Awareness.
He was… he was… there. Existing. He was somebody and – oh, what an amazing wonder! – he existed.
It's wasn't new, though, was it? Existing? He had existed before. He had existed in so many forms he wasn't sure which particular part of existing had made him a person, the other times. But at least he was aware. He was there.
There were things around him. Things, like… things. Somethings. He was in a place and something had happened. Something. Something. But what?
He vaguely remembered an ending was involved. The end of something important – something massive. An important end.
And someone. He'd been with someone, doing something. Someone who?
And who was he, by the way?
Doctor!
Doctor. He was the Doctor. Doctor… Doctor who?
He screamed as strings of acute pain flared through his head, piercing, excruciating, while ghosts of memories arose from still burning ashes. He saw a face. A pretty face. Scary face. Eyes so blue it hurt to stare into them. Eyes so sharp he felt himself bleed just by recalling them. A face he knew.
Missy.
Missy!
He'd been looking for Missy when –
He'd been dying, hadn't he?
Yes. Yes. He'd been dying. He'd been dying and the regeneration knocked him out while he was –
Missy.
He'd found Missy. Hurt Missy. Dying Missy. Dreadfully not regenerating Missy.
Think, think, think, you stupid, old fool, the Doctor mentally yelled at himself, his head throbbing in a tangle of crumpled thoughts. Everything was dark. So dark.
Eyes, he realised suddenly. You have eyes. You're supposed to, at least. Open them. Open your eyes.
It took him a while to remember how to do that. When his burning brain finally connected with his eyelids and ordered them to open, the light broke into his sight, hot and violent like a stab. He cried.
"Don't be so loud. My new ears are sensitive."
He could hear. Good. The voice he was hearing was nowhere near familiar, though. He tried to open his eyes again. When his pupils adjusted to the light, a silhouette slowly appeared in front of him; as his sight gained focus, he took in a number of things, the first of which was that he must be lying on the ground, because the blurry face above him seemed as high as the sky. It was pale as the moon and, oddly enough, an orange halo shone all around it.
He heard an annoying noise. Like… like hands hitting against one other. There was a term for it. There was a term. What was it?
"Congratulations on not dying!" exclaimed the unfamiliar voice. Feminine. It was feminine, soft as velvet, yet sharp as a razor. An oxymoron voice. How peculiar. How unique.
I've met these qualities before, he absently realised, not sure whether it should reassure him or make him scared. Curious how he found himself inexplicably inclined towards the latter.
He knew a person like that. Like milk and poison. Like silk and vitriol. Like stars and black holes. He knew an oxymoron person.
"Missy?"
The word bubbled up from his lips, tentative and disbelieving, but not completely foreign. It made sense. It made sense, somehow, in his wretched mind, that he would hear that voice – that tone, more specifically – and think of that name.
He used to know one Missy. Fragments of memories surfaced from oblivion and flashed behind his eyes: a life far far away; faces he'd worn; faces he'd met; battles he'd fought. Some he had won, some he had lost. Not this last one, though. He remembered: he'd been looking for Missy, but had arrived too late.
"Well, well, well." The person he'd just identified as Missy – albeit her face didn't look like Missy at all – bent over him, brushing back a cascade of ginger hair with a hand. "Looks like we're tougher to kill than the universe thought," she said, and the Doctor was lost for a moment in the delicate beauty of her features. She was a redhead and she looked ravishing. Young and voluptuous, and dangerously so. The looks of a predator.
Missy. Missy.
New Missy. Young-looking Missy. Redhead Missy. Not dead Missy.
A million comments and questions crowded the Doctor's mind, yet all he managed to articulate was: "You're ginger."
It sounded suspiciously like an accusation. And he was still Scottish. Why was he still Scottish?
Missy merely huffed. "I know, right? How unfortunate. But, on the other hand, look at these beauties!" She beamed as her hands went up to cup her remarkably generous breasts, squeezed into a dress now at least a couple of sizes too small.
"Wait." The Doctor frowned at his own voice. "Wait wait wait." He licked his teeth and cleared his throat as if doing so could somehow fix what sounded so wrong. "I'm a girl, too."
He was a girl. A girl. Also, he sounded bloody young. He – she tried to rise to her feet; Missy offered a hand. The smell of the wet earth of the forest hit the Doctor's nostrils as she stood on her feet experimentally.
"I sound young," said the Doctor, testing her balance with her brand new – way too short – legs. "And – blimey, you're tall."
Missy snickered. "You say blimey now? I wish I could hear that from your old voice, eyebrow game and everything." She lay a hand on the Doctor's shoulder, a shadow of concern darkening her ridiculously attractive face. "Are you okay?"
"Probably. Not sure." The Doctor shuddered at how childish she sounded. "I look that young, don't I?"
"You do, my friend. But you're a fool if you think a fresh pretty face will make you pass as young. Your eyes betray you, dearie. Your ancient, hungry eyes. You've changed so many faces, and yet those eyes are still the same: the eyes of a drowning man. Well, woman."
The Doctor didn't bother to conceal a small smile. What a tragedy it was, what a blessing, to have frenemies who knew you so well.
"Shut up, Freckles."
Missy's new hazel eyes widened in indignation. "Look who's talking, Dimples!"
The Doctor yanked herself free from the Mistress' arms. She staggered away, managing just a couple of wobbly steps before collapsing against the closest tree. She held up a finger at Missy's attempt to assist her. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm finely finally fine. Keep your beautifully manicured hands and perfect, soft, overabundant breasts away from me! I need to think – think – and this new pinup look of yours is…" She took a deep breath, stared at Missy's boobs for a moment and groaned. "… distracting. You are distracting. More distracting than before," she added, as if on a second thought. "If that is even possible."
"Aw," Missy smiled – the prettiest, most terrifying smile to ever have graced time and space. "You're rambling. That's cute."
"Don't. Don't call me cute. Don't do that."
"But, my dear, you are. You should really see yourself right now."
"Hold on." The Doctor scowled, staring into the void in front of her. "Hold on. Hold on. I'm cute."
"And I appear to be really hot," agreed Missy, smugly running her hands over her own arse.
"I'm cute. You're hot. I get it. But… how?" The Doctor gazed into the Mistress' eyes, searching for impossible answers. "How are we at all? We're supposed to be – "
"Dead?" Missy offered, arms crossed over her chest – and, seriously, was she just showing off now? "Gone? Departed? Finished? Pushing up daisies?" She grimaced at her own words and shook her head disapprovingly. "Gosh, I hate daisies."
"Lucky you dropped the flowery hat then. No, no, no, shut up, you're doing that again."
"Excusez moi?"
"Distracting me!"
Missy scoffed. "Well, that's rude."
"Missy," the Doctor urged. She was still dizzy from the regeneration, but her head was starting to clear and there were a lot of rising questions. "Missy. How are we alive?"
Missy shrugged. "How would I know? All I remember is thinking 'I'm dead', and then I heard your stupid grumpy voice calling for me. Next thing I know, I'm revived and breathing, and you're lying next to me, looking like a kinky schoolgirl in daddy's clothes." Missy's look roamed eloquently all over the Doctor's appearance. "You probably ran out of juice when you… whatever it is that you did to regenerate me. We both look a lot younger than usual."
The Doctor brought her hands to her face, trying to figure out her features. No wrinkles, no beard; only smooth, firm skin. "How younger?"
"Thirty? Ish? Look, you're alive, you don't get to complain."
Alive. Both of them. When just hours ago – hours, right? Or was it minutes? Was it years? – they had been standing on the threshold between life and death, not knowing if they were going to collapse forward and just end, or have the door slammed onto their faces once again.
Both of them had closed their eyes thinking only the other would live to tell the tale.
The Doctor falls, the Doctor had thought in one last sparkle of blurry consciousness. Alone.
The Master falls, Missy had thought with a cold shiver. And the Doctor will never know. Will never know I chose him over myself.
"Alive," the Doctor mouthed, lost in disbelief. "Alive."
It seemed such a cliché, now, to bask in the bittersweet aftermath of their own miscalculations. 'Every time I think I've come to know all of you', they should tell each other, 'you outdo yourself over and over for the mere pleasure of proving me wrong'.
Missy clicked her tongue with a dramatic eye roll and joined her friend at the tree. "Alright, you want answers. Where are we supposed to get them? We're the oldest thing in the neighbourhood and I doubt those peasants at the farm are even literate, so..."
They stared at each other in silence. There would be no answer, probably. Sometimes things had an explanation – satisfying, convincing explanation; sometimes the universe simply liked to fuck up, just because, and goodbye explanations. Goodbye answers.
This seemed to be the case. The latter, as a matter of fact.
The Doctor reasoned: so much had happened. He – she, she, blimey – had saved the day once again and, why the fuck not, must have deserved another chance. An extra life. Bonus points. She was the Doctor, after all.
The Mistress reasoned: had she survived the most bizarre case of suicide ever? Yes. Did she deserve to be alive? Absolutely. Had her unexpected surviving broken the universe? Likely. Did she give a damn about it? Of course not.
One of the few absolute truths to ever exist – one of the most sacred fixed points – was that Master and Doctor would always stand on opposite sides, painfully alike, yet ever divided; she had always been sure it would be like that forever, always, until suddenly she was not. Until, out of the blue, she had heard both her hearts scream a stupid, solid yes.
Yes.
Yes, I will.
Yes, I do.
I stand with the Doctor.
And then the bastard, her other self – the male not-nearly-as-attractive-and-smart-as-the-female-self self – had tried to take her out, and obviously something in his plan had gone, oh, so very wrong, because, hey, she was still here, alive and healthy and totally rocking it. And the Doctor was here, and something wasn't quite right about that, except that, if anyone had dared to tell her so, she would have killed them on the spot, because you can't tell people something is wrong when it feels unquestionably right.
For some reason, they had ended up sitting on the ground. The Doctor's clothes may have been funny on her new girly body, but the Mistress didn't look any less ridiculous: her former figure had been tiny and sender; this upgraded version involved major curves her current clothes were not designed for, and her legs were way too long, now, for that skirt. Also, a couple of buttons had popped on her blouse, exposing a few inches of top quality cleavage, and the Doctor seemed to have noticed, too.
"Like what you see?" Missy asked mischievously, making the Doctor face away hastily from her bust.
"It's not like I didn't before," the Doctor snapped, and something in the way that young girl stubbornly furrowed her brows made the old Doctor surface back for a split second. "You took ginger from me. I can't believe you did that. I've wanted to be ginger for ages. Literally. I was having dinner with a very nice pterodactyl in the Tithonian when I first wished I was a redhead."
"Impressive," Missy remarked, actually rather unimpressedly. "Sorry about that. Or maybe not. I still have to decide whether I like this regeneration or not."
"Sorry, what was that?" replied the Doctor loudly, a hand behind her ear. "I can't hear you from down here!"
Missy snorted. "You're just jealous because once again I'm the sexy one."
She was tall, now. Her glossy red hair brushed the Doctor's shoulder, mixing with a blonde mane barely long enough to skim her shoulders.
"I'm scared, Doctor," Missy exhaled after a long while.
"I understand," said the Doctor quietly. She took Missy's hand, thumb brushing in circles over her knuckles. "I am afraid heights, too. Must be terrible to be standing so high above the world."
"Can you be serious for a moment, please? I'm trying to get some grounding, here."
"We are sitting on the ground – cold, hard soil. This is as grounded as it gets on a spaceship, love."
Time stopped for a moment. The Doctor froze and, next to her, Missy felt her eyes widen and both her hearts skip a beat.
There had been a time when being addressed like that by the Doctor had been the norm, ordinary, but that had been another life, another Master, another Doctor. The universe itself had turned inside out and upside down since then. Yet here it was again, after all this time, as if wars and genocides hadn't pulled them apart again and again.
Love.
Missy swallowed, hard. "What did you just call me?"
The Doctor stifled a groan, feeling weak and helpless and brittle under Missy's suddenly vulnerable tone. Why did she have to be like that? Why did she have to make that broken face at him? Why had she always been like that?
Desperate. Deceitful. Delightful.
She had almost stabbed the Doctor in the back – figuratively, but still. She had almost forsaken her. But you couldn't hold someone responsible for an almost mistake – an almost betrayal. Right? Right? Even if that someone had a history of both.
"Your new nose is boring," the Doctor found herself remarking, even though her eyes were rather focused on Missy's lips. As to Missy, she didn't appreciate the subject change attempt and her glare could have frozen fire.
"Listen, you little coward…"
"Perfect and boring," the Doctor continued, ignoring her completely. "I liked the other one better. I liked the whole old you better."
"… don't –" Missy trailed off, making a face as her voice went a little out of tune. "New vocal cords," she complained, lips pursed tightly. "It's going to take a little… oh, well." She glared at the Doctor, poking her in the arm with a finger. "You called me love."
I did, didn't I?, the Doctor mused as she took her time to take in the Master's new features, the gentle curve of her nose, the high cheekbones (she seemed to be rather attached to those), the mouth, soft and tempting, and the astonishing galaxy of freckles scattered all over her face.
A wave of naïve, blissful thoughts washed over her, making her sigh, making her wish things. Impossible things. Things that would never be. Not in this life, nor in any other.
"It slipped," was her frivolous reply. A reply Missy, predictably, didn't accept.
"Herr Freud would have something to say about it."
"Freud was a lunatic with an obsession with sex, which downgrades him to average human being." She trailed off, her breath catching a little. Missy was probably right about her lack of regeneration juice: she shouldn't be feeling so exhausted, at this point. She shouldn't –
"Doctor."
She felt Missy's hand on her face, a cool, tentative touch, unexpected but not entirely unwelcome. No, scratch that. Entirely not unwelcome.
Her head started spinning. Or was it the world all around her?
"Doctor, are you alright?"
"Appley."
No. No, that was not the right fruit. What was it? Peary? Orangey?
Peachy. That was the fruit. She was peachy.
No, she wasn't.
"You don't look appley."
"I guess not," the Doctor panted, feeling dizzy and boneless. Missy's strong presence felt like a lifebuoy at her side, so she held onto her friend, arms falling into arms, as the world started spinning harder.
There were words – things being said – but the Doctor couldn't grasp any of them, or even fragments of them. Everything was a blur. She slipped, limbs limp and numb, and collapsed against the grass.
Initially, out of ancient habits, Missy was tempted to make some snarky comment and make fun of the moment, but then again, wouldn't that kind of contradict everything she'd done so far for this pathetic idiot she cared so much for?
"Well," she sighed, staring down at the Doctor's body sprawled over her own. "I guess I have no choice. Lucky for you new me is a ginger Wonder Woman."
The Doctor couldn't understand what Missy was saying, but she could tell she was being raised from the ground, meaning she was either really really petite, or Missy was really really strong. Or both, of course.
Her head was abandoned against Missy's shoulder, inhaling the unfamiliar scent of a Master born out of sacrifice. The Doctor's mind was drifting, floating in a silvery fog, but something like a nail kept one thought well fixed and clear: she was in Missy's arms. Warm. Taken care of. Safe.
"Sorry I called you love," the Doctor muttered, half unconsciously, against Missy's neck. She couldn't see the smirk forming on her friend's lips.
"Believe it or not, Doctor," a soft, gentle touch brushed over the Doctor's forehead. "I've been called much worse names."
x
The light had changed when the Doctor opened her eyes again. The fake sun in the fake countryside had gone down, leaving a fake night to fill the window panes.
Oh, windows. She was indoors, wasn't she? Someone had given her a bed and blankets and a small fire in a small fireplace. A bunch of candles cast a dim, trembling light around the room, making it quite evident that Missy was not in there.
The Doctor tried to sit up, with very poor results. By the time she had managed to pull herself up in a half sitting position, she was sweaty and panting and her arms itched tremendously. Glancing down, she noticed she had been stripped of her old clothes and was not wearing an old blue plaid shirt, way too large for her tiny frame.
This explains the itching, at least.
In that very moment, the door on the other side of the room swung open and an orange-haired Valkyrie stormed in, making a lot of noise.
"Flannels!" whined Missy, struggling to adjust a red plaid shirt that stretched over her curves in all the right places. "Figures. These peasants seem to own nothing but silly flannels and worn jeans." When she finally looked up, she noticed the Doctor staring at her. "Well, then," Missy planted her hands on her hips with a smug grin. "Look at us. Looking like proper stereotypical lesbians. We could be Tumblr superstars."
The Doctor frowned confusedly. "What's a Tumblr?"
Missy's eyes sparkled; she made sly face. "I'm sure you'd rather not know."
"How did you get used to these?" asked the Doctor while attempting to adjust her breasts so that they wouldn't feel so loose. "They don't seem practical."
"Things got way more practical down below, though. And I assure you that's a wonderful new friend to play with." She winked mischievously. "Hey, remember that time on Yzu 11 Beta, when we – "
"Missy."
"Yes?"
There was a greenish hue to the Doctor's pale skin. "We saved these people."
"You did."
"We saved these people and almost died, but didn't," he said, ignoring her correction.
"Oh, but we did, Doctor," Missy rectified again. She went to sit on the bed, facing the Doctor and her shocked eyes. "We died a million little deaths when I turned my back to you, and you know that as well as I do, because it hurt you as much as it hurt me."
The Doctor gripped Missy's wrist and dug her nails into it. "You were coming back to me," she breathed, swallowing a knot in her throat. If this was a movie, a sad ballad would be playing in the background, probably singing about missed chances and time running out.
Missy nodded, lips pressed tightly together. "I was." I shouldn't have left you at all. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
"That it took me so long to understand."
The Doctor took her hand and squeezed it tight. "Missy." She cupped her cheek with her other hand, brushing away a trail of tears with her thumb. Silent, precious tears. The Doctor didn't even deserve them. "My Missy."
Devotion tinged her words. She had a feeling that everything she had – and it was all here, at arm's reach – might slip away any moment if she didn't fight tooth and nail to hold onto it. Her reason, however, was inexplicably clouded; all she could think about right now was a number of very insensible things dictated by nearly feral instincts. And since doing them all together at once did seem like a bad idea, the Doctor opted to go for the first of the list. So she leant forward and pulled Missy down in a kiss.
If the universe hadn't collapsed before, now was certainly good time, because, against all odds, Missy kissed the Doctor back.
It wasn't a sweet, romantic kiss. It wasn't even a hot, passionate kiss. It was a desperate kiss, wet with tears and drenched in grief, and fear. It was the ultimate cry for mercy of two people who had loved, and hurt, and lost each other so many times it almost made no sense to even try to keep it all together. But there was an almost, there, and that terrible curse that was hope feasted on almosts, just like they feasted on hope itself.
When they pulled apart – impossibly slowly, as if afraid to break some sort of spell – neither of them realised how hard they were both shivering. And the Doctor – the Doctor was staring at Missy with such longing in his eyes, so lovingly… was it supposed to be that painful to be look at like that?
"This is not a good idea," Missy muttered, her lips still lingering over the Doctor's.
The Doctor leant her forehead against Missy's, still catching her breath. "This is an excellent idea."
"It's never going to work."
"Why not?"
"We made it a habit to hurt each other until one of us bleeds."
"Well, look at us. We're both bleeding. We have been for centuries." The Doctor cupped Missy's neck with a hand and the the other slide down to her chest. "Maybe it's time we stop hurting each other."
Missy put her hands over the Doctor's, looking very sad and very fragile all of a sudden.
"Four, Doctor." She raised her eyes, bright and glossy, pressing her fingers into the Doctor's flesh. "Four hearts between the two of us," she said, her voice a soft, frantic whisper. "And we managed to shatter them all."
"Let's pick up the pieces, then," replied the Doctor. "Let's get tape and glue and put everything back together!"
"What if we make a mess?"
The Doctor smiled fondly. "It's not like we can do worse than we've been doing so far."
Missy leant into her touch on her cheek, sighing dramatically. "I hate you so much when you're right."
There was a knock on the door and, reluctantly, they had to break apart.
"I'm not looking," announced Nardole, walking in with a hand over his eyes. "I'm just leaving the Doctor's clothes. Don't mind me." He dropped a small bundle on the table next to the door and retreated, bumping against the frame before getting his exit right.
The Doctor apparently had a set of emergency clothes of preference stored somewhere in her Tardis and had instructed Nardole to deliver them in case of necessity. Missy collected the bundle and unfolded it piece by piece: black trousers, a black hoodie, and a gray coat that was definitely oversized for this Doctor.
"This is very previous you," Missy noted, throwing the clothes at their rightful owner. "I wonder what current you likes?"
"Lovely! Let's go shopping and find out!" The Doctor threw the sheets aside and crawled out of bed.
"Don't you go all sarcastic on me, missy!" Missy retorted, then giggled very proudly at her own pun. "Oh, I'm such a laugh!"
Grumbling, the Doctor stubbornly staggered towards the table and, after a moment of instability, started to undress herself. There wasn't much to take off, actually: under the flannel she still had man's underwear but that was all. She marvelled at how different her body felt: smooth and soft and... blimey, she was cute.
Missy seemed to appreciate the view, too; her eyes, in fact, were all over The Doctor, her gaze so intense the Doctor could feel it.
"Nice legs, girl," purred Missy as she walked to the Doctor with a cat-like expression painted across her face. "Nice everything, actually."
"Are you hitting on me?" the Doctor inquired, pulling her trousers up.
"Just stating the obvious." Missy picked up the hoodie, unzipped it and held it up. "Do you want me to hit on you?" she asked, helping the Doctor into the hoodie. When it was on, she zipped it up and stared.
The Doctor stared back, puzzled. "What?"
Missy blinked, transfixed into nothingness. "You're getting ready."
"Of course I'm getting ready. We're going." Missy said nothing and the Doctor's face fell. "We're not going?"
Missy laid her hands on the Doctor's hips and sighed, then brushed a lock of blond hair behind her friend's ear. "It's been going so well…"
"Yes! Well is good, well is great! But well can be better!"
Missy didn't utter a sound, refusing to even look at her.
"Missy," the Doctor shook her gently. "Don't be an idiot. Get your sonic umbrella and let's go. The whole universe is waiting for us, out there. Think about it: the Master and the Doctor, just like the old times. It will be epic!"
The Doctor's new voice was so gentle… hearing it supplicating was heart-breaking. And that face – oh, that broken little face, and that pout, and those green eyes…
"Stop doing that."
The Doctor had to tilt her head backwards to look Missy in the eye. "Doing what?"
"I'm not coming with you."
"Yes, you are." It was hard to look threatening from a good five inches below Missy's eye level. "Now I'm going out there to get the Tardis ready. I'll give you five minutes to come to your senses and join me. Please, show up, otherwise…" I'll lock you back inside the vault, the Doctor wanted to say. "Otherwise I'll have to let you go," she said instead, distraught by the mere thought of not being with her, all of a sudden. "And I don't want to let you go."
Missy nudged the Doctor's nose with the tip of her own, lowered her lips to drop a light kiss on the Doctor's cheek. It felt awfully like a goodbye. It felt like breaking a promise that had never been made.
The Doctor's lips lingered just a breath away from Missy's. She couldn't force Missy to stay. She wanted to, desperately, but she couldn't. She attempted a smile, both her hearts heavy and aching. "Say something nice."
Missy returned the smile – a smile so small and apologetic it felt like a stab. "Thank you, Doctor."
And that was all. She took a step back and gazed away. She said nothing when the Doctor left, closing the door behind her back.
It felt like a defeat. Deep inside, the Doctor had been firmly convinced Missy would want to stay. It was different, this time. Different from any other time, because this once they had been there for each other. They had proved how much they cared. She truly had believed she wouldn't be leaving this spaceship alone.
Now she was.
x
She had pulled the hood over her head and was now marching into the depth of the forest, stepping over roots and rocks and fallen trees covered in moss. The forest was beautiful, lush and green and bursting with life. Would it have looked even more astonishing with an annoying voice complaining about the excess of idyll in all of that?
Shut up, shut up!
She was on her own. No time for useless regrets. No time for ifs and maybes. But ifs and maybes were all over her mind. She had a feeling she was limping, but it simply may have been the uneven path under her feet. Yes, definitely the path's fault. Nothing to do with abandonment issues.
Shut up and woman up!, she ordered to herself.
I can't woman up any more than this, can I?, she also replied to herself, a bit pissed she was being so harsh to her own person. She should be more supportive to herself, especially now that she had no one to…
Wait, who was she kidding? The Master was never the supportive kind. He was more the threatening kind. The table turning kind. Yes, the Master. But Missy…
Stop thinking about Missy. Stop thinking about how much she has changed. Find some dignity e stop moping.
The Doctor stared to feel the Tardis way before reaching its exact location. With a wave of enthusiasm, she held out a hand and a key materialised on her palm out of thin air. She grinned. She pushed down the hood and watched the Tardis appear right in front of her. But the feeling was still there. The feeling that something - something was missing.
Missy. Missy is missing. Mad, maddening Missy. How dare you make me miss you?
Opening the Tardis for the first time in this body felt a lot like finding an old friend after years and years of distance: still the same old face, yet unrecognisable.
Oh, she knew that feeling. She knew it so well…
"Going anywhere, hot stuff?"
A sparkle lit up in the Doctor's chest. There it was. There it was. The annoying voice. The extraordinary voice. The milk and poison voice.
She turned around, the Tardis' door left ajar, and saw her standing there, arms crossed, leaning sideways against a tree – Missy, Missy, my Missy – tall and sassy and, oh, so unfairly beautiful.
"Just stopping by for gas." The Doctor didn't dare to move. Didn't dare to hope. Just prayed. "You need a lift?"
"Depends." Missy's brow arched. "Are you a respectable travel companion?"
The Doctor smiled. "Absolutely not." She studied Missy – her rigid posture, her clenched jaw – and realised she was nervous. "Change of mind?"
Missy's nostrils dilatated. "Change of heart," she confessed, fingers intertwined in front of her. "Hearts," she then corrected with an eye roll.
The Doctor beamed and reached out a hand, holding the Tardis open with the other one. "Ready?"
"Not remotely," said Missy matter-of-factly. Nevertheless, she stuck her chin up and ceremoniously took the hand the Doctor was offering. And smirked. "Well, look at us: lesbian space girlfriends at long last!"
The Doctor closed the Tardis' door behind their backs. "Don't call us lesbians. It's not accurate."
Missy put her hand on her hips with a naughty grin. "Oh, so that is the term you want to argue over?"
The Doctor cast her a scolding look but made no comment on her insinuation. The familiar, comforting noise of the Tardis preparing to go sent a shiver of excitement down the Doctor's spine and made Missy grimace a little.
"Any chance you'll stop leaving the damn breaks on?"
The Doctor pulled down the handle ecstatically, every inch of her vibrating with energy, then said proudly: "Not on my watch."
Scoffing, Missy found herself a chair and slouched down into it. Despite the annoyed face she was making, she was glad to be here. Scared, but glad. Being with the Doctor again – not as a prisoner, but as a companion – was overwhelming.
"Say something nice," she prompted, pretending to be bored already.
But the Doctor knew better. The Doctor knew her like the back of her hand and could see through her little antics and tricks. So she put her hands on the armrests of Missy's chair, neared her lips to her ear and whispered: "Hey, Missy, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, hey, Missy!"
And Missy laughed – a genuine, proper laugh – and that, along with the low buzz of the Tardis dancing through the stars, was the most beautiful sound ever.
Notes:
Soooo, I had the sudden inspiration to write this while I watched a fanvid on YT and here we are.
Please, not that English is not my native language and some typos and/or mistakes may have escaped my proofreading. Sorry about that.
If you liked this, reviews are much, much appreciated.