In strolls the new auxiliary Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts: thusly assigned as penance for a lifetime of service to the Death Eaters, an alignment that one Harold Saxon held not because he believed the deranged eugenicist arguments of its proponents, so much as he relished the personal advantage of access to so much dark power. Still, silver scars remain where a redacted Dark Mark once was, and the plea bargain out of a lifetime sentence at Azkaban is to have his magic sealed save in the service of academia. The penalty for any attempt otherwise? Any nasty spell he fires, fires back on him twofold.
So here he is, five feet, nine inches of mercurial intellect, in his black and red robes, unwilling to take the cursed position, but serving via extensive experience as a sounding board for the actual professor.
This grants him perhaps too much free time to spy on his oldest childhood friend.
He sprawls in a chair opposite Jonathan and his owl.
“Aw look. Our owls match. I’ve got a barn owl too. Darling. Whatever ails you. Wanna go give the Dueling Club something to talk about again?”
Dark eyes darted upwards when Harold strolled in, watching the man as he made himself right at home in the chair opposite the desk. Heaving a sigh Johnathan reached out to touch Selene’s side, brushing his fingers against her colorful feathers. The bird had puffed up when Harold entered the room but Johnathan paid no mind to her skittish nature.
“Harry.”
The drawl of the little nickname was purely a spiteful response to being called Johnny. A nickname he both adored and loathed all because of his oldest friend. Shifting his weight in the chair he dragged one hand through his hair again, not caring how much he had messed up whatever neat style he and attempted to tame it into.
“I got another letter from the monster-in-law. My ex wife’s mother is a real crone and continues to be since Penelope died. She’s denied me any custody of Cordelia and claims if I fight her on this she would expose my secrets. The only reason she isn’t pulling the same shit with my oldest Ophelia is because she goes to school here.”
Shaking his head Johnathan rises from his seat and walks around the desk. Bracing himself on both arms of Harold’s chair he leans in close to him. Dark brown eyes tracing every line on his face, silent for a brief moment.
“I’d love to give everyone something to talk about my dear.”
“ … r e a l l y ?”
Never has Harry looked so dangerously ready to accept a hedonistic offering. He hasn’t used his magic, save to demonstrate for children defensive spells better suited to Aurors, in months, and oh, the hunger for something more scintillating is fierce.
That, and the chance to duel with the man with whom he is shamelessly infatuated is almost erotic.
“When? Today? Oh, DO say you’ll do it today!”
He all but leaps into a chair, swiveling in dizzying circles, a pitiable echo of his charismatically evil past, always full of excess mental and physical energy as he paces the bars of his cage. A tiger crammed in a ferret’s enclosure.
“I am so very willing to show your mother-in-law more useful expenditures of her time, with your say-so; I’d give anything to have time together with the daughter I lost. They don’t let me see her, you know. Performed a partial Obliviate on my memory then moved her into ‘protective custody.’ All because of the Dark Mark on my arm that I never believed in to begin with.”
He scoffs.
“What’s more, nobody’s allowed to hurt you that profoundly, except me.”
“I walked out to triple check our coordinates and came back to the entire workshop in a CONFLAGRATION! Whose fault is it, the Boogeyman’s?! Really, Ophelia, you’ve gotta be more careful! Crikey. Did those words come out of ME just now?”
Oh, the smirk that spreads across his face, at that declaration; the expression of triumph. Oh, this conquest. He takes the hands around his waist, forces them down and slides his fingers into the Doctor’s. He lifts both joined hands to his lips and kisses, with particular fervor, the left.
“I think you belong to me already.”
He turns his head enough that he can look up, and back, at his oldest friend’s face.
“But I will marry you anywhere and anywhen. So let’s go.”
A half-chuckle escapes him, one born of exultant acquiescence to the Master’s words. He knows them to be true as he knows any Universal constant; it’s evident now in every movement he makes, in every word he speaks, every day spent with this man who he already belongs to. Those kisses linger on his skin and cause the static tingle he’s so fond of to permeate his hands and dive deeply into his bones.
“Of course I do. I’ve belonged to you since the day we met, Kos. Doesn’t mean we can’t make it official. Recognized in every star system. Binding. Imagine that- legal documentation that proclaims me to be yours, and you to be mine.”
He confirms and proclaims these things so easily it’s almost as if he’s never had trouble admitting them to begin with. Dark eyes meet those of his oldest friend, his best friend, the person who’s held his hearts in their palms since the moment ‘hello’ had been uttered. A squeeze of the Master’s hands in his own and his grin spreads like fire to kindling. Oh he’s lighter now. Has been since the day he’d been thrust into a deep sleep and woken a better man, having shed much of his regrets in favor of living in the beautiful present.
“Anywhere and anywhen, coming right up.”
He winks, still grinning, and releases one of the Master’s hands before using the other still joined with his to lead him to the control room. The coordinates are already set and all it takes as they near the console unit is a flip of the lever before the ship shudders and hurtles toward its’ destination.
“Now, now. You’re being disagreeable, you know.”
The Master stands on the Doctor’s feet, as he always does when particularly, possessively affectionate. He snaps his teeth at his nose, and nuzzles his face, demanding access to every inch of his essence.
“Monopolizing all the pretty words, so I’ll have none left with which to speak you my vows, heard across those infinite star systems. You cur. You know what a show-off I am.”
He slips off the feet of his beloved long enough to return his arms round his waist, standing behind him, conspiratorial, inhaling deeply of his fugitive scent. He closes his eyes and burrows a cheek against the crook of the Doctor’s neck.
Nowhere, you’ll go nowhere on me again. You’ve got to break this death-grip. I am obstinately attached to you now, my love of loves.
The thought process is silly and infantile, but he can’t help it; it’s so difficult to trust this building euphoria. Even as the TARDIS moves toward the spot the Doctor has chosen, the Master gloms tightly on. His features are blinding, joyous and wicked and crafty.
“ … I dunno, but I’m already formulating a murder scheme for the person who spiked it,” the Master counters, catching the Doctor in his arms securely.
He pulls an all-purpose anti-toxin injection from his belt and injects the Doctor in the arm.
“OI! SEAL OFF THE EXITS!” he roars at the nearest guard, who scrambles to comply. “NO one leaves until they’re questioned!”
Doors to the Citadel audience hall slam closed. The Master lies down the Doctor on the floor and crouches over her. He pulls his laser screwdriver and shakes it once, hard, expanding it to a vallidium baton with a detachable floating laser nozzle that can decimate every living creature in the room within seconds.
“I do believe this is the part where one of your earth apes would say, ‘coom at me, scrublords, I’m ripped,’” he jests through his teeth, eyes ablaze. “How you feeling, Thete?”
“HehHAH, what’d I do? This is a most blessed visit.”
The Master follows wife and daughter out into that which is reminiscent of the red grassy fields made sacred by memory. He can’t help it: even when on another planet, his mind returns to the place of origin for every happiest state of his hearts. Still, the fireflies are bigger, fatter, and brighter on this planet, as he and Theta both aim to please their beloved babygirl.
“You know, I’m not sure I care, long as I’ve got my girls… . ! What IS it, my brilliant star? Oh golly, you’re joost piping with ideas!”
He bends carefully to hoist Celesia up onto his shoulders.
“Look, Lessie, look! See the lights? Those are bugs! They look like fallen stars, now don’t they? But you know those stars are all big …bigger than this whole field, bigger than ten of these whole fields? They’re joost very, very far away. Wave to them! Wave, loov! There’s a girl! Maybe you have a friend on one of those stars waving back, that you and mum and me’ll get to meet someday, hm? Like mum and I were friends!”
He realizes, of course, from his typically voracious study of child development, that Celesia can probably latch onto only a handful of the words he speaks, but Koschei hates the idea of ever speaking down to his daughter, and so it’s typical that they converse in this manner, her babbles to his full sentences, with mutually feeding enthusiasm.
“Oh, I get it, joost ask your conveniently extra-terrestrial husband! We’re all little green men, right, I would know why some flying saucer wanted to anal-probe some bovines!”
Koschei removes his glasses and clears his throat. He tucks his daughter in against his side, combing her chestnut braids over one shoulder and leaning over to rub noses with her.
“Once upon a time there was a warrior princess clad in bright glistening vallidium armor whose mind was most powerful. She used her mind for good, planting ideas about how to be kind in the minds of anyone she touched. So she dashed across the countryside on her noble steed, reaching over to tap the shoulder of anyone she came across. And that person would think of the most agreeable things to do for their fellow people: pick up a dropped object, offer a hand oop, pay a compliment. And her kingdom prospered because she was ever so clever and good. Her name was Samantha.”
“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 hishusband 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 Lordwhatever-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.”
The Master stops altogether in his advance. This isn’t the first time he’s encountered his future face since their disastrous parting, but it is the closest they have come to physical contact.
“You,” he ventures, mouth dry, words deep but husky with conflicting emotions, “are more disappointed than I, I’m sure. At the time I only wished to stop you from forfeiting yourself to the shared love of our life. I really, really didn’t want to commit suicide.”
He loathes himself in the moment, a sensation with which he’s still unfamiliar, for being the hotter-blooded of the pair. The volcanic magma to the softly lethal snake bite. No finesse, no quiet viper grins, no surgical precision, at least, not anymore: just a thundering lionsinged by the force of his own fury, just Icarus falling from the sun with his melted wings, just a tired old man with gray in his beard and a bad back care of the woman sprawled before him.
“All that aside: It cannot have escaped you that I admire you tremendously.I want you to be happy, Missy. I always did. I want us to be happy.”
How is that for nice?
So Junior joins Sis, offering her the added gift of his deference by taking a seat on a chair lower than hers.
He rests the olive branch in the silence between them.
“consider me touched.” she hums thoughtfully; it’s strange, being in the presence of ones’ self. it’s hindered further by the fact that at any given moment her own mind wants to link with his, as if the strain is far too much to be parted into two minds. it’s difficult to hide anything from one another because they ARE one another – his thoughts are hers, and vice versa. incredibly disarming.
“stop being so disgustingly hard on yourself. if you want to be hard on one of us, do it to the fried chicken regeneration. honestly. what a mess. we’ve come so far. i’m so proud.” she tilts her head, rolling the ache out of her spine with one rotation before her icy gaze levels at him.
“happy is a relative term to you and i.” she adds, quieter. had she been happy before? not exactly, but perhaps she could have been. the doctor had given her hope. she had returned it. it was a step toward happiness, destroyed by her own mutual self destruction. pity. “but i remember being happy. as you. once. though at this point i can’t recall if it’s before or after us meeting here, face to face again. memories get so muddled when we’re together.” her nose wrinkles and she closes her eyes as if to recall. painted lips curl into a smile that’s only half as dangerous.
“i admire you, junior. you’re clever. let’s face it – we’ve been such idiots in the past. granted the doctor has pushed us to such points, but still. i think we’re growing wiser each face – but you.” her eyes snap open to stare at him. “you’ve always been the clever little one. playing the long game. you’ve the patience of a saint, if there are any to bless broken little playthings like us.” the last is said with a hum as she shifts, slides down where she’s perched on a step, onto the floor like a child – and below him.
“lets be friends, you and i.”
“Okay.”
The Master’s riposte for “I’m touched” is simple and bemused. He acknowledges, in the process, that he’s about to receive a doozie of a dressing-down from a more experienced version of himself.
Initially, Missy does not disappoint, and the Master cannot help but suppress a husky chuckle, head bobbing, almost relieved by the familiarity of her brusqueness; it is equally disorienting to him, having the causal nexus of his existence obscured like gauze over a film lens by being so near a future incarnation.
“Of course you’re proud, we’re a violent narcissist.”
He holds up a hand.
“No, I know. I get it. It’s not that kind of proud. It’s the kind of proud you feel after laboring upon a new invention for 72 straight hours, covered in engine grease, watching its well oiled perfection as you first turn it on. Only we’re the invention: this new us.”
He raps the tabletop, a tacit “hear, hear,” to the words that follow.
“The Doctor has always made us do idiotic things. But yes, I concur, this last turn of events was a kind of apex of lunacy. And I think we’ll be here all day if we argue over which of us is the cleverer, more patient, more lethal, or more attractive.”
He bares his teeth back at her, displaying his primitive weaponry just as she does hers, a salute to she whom he will one day become.
“Let’s.”
He draws his laser screwdriver, turns it toward himself, and hands it to her, awaiting the proffering of her dagger.
“Oh, I get it, joost ask your conveniently extra-terrestrial husband! We’re all little green men, right, I would know why some flying saucer wanted to anal-probe some bovines!”
Icarus 