the suns have shifted their orbit as they do every year, weather patterns shifting just so. gallifreyan summer had arrived, bringing it’s usual unbearable heat waves. thankfully technology is far enough advanced that they’re hardly bothered in the citadel or major cities, but the shifting sands beyond practically radiate the heat right back. hopefully the summer rains will come sooner rather than later.
still, standing in the midst of the lungbarrow chapterhouse she could feel the heat sinking into her skin from the outside. the great structure looked severely neglected, and quite frankly theta wasn’t certain how it was still alive, even now. the complex pulsed with an energy that sang to her, much like the tardis, urging her forward when all she could do was stand in the entrance to the great hall and it’s upended tables, disregarded furniture, and it’s dimly lit corners.
“i wasn’t expecting this.” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder briefly if only to break her gaze from the depressing state of the chapterhouse. “it’s been left to rot. to suffer. the housekeeper has fled. i’d almost forgotten, i think.” she murmured, reaching out a hand to rest against the wall that was alive beneath her palm. “there’s nothing left of lungbarrow.”
The Master has been staring at the Doctor’s openly struggling profile since the couple arrived on Lungbarrow land. He licks his lips and speaks, with calm confidence.
“I tell you what. Let’s go in together.”
He takes her hand in his own, caressing her knuckles with his thumb.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from you and me, over the centuries, it’s that things that seem unsalvageable truly aren’t.”
He steps inside the threshold and instantly feels the walls vibrating with hostility; your blood is foreign and you are unwelcome, the structure seems to sing.
“Tough,” Oakdown’s sole remaining heir murmurs, and grimaces almost smugly at the cracked ceiling.
“Theta Sigma,” the Master greets the Doctor, with feigned propriety, and then he snatches her around the waist, and pulls her close, with a hungry grin.
He waits for her to reply.
And waits.
And waits.
And sips his cocoa.
And kisses her nose.
And waits.
“Yes, Hearts, so I gathered. Hi.”
Theta’s Grin widens at the kiss to her nose. “Hows the Hot chocolate?” She asked, one hand on his chest, the other around the back of his neck, so that she was more comfortable.
She would let him wait a little bit before she would return the kiss, Of course there was no way she would stop him from kissing her again, the sap, but thats what she loved about him.
“How are you? I myself have missed you.”
“Also, i maaaay have been to 1955 America while trying to get Yaz, Ryan and Graham back home… Wasn’t going to stay… buuuut… yeah, somethin’ made me…” She was clearly not telling the whole story.
“Excellent, fresh meat. Such a relief, I was becoming a bit bored. How many intellectually and socially backwards apes do I get to skin alive for mistreating you?”
“Trust me. I can pick the sharp tacks out. Let’s say I learned the hard way what happens when you underestimate humans.”
He folds his fingers on the table, tapping together his thumbs.
“You built a bodily suit of armor? Does it fly? I should very much like to see the schematics and possibly conduct some experiments of my own.”
“You…You want to see it?” Kelsey asked, surprised, “Well, it’s based off my dad’s armor, so some people might not think it’s that special…But I seem to think it is. C’mon, I’ll show it to you.”
A small smile came up on her face as she opened up the TARDIS door, “But I swear, if you sell the blueprints to it or something, there’s gonna be a problem, because that has happened before, multiple times, and it’s…”
Her face dropped, “…gone wrong. Happened when I was eight, and when I was ten.”
In an instant, the gloominess washed from the young Stark’s face however, “But, that’s in the past now. C’mon, I’ll show you Data. That’s the name of the armor. And yes- it does fly. Would be useless if it didn’t.”
“My dear girl, generations of your lessers have considered inferior technologies to be ‘useful.’ I could hardly make assumptions, even given your excellent pedigree.”
Nevertheless the Master follows Kelsey readily to her workstation. Admittedly his reception of her fraught history is a little brusque; he brushes off such “extraneous” details of personal strife without so much as a sympathetic remark. He is far more preoccupied with what her mind has produced, and, in such a way as honors the Doctor for taking her under her wing, how he can praise her for such concrete achievements.
So he’s already climbing on top of a worktable to get a better look at the suit, drawing his laser screwdriver from his coat pocket and scanning its surface with the secondary sonic setting.
“No no no no NO,” he snaps, waving her off animatedly. “I would never. COME now. I’m practically your stepfather. No, I just want to see you put Data on and take her for a spin.”
“I hope you’re plannin’ on kissin’ meh, I’m definitely in need of kisses and snuggles… don’t ya agree.” Theta grins.
The Master squashes his face into the pillow, with a plaintive and childish whine.
“You utterly disarm and fluster me,” he complains, then very sharply, like a cat having sighted prey, lashes out and grabs her waist, rolls on top of her and kisses her hard and fierce on the lips.
It is one single, insignificant moment in the grand scheme
of the universe. But that moment is enough to crack the very foundations of
what they have built here over these last years.
The Doctor doesn’t recognize it until after she’s done
speaking and he pulls away, staring at her with a horrified and heartsbroken
expression. That look on his face twists her insides worse than even the terror
of his nightmare had. That is the look of someone who has lost something, the
look of darkness taking root, the look of doubt blossoming into something more
than she can handle.
You’re never too much for me, Koschei. Never too loud, never
too enthusiastic, too wild, too… much. Please don’t run away.
But it’s too late. The damage is done, and he recoils from
her, the act itself causing her to flinch from the pain. His words are cuts
made in her very soul, in the part of her that has found her home with him.
Every apology, every muttering of regret. It hurts.
She is as paralyzed as she had been in bed, unable to do
much more than watch as he strips the bed and rushes past her almost without
seeing her, crying and apologizing to her, to himself, to the universe that has
always seen him as lesser. As wrong. Broken. Monstrous. Shameful.
The Doctor wants to get up, climb into the shower fully clothed or not, and wrap him up, to shield him, protect him from his own doubts
and fears… But how can she have any right to do so when it her own doubt that sparked
the blaze of his own imagined inferiority? Though she doesn’t know how long she’s been kneeling on the
tile floor, Theta’s knees are red when she stands on trembling legs. The Master
climbs out of the shower, skin red and steaming from the punishment he
inflicted in an effort to rid himself of whatever filth he sees in himself. His
eyes are wild as he turns on her, and she can’t help but flinch again.
She is not afraid of him, but of his own fear. It frightens her when he is so full of doubt
and uncertainty. It frightens her because one of these days she might not be
able to pull him out of it. But this will NOT be one of those days. It will
not.
She takes a halting step towards him, then nearly throws
herself against him, wrapping herself around him, her nails digging sharply
into the scorched raw skin of his back. The Doctor buries her face in his
chest, hearing his hearts beat, smelling the scent of her favorite soap on his
skin.
“No.”
He’s too far away. His mind, his hearts, even his body is
too separate from hers, too far and too guarded. She feels isolated and cold
and she screams for him, silently, a cry from her very soul that begs him to
come back to her.
I never tire of it. I would die for you. I would live for
you. And I will be here at your side for eternity, no matter what.
“I have never regretted you. NEVER.”
Never regretted loving you, never regretted having faith in
you. Never regretted our lives together, our family, our child. Never regretted any of it. Because you DID save me, Koschei. You saved me from myself, from my
own despair, from hopelessness. You saved me, taught me things about myself I
never knew and loved me anyway.
“I’m so sorry, Koschei.”
We all have our moments of doubt. But I NEED you to know it
changes nothing about us, about how I feel about you, about how much faith I
have in you.
Gods, I hope you believe me.
I hope you know.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
We all have our moments of doubt.
“But I never doubted you.”
Not since you gained this face. Not since you grew so wise and your compassion and hope came thrusting to the fore of all you are. You are my boy again!
Oh, but that’s unfair, it’s unfair, and apart from what she means, and the moment he speaks it he violently shakes his head: like the physical embodiment of her firm “NO.”
It’s the last death knell of his determined, self-punitive resistance, before he greedily gulps down her every word, and greedily clings on to her, naked, skin still radiating the heat from the shower. He feels her scream, even though she does not make it audibly, or even between their minds. He feels it and beyond any self-serving compulsion is the will to keep her safe. So he braces the back of her head and holds her near, and sloppily, unsteadily kisses what he can reach of her face.
Her nails in his back hurt but they ground him, too.
I’m sorry you saw it, Hearts. I’m sorry you saw my fear.
He holds fast to her words: { You DID save me. }
He gathers her face in his hands, as he so often does. He meets her eyes, as he is unafraid to do, because he does know this. He does know.
So he nods at her, quirks his eyebrows, as if to say, “Do you see me saying yes?”, and he nods again. A slight nod, that becomes firm.
I love being your favorite, and you’re mine. I’m sorry I got scared. The things I fear aren’t your fault.
He kisses her forehead, where that troubling little line forms, when she’s upset. He kisses the corners of her eyes, and her tear trails.
I believe you. I do.
Don’t be sad, Goose.
When he finally speaks aloud, it’s hoarse, and very meek:
“Could we … could you. Could you check on Zinny? Please, I’ll. Be okay for a minute. Please, Thete. I know it’s silly. But just make sure she’s alright. I’ll sit right here and wait for you. I’ll be here, I. I promise. I won’t go anywhere.”
Where would he go, physically, plausibly, when her half of their merged TARDIS wouldn’t allow it anyway? Nowhere, but he speaks of his mental and emotional state. He aims–with the pieces of his legendary resolve–to comfort her, that this life is sacred to him.
“I love you, too, my Darling and Star. Please, Doctor … the faith you have in me isn’t a mistake. You couldn’t make me stop loving you if you tried. No act in any universe could stop me loving you.”
The Master opens his mouth. Considers. Closes it. Opens it again.
“I have been the embodiment of your pain too many times. I don’t know … how I couldn’t have stayed, or seen it.”
That would be a kind of unforgivable that excels any and all of his present litany of crimes. Because it would be hypocrisy. The Doctor is the storm. And he who quarrels with the stormy sky cannot abide hypocrisy.
He’s still in his own nightclothes. He slides closer to his best and oldest friend.
“It’s not as if it’s anything I haven’t seen before, love.”
Many times; the change of faces does not erase all of the most poignant memories. Nothing ever could.
He takes the hand offered him and sits in silence.
“Yeah, the … hair-stroking was real,” he ventures, feebly.
And the blanket covering. And the humming, and the touch-telepathic guided meditation that wrecked Koschei because he is so telepathically permeable and naturally assumes the emotions to which he’s exposed. Especially from the one person he adores.
“You wanna … ah, try resting again? I’ve ways to block bad thoughts for you. If you. Want.”
The Doctor shakes his head. “No. I wouldn’t inflict that on you. You being here is enough.”
He edges closer and closer, knowing in his mind the very specific comfort he needs. He has just dreamed about loss and the enormity of it, and here sits the person he is absolutely terrified to lose. The Doctor knows the Master is more than capable of looking after himself and surviving in spite of everything. That doesn’t do anything to change the instinct he has to protect, to hold close what he has claimed as his own, and keep it safe from the universe. Keep him safe. His failure to do so with every one of his other friends leads to more pain each time he tries to protect someone. Finally, he sits upright properly.
“Not you,” he whispers. “I won’t lose you too.” He strokes the Master’s face, eyes glazed with exhaustion. “Can I hold you? I need to feel that you’re…safe.”
Stupid thought. The safest place for anyone is as far away from the Doctor as they can get. Is he being selfish? He falters, suddenly unsure. Eyes full of questions and self doubt search the Master’s face for any sign that he doesn’t want to be here. His mind races, ahead of itself and still partly stuck in its dream.
“Not need. You don’t have to. You don’t…owe me anything.”
God, he hates being vulnerable. He’s slipped up twice now, first with the crying and now with the admitting he needs something. What he should’ve said is I’d like to hold you. Not need. He doesn’t need anything. The Master doesn’t owe him his company or his closeness, and especially not after staying with him all night. The Doctor looks at the other side of the room, shame plastered all over his face.
But there is nothing the Doctor could have said that would have pleased the Master more, than I have a wish that only you can fulfill.
Koschei beams softly at his best friend. He looks more youthful and innocent than he has for several consecutive faces, and it has nothing to do with the roundness of his bone structure. There is neither pity nor disgust on his face as he makes one smooth motion, t-shirt, sweatpants and all, and situates himself in the Doctor’s lap.
He cups his chin and guides pale eyes up to meet dark. He doesn’t force his Theta to look long; he knows shame so well, it is his intimate friend, his motivation, his cause to chase greatness, like a greyhound chasing a stuffed rabbit.
"Oh, my sweet fool. Nothing makes me happier than this. My hearts are safe with you.”
His lips meet the Doctor’s so slightly that the kiss is nearly ticklish. Then, they press more firmly to his lover’s mouth. He pulls back, and settles himself contentedly beneath his chin, and closes his eyes.
“You are the Doctor, comprised of morning sunlight and babies’ laughter, and yes, despite this, I know that you could knee me in the nuts, drop me hard, and snap my neck if you still had the inclination. It is a fact, and I impenitently confess that i find it desperately sexy.”
“I’m sorry but did you just,essentially, call me sexy?” Somehow despite hearing every single word he said, those were the words that were processing.Any attempt to make herself look serious of course dissipated. “Since when do you ever compliment me? Is this a new thing?”
The Doctor’s bluntness staggers the Master; at the same time, it’s like cold water dousing the head of a fever victim. It’s the reality of the gulf between them: she is accustomed to unadulterated malice, to contrariness for its own merit. Not the poesy of their boyhood days. Not anymore.
“Well I … I thought I’d, ehm. Try something different.”
He hears the lameness of his words. But how the hell can he tell her that Missy left an impression? That, further, had he experienced 70 years of the Doctor’s undivided doting attention, surely he too would’ve come to the same conclusion as his future self? That he has watched this incarnation of his childhood friend from afar, taking responsibility for her faults, offering her companions the benefit of informed consent to the dangers awaiting them? That he loves her as he has only ever loved her very first face?
Icarus 