“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.
theta, for her part, watches the entire interaction with amusement and warmth in her eyes. she relishes these moments between the three of them, and a swell of contentment washes over her as it so very often does in these moments. she is here. she is happy. she is home. because her home are the two gallifreyans talking nonsense to each other three steps ahead of her.
“one day.” she echoes, because she wants to show celesia the universe. but she is also very aware of their mutual enemies who would only seek to harm their daughter or worse. she won’t let fear govern her always, but the anxious mother in her only wants to keep celesia safe. and koschei safe. “though don’t go putting ideas in her head about rebellious boys and girls who run off together and promise to see the stars in a stolen tardis.” she teases, setting the picnic box down and spreading out a blanket.
“there’s a meteor shower tonight.” theta adds in afterthough, remembering why she’d lured her better half here to the middle of nowhere, where there is no light pollution on the planet to disturb the show of stars. “it only happens once every thousand decades. not that it’s that imperative considering the time machine and all but – i thought it would be nice for us. clearly you two are already thrilled and i haven’t even brought out the snacks.”
Koschei thrusts back his head and laughs in that characteristic manner, a defiant brash noise aimed at the stars themselves.
“What ELSE am I supposed to tell her, as a model for finding her soul mate?”
He gathers Celesia down from his shoulders, tickling her navel, and places her in the middle of the veritable feast. He ties a bib around her little neck, hums in delight at the news his wife offers.
“Nooo, but I know. There is an extra sort of poignancy to experiencing it once you’ve heard of it, the ‘first time’ a big event comes ‘round.”
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.”
Johnathan stared with a quirked brow at the man’s unpredictable response to his agreement. Chuckling quietly he shook his head, amusement gleaming in the dark brown of his eyes. Oh what have I just gotten myself into?… He thought wryly.
“Yes. Really.”
The swiveling chair nearly brought more genuine laughter to his lips but he pushed it down in favor of waving over a tray with tea and biscuits. A wordless spell he had mastered long ago.
“Yes, yes, all-right. Today. Have some tea why don’t you.”
Making up his own cup of tea in one of the silver cups available he pull it close to have it at hand. An expression of darker humor manipulated his features at Harry’s willingness to have a go at his former mother-in-law. Humming thoughtfully he put the tea cup to his lips to take a slow sip from it.
“That’d be something I’d pay to see. Give the old crone a lashing from me, verbal or otherwise I wouldn’t care.”
Scowling deeply into his tea cup he chose not to remark on the final comment from the man. However the glint of near approval in his eyes was a silent give away. The eyes told everything, at least it was that way when it came to Johnathan.
“SPLENDID!”
Harold leans forward and smacks his palms against Johnathan’s cheeks, framing his lips for a big loud kiss. That kiss is utterly shameless, even though his heart secretly thunders.
He pulls back, and pinches his cheeks.
“I’ll drink your damned tea for that prize.”
Back to the chair he goes, the scars of his redacted Dark Mark stinging in warning. Per usual, he doesn’t heed them. He collects his teacup and sips. He even has the audacity to stick up his pinky.
This lasts the short side of 30 seconds before he slams the bone china cup down.
“BOTHER. You’re rubbish at this. I could give you at least five other brews for the stimulation of the senses. Or the calming. Come on, find us a dueling spot. The more public the better.”
A miracle occurs: the Master respects the Doctor’s space.
Perhaps it’s because centuries of an inexplicable, terrifying, overstimulating, isolating noise inside his head, penetrative and invasive and cruel, at the hands of their society’s great patriarch, made him realize just what it is to have no space, ever, to oneself.
Instead of overcompensation with aggressions of his own, then, he releases his beloved and steps back.
“It’s okay. C’mere. Turn around and c’mere. You don’t have to sort it alone, you mopey, deranged cockatoo.”
“Everything’s too loud, too much, I know. But you’ve got me. I get it.”
Slowly he dropped his arms back to his hands, fingers curling back into fists. His shoulders twitched as he fought away his aggressive reaction. Bowing his head his body gave another shudder. When he felt the arms release his waist and the space between them return he inhaled sharply.
Cracked lips parted as he attempted to speak again. The words seemed caught in his throat but he felt his own relief pouring through the connection. The Master did understand, quite possibly the only person who ever could. It brought him some sense of peace knowing he didn’t have to bare all of this alone.
Turning he kept his arms at his sides, still afraid of what he might do if any little thing became too much. Any sound, any action, that could grate on his already frayed nerves. Stepping forward he allowed himself to get close enough to sag into the Master’s steady frame.
“Koschei..”
Again the man’s name was the only thing he could manage to get past his lips. Like a reverent prayer. Through the mental connection his silent thanks was louder than his voice dared to be. The Doctor couldn’t be strong all the time and at the moment he was crumbling.
The Master–over self, over death, over any attempt to conquer and break him, who would sooner scream back at thunder than cower beneath it–accepts the Doctor into his arms. Immediately, he presses two fingers to the Doctor’s temple.
“Breathe.”
It’s such an overwhelming telepathic suggestion, overriding all other frequencies in the psychic stream, that it might as well be a command.
Pink noise, static, a kind of cottony warm sensation, floods into the Doctor’s mind. It’s his choice whether to accept it. He steps back enough to lock eyes with his oldest friend.
Icarus 