Tag: submission

It’s Koschei’s birthday!          

************* 

 HIS BIRTHDAY PRESENT is one big box filled with all kinds of accessories and goodies; essentially an oversized care packaged, wrapped up neatly in gold wrapping paper (gabriel insisted, as he is the self-proclaimed “king of wrapping”). it has all of his favorite snacks, which may or may not be a subtle way of encouraging him to eat more. some very expensive jo malone cologne is also nestled in there, as well as a new laptop case because she can’t stand looking at the one he’s used so much he’s worn a hole in it. all this, and a velvet box, which contains a very tasteful watch, with an elegantly simple style that matches her own. rolex, of course. more significantly however, the watch is engraved with his initials: K.L.P. the same initials as her father. because all that time ago, she gave him her father’s middle name of “lucien”, in some small effort to start some kind of family tradition after her mother died. they are the initials on his adoption papers, and they are the initials that mark him as hers forever. a note in her familiar script reads sweetly.

          happy birthday, pup. i’m so grateful to have finally gotten the chance to see you grow. you make me so proud with each passing year, and even though you’re away at college putting everyone else to shame, you’re still, and always will be, my baby boy. love, mum.

The prodigy who’s finished his undergraduate theoretical astrophysics and engineering degrees in two years, and is now well into graduate school at the age of (as of today) 20, can be felled immediately by goodies from mum. Because mum is his hero. Mum is his model of greatness: merciless, ambitious CEO of the largest scientific corporation in the world.  And mum is just, well, the coolest.  

The years they spent separated by the circumstances of war were the worst of his life: survival in and out of psych wards and foster care homes that found his manifold mental health woes too great a challenge, on the streets becoming alarmingly proficient at major felonies, and constantly high.  Being rescued just after his seventeenth birthday those three Christmases ago, and reconciled to Dr. Pichiner … . he may never be able to articulate his gratitude.  He did try, just a few weeks ago, on her birthday.

Still, with eagerness, and a bit of greed, he opens the gold foil he recognizes as his adoptive father’s work.  He rolls his eyes good-naturedly.  Gabe’s grown on him.  Slowly.  Mostly because he’s so good to mum.  Even though he’s decidedly uncool.

He’s munching on some sweet and sour gummies while he opens the watch.  Dark clever eyes dart over the data provided: a Rolex like mum’s, with his initials.  He squints, and then his eyes widen with epiphany: has he ever learned his middle name?  Curiosity overcomes him and he hops up while distractedly reading the note. 

He dials Seraphina on his mobile. 

     “MUUUUUUUM!” he cajoles, when she answers, with the endearing entitlement of a child who has finally found a home in which asking for something, needing something, needing someone, is not a crime.  “What IS me middle name, ey?! Oh, and THANKS, it’s brilliant!  This cologne is WAY better than Dad’s!” 

Ah yes, his birthday has come around again. And this year, Jack has an extra special treat in store for him. Early in the morning, Jack slips out of their bedroom to pilot the TARDIS to their restaurant. The one that they always seem to go to for special occasions, ever since their very first date. As always, there’s a table set for two, but because it’s earlier in the day, the beach is practically empty except for a stray waiter or someone walking their dog.

It’s the perfect setting.

Jack’s waiting there for him, glasses of mimosas and a plate of croissants at the ready. There’s two wrapped presents in front of him, one largish one and the other much smaller, about the size of a ring box. Come and find him, husband.

Koschei exits the TARDIS dressed to the nines in natty formalwear that he rarely breaks out since the birth of the twins: featuring, of course, the red and brown tie.  The moment he steps onto the sand he richly chuckles. He knew it.  That romantic bastard always remembers.  

      “Sam McCoy, where ARE you?” he thunders languidly, extending his hand into the air for a kiss, and as he spots the table, he drops jovially into his chair. “For ME?” 

[ Well after that sweater post how can I not?… >8D ]

“Aha! Hoosband! There you are! Look wot I found in tha’ little Christmastree Shoppe ‘round the corner from the electronics dealer on Banue Prime! Isn’t it joost perfect?”

She gestures, with what is most definitely a smug and nefarious grin, to the Christmas tree she’d insisted they display in the control room, just off the right side of the console unit nestled betwixt a corridor leading into the body of the ship and a bookshelf with her Top 127 Books [because she’d refused to only choose 120, but 130 wouldn’t fit].

There, hanging from a high bough near the apex of the tree is a brand new Christmas ornament just for him.

I tried to write this as a reply, but it ended up getting to long, so,

Pamber, my friend, my bestie, you are the exact opposite of worthless. I know it’s easy to feel that way, easier still to believe it, but you are so important. You mean so much, and you offer people so much, with your good heart, your kindness and your graceful attitude. But, I know full well that that alone is not enough to cast out the evil, depressing thoughts, and that you are more than just a series of words and personality traits.

The amount of meaning you hold as a person, as someone who has had the pleasure of knowing you for nearly a decade, I know that you matter, I know that you are special, that you are full of worth. I could give you ever adjective for ‘good person’ under the sun, and quite frankly they wouldn’t all cover how amazing you are.

But, I also know that your meaning is deeply rooted in more than what you do for others, and in your good, honest, and incredible nature. You are tired, and life is tiring. I know how exhausted you are with the world in general, and how desperately you need a break.

And I fully support you resting, in taking the necessary time to just..sit back and decompress, but Pamber, my friend, I said it earlier here and I’ll say it again, you are not worthless. A person of your caliber could never, and will never be such. Not just because of what you offer others, and the world, but because I know you. And I know, you mean the world.

You are so important, Pamber, and you mean so much, I know it can be hard to remember and realize, but you do.

Much Love.

Nate

(this is super babbly,so apologies for that)

I have like nothing worthy to say in response to this lovely letter so I will just post it where I can save it forever <333333 I must say that you mean as much, and impact as many people, if not more, in a positive way, Nate. I don’t know a soul on earth you’ve intentionally hurt.  You are made of light and gentleness.  I often think of you when I am having a hard day: “People can be rotten, but at least there’s Nate, who tries so hard. I can try hard too.”  <33333

Send my muse a gift. 

[ Because. I. Am. Extra. ]

The Doctor steps out of the corridor rather lively, her hands cupped together in front of her to conceal the surprise and an impish look on her face. For centuries now, longer than that, they’ve been attempting to suss out the perfect gift for one another and the Master’s always been one-up. In a previous life full of pinstripes and fearfully unmanageable hair, she’d gotten nearly close enough with a phial full of her own blood. But that wasn’t properly a gift for the Master more so than it was a gift for them both. Now, though, she thinks she’s got it at long last.

THE gift.

Practically skipping her way over to where the Master perches himself she’s nearly unable to remain still, the abundance of energy bubbling up inside of her causing her to shift her weight from foot to foot in a manner suggesting she might actually be dancing rather than presenting a gift. Without a word but with a rather brilliant grin on her face and a wrinkle in her nose, she opens her hands palms up to reveal the secret beneath.

It’s an orb, clear as crystal and perfectly round, near the size of a playing marble. The orb itself is attached to a silver chain, and as she presents it to him her thumb trails over the spot in which the two objects meet, pressing down gently until a click is heard. Immediately following the click the orb glows in shimmering gold before filling with sight and sound.

It’s a memory, projected in such a way that it seems almost like a cinematic frame encased inside. The memory is the pair of them as young boys, holding hands in the red fields and gazing up at the twinkling starlight above, heads tilted each to the side so that their temples rest against one another’s. She’s managed to procure the memory from the third party perspective, allowing the orb to show both of their young, boyish faces at once- the look of serenity and contentment the pair of them are wearing is unlike anything either has worn since those faraway times. Aside from, perhaps, recently.

The sounds that accompany are the sounds of Gallifrey itself.

Insects chirping, the wind through the silver leaves now dark and glittering in the absence of the suns, the blades of grass swaying this way and that, and of course the two round-faced lads speaking their native tongue. It appears to be not an argument but a debate of emotions.

The adolescent Koschei can be heard whispering the closest facsimile to the words ’I love you, you idiot’ in Gallifreyan, to which the adolescent Theta immediately responds in kind. They stare at each other for a moment, then begin to laugh with unfiltered joy and tumble backward into the grass. The memory ends then, and the orb swirls with a glowing golden light before returning to the clear glass it was when she first opened her palms.

She still doesn’t speak, but rather just stares at him with a hopeful look in her melted-toffee eyes.

The Master rolls out from underneath the TARDIS console at the sound of footfalls he would know at the opposite end of the universe.  There’s already a wan expression of amusement on his face as he lifts the goggles up and strips off the rubber gloves that protect his perfect fingernails from six inches of engine grease. 

His eyes fall first on her flitting feet.  He sits up with a grunt, lumbar acting up, and cocks an eyebrow at her. 

“Myyyyeeees?” he trills, feigning a silly expression of sternness.  

She reveals the perfectly crafted sphere.  And he whistles low.  

“What excellent morphology, my darling and star.  And what’s it meant to–?”

When he reaches to snatch it, she activates the control that plays back the memory.  And Koschei blinks, tilts his head and watches the whole memory unfolding, enrapt.  

His eyes are moist before he can consciously register his emotions.  He’s smiling, with such tender familiarity, and awe.  

“That’s us,” he gasps.  

A hand ventures into the holograph, even as the Master knows there is nothing material to touch, thousands of years lost.  He first caresses the air where Theta Sigma’s head glints in the setting suns, and then fades with the appearance of stars.  Then his fingers travel to the back of his own dark head, and that is when the tears fall, and fall again, harder. 

He swallows, trying to bury the absurd urge to cradle that little boy close and promise him the happy ending he’s found.  Mightn’t he have gotten here sooner had he known? 

“It’s us now, as well, isn’t it?” 

He turns to her, vulnerable with the poignant memory, seeking reassurance.  

Remind the Master that he looks like a koala.

The Doctor doesn’t look up from the length of sketching parchment when she hears the footsteps looming about in the distance, nor even as she hears them approach the study itself. Fingers- and nose, and cheeks from scratching her face intermittently -smudged in charcoal and a bit of a smug-half-grin gracing her lips, she continues the drawing that’s been plaguing her mind ever since the dream she’d had the night previous without apology.

It’s the Master of course, her lovely boy Koschei, holding on to a giant stuffed koala bear in the center of what appears to be an intergalactic amusement park and wearing a less-than-amused expression on his face in comparison. Even as she’s the one who’s sketched it she can’t help but let out an affectionate giggle here and there at her own work and her own mind’s ability to conjure up such a delightful image not only in this regeneration but in each one that’s passed them since she’d worn pinstripes and had sticky-uppy hair.

Served him right, after all, for calling her a cockatoo– a term she’s yet to admit is a guilty pleasure, alongside the other various animals he’s compared her to over the centuries. She’s never once denied the comparisons, not like he does, though at times she can barely understand why. After all, koala bears are probably the best comparison to her beloved Keeper as she’s yet to find- endearing yet deadly.

She has every full intention of insisting he not only keep the sketch but hang it on the wall in a location that’s not only community property, but well in view of anyone else who happens to come aboard the TARDIS. Though she doesn’t look up from her work, she does acknowledge his presence in the study.

“Hullo, luv.”

The Master has no idea what awaits him; he only knows his beloved’s engrossed in some outstandingly engrossing pastime.

Well then.  He’s jealous already.

So naturally the absurdly territorial Time Lord must disrupt his best friend’s focus.  

He takes efficient, clipped strides toward her, fingers wriggling at his sides with unspent nervous energy, grinning ear to ear.

      “HULLO, my darling and my star!  Whatever’s occupying you so fully?”

He licks his finger, reaches out and cleans the smudge off her adorable nose.  He does the same for her cheeks, with a familiarity between oldest friends that cannot be feigned.

      “C’mon, c’mon, I didn’t know you could draw in this face.  I let you hear
       my work as a pianist, so I get a peek–”

And that’s when he sees the contents of the sketch.

image

       “I want a divorce.”