a field holding a bedraggled blond boy’s hand; he is again an adolescent in stifling wool and velvet Prydonian robes giving his beloved a lock of his silky black hair because he fears their bond is f a d i n g. He is again a maimed thing shrieking at the skies into which his beloved disappeared. He is again a monster trying to fill the devouring void in his chest with the deaths of other people; look at me, Doctor, LOOK at me. See me again. You tell me I don’t hear the music of the universe; that’s because I’m too blinded and deafened by you, you, only you.

And suddenly, ineffably, he is h e r e.

“Put it on me,” he breathes, and waits for his strangely furtive oldest friend
to comply.

His gasps for air are soft and shallow as the watches the golden band with their enjoined names slide onto his left ring finger, forever, forever.

Mine, mine. At last. All I have ever wanted, needed. You.

He moves to kiss the Doctor, but stops short, hand still on his Theta’s jaw, when he frowns, and takes a better look within the indigo box.

Hands clamber to pull the goggles off his head; they clatter to the grates. He lifts the phial out and holds it to the light; red, it’s dark maroon red. It’s blood.

“Why would y … ?”

Happy Father’s Day.

His hand violently shakes but he manages to place the blood back safely in the box. His hands climb to his hair and pull, tear at it.

To the outward observer the reaction might be alarming, but all that this conveys is that he is overwhelmed: afraid of the perfection of this offering, and what it means.

He backs obliquely toward the other side of the workbench. He jolts against it; the petri dish falls to the ground and breaks. Five or six veins press against his temple; his face is red and his eyes have long since spilled tears.

“You want that … with me?”