Divergence I
The Sea Devils
PART I
The Doctor pulled the survival suit on, grinning like a madman as a distant explosion rocked the passageway. He stuffed his coat in, not really caring if it was comfortable or not, and found the Master scowling at him.
"And I suppose you're enjoying this."
"What? A failed negotiation? More violence?"
The Master's eye roll would have been overly dramatic on anyone else. "I meant this." He gestured around at the garish orange suits and the trembling masonry. "But when you put it like that."
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Seeing the error of your ways at last?"
The other man's face scrunched into an expression that spoke of centuries worth of frustration. He tugged on his survival suit, slamming things at every opportunity. "Has it ever occurred to you, Doctor, that I do not—"
The warbling scream of Silurian weapons and the crackle and sizzle of plasma bolts and infrared slugs hitting the stone and metal around them drowned out his final words. On sheer instinct the Doctor ducked; a slug sailed over his head. Neither he nor the Master were armed and Venusian aikido wasn't exactly best performed in an inflatable plastic onesie.
Escape was their only option.
"You might want to hold your breath," he called over the din and aimed his sonic screwdriver at the far door. Millennia-old mechanisms creaked to life; pressurized water sprayed into the passageway as the door slid open. The Doctor watched the slowly-widening gap and the gallons of cold ocean water rushing in. He didn't see the Sea Devil take aim. The Master did.
"Theta, look out!" The Master dove, throwing the Doctor aside just as the creature pulled the trigger. The little compacted slug of radiation crossed the chamber in a flash of purplish light. It missed the Doctor by a hand's-width and, instead, seared through the orange material of the Master's suit and through his leg.
With an animal howl the Master fell and water roared over him. The Doctor, too, lost his footing. The water took his legs out from under him even as it blasted the Sea Devil back against the wall. Snagging a handhold, the Doctor plunged his other hand into the icy water, grabbing a hold of an orange-clad arm. Hauling him to the surface against the powerful inrush of water was a challenge. Had he been human he wouldn't have been capable of it.
The Master came up spluttering and coughing, his face awash with pain. Gloved hands snared desperate fistfuls of the Doctor's sleeve. His voice was inaudible over the growl of the water but his fear was palpable nonetheless.
"Hang in there, old chap," the Doctor shouted, hoping the Master could hear him over the din. "Not much longer now. Once the pressure equalizes it should just be a matter of swimming to the door." He didn't hear much of the Master's reply, but "you're an idiot" was definitely in there somewhere.
The chamber was two-thirds full of water when the undertow eased. The hiss and growl of the inundation faded, leaving only the distant thumps of depth charges and the groan of the destabilizing structure. The Master, too, had fallen silent. He was grey-faced and still clinging to the Doctor for dear life. The Doctor released his handhold and pushed off toward the faint navy-blue glow of the open hatch. The Master trailed raggedly behind.
The Doctor glanced back. "You do know how to inflate your suit, don't you?"
"It couldn't possibly involve the 'pull tab to inflate', could it?"
The Doctor sighed and decided that the Master couldn't possibly be too badly injured if his sarcasm was intact. Though he recalled him being a far better swimmer and he didn't seem to be using his one leg. Thankfully they didn't have much swimming left to do.
"All right. We'll have to dive down and out of the door and get ourselves well clear of the structure before we inflate our suits."
"And hope we don't run into any depth charges?"
The Doctor grimaced. "Yes, well. Nothing we can do about that." He met the Master's eyes. "Stay close."
As one they inhaled and dropped beneath the surface. The world was reduced to murky cold and the sound of the Doctor's own heartsbeat in his ears. The suit compressed uncomfortably and more adrenaline than he would have admitted to began coursing through his veins. Salt stung his eyes but he kept them resolutely open, guiding them both through the airlock hatch and out into open sea. After a minute or so of kicking and paddling through water so heavy it felt like lead, he felt his respiratory bypass kick in. Which meant he had... well, he didn't really know. He'd never timed himself, but it couldn't be long. A quick glance up confirmed that they were clear of the rock formations. He nudged the Master and gestured upward. Looking relieved, the other Time Lord fumbled for the pull tab.
With synchronised tugs they rose—slowly at first, but gaining speed. The pressure became less and less as the seas around them lightened—inky navy to deep indigo to cerulean. The flash of a depth charge came from somewhere below them as they sped toward the surface.
They reached air in a flurry of bubbles and frothy water and, fortunately, far from any of the circling naval vessels. For a brief moment the Doctor lost track of the Master but as the water calmed the orange-clad shape of him bobbed into view. His sour expression spoke volumes. There was a hovercraft circling close by and the Doctor waved them over. The water frothed beneath the skirts of the vehicle as it came up beside them. The uniformed officers onboard reached over the side, hauling the Master up and in like some lifeless heap of flotsam. The Doctor grimaced.
"Easy there, chaps," he shouted. Another depth charge sent a geyser of water skyward. "He's injured."
One of the men nodded. "We'll see he gets to the medics straight away." They reached down to pull him in. "What about you, sir?"
"Oh, I'm all right." He slid easily up and over the side of the hovercraft. Next to him, two young seamen were extricating the Master from his bulky survival suit. The Doctor's hand slid in something slick and warm. It was blood.
His chest constricted and he looked over at the Master's face. The other Time Lord met his gaze but his eyes were fuzzy and unfocused. There was little colour in his flesh. The Doctor wasn't particularly keen on looking at the wound, but he had to know. He glanced down and gulped.
The Master's calf was seared away down to the bone and pouring blood—too much, too fast. The skin was red, blistered and weeping from knee to ankle. The cold ocean water had done it some good, but not enough. Charred flesh gave way to raw, bleeding muscle. He tried to recall how quickly someone bled out from a tibial artery.
Two great muffled thumps sounded and the ocean surged and burst into an impressive geyser, showering the deck of the nearby Royal Navy destroyer. So much for the Sea Devils.
"There you go, old chap. It worked."
There was no response and the Doctor turned, hearts jolting. The Master was still and limp, his eyes closed. Medics darted around him like worker bees. One of them, a young nurse with 'McShane' stitched on his uniform, looked up.
"He's unconscious, sir. Sorry."
The Doctor bit his lip and turned his gaze to the cockpit. Two crewmen were manning the controls, a third on the radio with HQ, he suspected.
"We're on our way, sir, with wounded. We'll need an ambulance standing by on shore."
1 0 – 0 – 1 1 – 0 0 : 0 2
The hovercraft roared straight up onto the beach, scattering shale as it came to a stop. The paramedics started running down to meet it and Jo followed without a second thought. Captain Hart wasn't far behind. She could see medics moving back and forth and felt dread coil in her stomach. The crewman on the radio hadn't said which of the Time Lords had been hurt and Jo was terrified that it was the Doctor.
"Please be okay," she whispered to herself.
White curls appeared from behind the cockpit and Jo thanked her lucky stars. She was smiling from ear to ear by the time the Doctor stepped down onto the shingle of the beach.
"Doctor!" She stopped just short of hugging him. "They said someone was hurt. I thought..."
The Doctor was making a show of his usual triumphant swagger, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. "It's the Master. One of the Sea Devils shot him."
"What happened down there, Doctor?" Hart asked.
The Doctor frowned. "I managed to destroy their base for you."
Hart's eyebrows rose. "Well, thank goodness for that. Well done."
"I did what I had to to prevent a war," the Doctor snapped.
Movement caught Jo's eye and she looked up as the paramedics stepped clear of the grounded hovercraft, their stretcher now bearing the Master. The Doctor whirled at the sound of their hurried footsteps.
"Is he all right?" He called, jogging after them as they passed. Jo followed, half expecting it all to be some ploy of the Master's. It wouldn't be the first time.
"He's in a bad way, sir. I cannae say for certain. I'll know more once we're in the ambulance." The paramedic was unfazed but Jo felt her stomach twist. The wound was awful. She almost felt sorry for him, even though he had been up to no good... again. There wasn't an ounce of colour in his face and he didn't stir as he was loaded into the ambulance. He looked... well... dead.
"I should go with them," the Doctor said, and it took Jo a moment to realize he was speaking to her. "They won't be familiar with Gallifreyan physiology. They'll need—"
"It's all right, Doctor. I understand." She squeezed his hand and nodded toward the open back of the vehicle. "Go on."
The Doctor smiled and Jo suspected that he was far more worried about the other man than he would have admitted. She didn't say anything, though. The Doctor wasn't really one for talking about feelings. She'd save him the trouble of having to deny everything.
1 0 – 0 – 1 1 – 0 0 : 0 2
The ambulance's sirens began their shrill wailing as it pulled away. The Doctor sat, perched toward the rear of the cramped compartment, doing his level best to stay out of the way of the paramedic. That, and slow his racing hearts. They'd agreed to take him along because he was the only other Time Lord around. He tried to tell himself that it was merely a practical thing; that he needed to be there to tell the doctors what was normal and what wasn't. But he couldn't deny that it was worry that writhed in his stomach and knotted his throat.
"The sooner the better, Morgan," the paramedic—Sibley—called forward to the driver. "I can't get that bleeding under control. BP's sixty over forty and dropping. Heart rate's one-ten; body temp—good god! Fourteen degrees!"
"That's normal," the Doctor cut in before the driver could respond. "Well... nearly."
Sibley blinked, his eyebrows climbing. "How nearly?"
"A degree low."
He swallowed. "All right. Not bad." He was hiding it well, but Sibley was starting to look like a man out of his depth. Regardless, with eagle-eyed precision he attached an IV and went back in with another clamp to seal the still-oozing artery. "You wouldn't happen to know his blood type?"
"Time Lords don't have blood types."
Without breaking his concentration, Sibley chuckled. "Lucky."
The Doctor tried to smile but he couldn't. Not while he watched the man tighten the tourniquet he'd applied on the beach. Not while he watched blood still stubbornly leak from the wound. The Master looked like a ghost and it took every ounce of willpower the Doctor possessed to not reach out and stroke his still-wet hair or grip his hand. They may have been adversaries but never once, not even in his darkest moments, had the Doctor wanted this.
"Can this vehicle not go any faster?" he demanded.
"Oh, aye," McGuthrie—the paramedic he'd first spoken to—replied. "But the devil's in the traffic. Half the buggers can't figure out how to get out the way; the other half don't care to." The ambulance peeled around a tight corner. "Not long now. Hospital's just up the way. UNIT says they'll have someone standing by."
1 0 – 0 – 1 1 – 0 0 : 0 2
The 'someone' standing by turned out to be Dr. Beckett: UNIT's chief medical officer and a particularly surly Scot. The moment Sibley and McGuthrie had wheeled the stretcher into the ER, Beckett swooped in like a predatory bird.
"Let's keep this one away from the civvys, shall we? What have we got?"
"Severe leg trauma, second and third degree burns, bleeding from the anterior tibial artery. BP stabilized at fifty-seven over thirty-five, heart rate ninety and body temperature holding at a balmy fourteen degrees." Sibley recited the information as if it were nothing more than rugby scores. "Non-responsive and in shock, but the Doctor tells me his body might be trying to go into some sort of healing coma."
"Sounds about right." Beckett nodded as a group of doctors joined them, several of whom were wearing UNIT badges. Sibley and McGuthrie surrendered the stretcher and Beckett and his team started toward the OR. "Tell the Brigadier he'll have his prisoner back in no time."
The group, gurney and all, vanished around the corner and the Doctor bit his lip. It felt wrong to be so far away, to be standing in a waiting room while his hus—his fellow Time Lord was wheeled away by people he barely knew. He could almost hear the Brigadier's voice telling him he was being silly. Especially when he should really have been checking on Jo and Captain Hart. He'd left them in rather a hurry and there'd still been so much to do. But surely he had a responsibility to stay, what with the Master being in such dreadful condition.
"Excuse me, madam," he began, approaching the check-in desk. "You wouldn't happen to have a public telephone?"
The young lady behind the desk looked up from some complicated paperwork. "Of course, sir. They're just in the hall over there." She pointed to a set of double doors.
"Thank you." The Doctor made for the doorway, resigning himself to a long night. The Brigadier wouldn't like it, but he couldn't leave. It wasn't as if he would have slept anyway.
1 0 – 0 – 1 1 – 0 0 : 0 2
The morning light seemed muted, but to be honest, so did everything else. There was lead in his veins and cotton in his ears and his time senses had abandoned him altogether. The world came back to him in blurry bits and pieces, his memory just as fragmentary. He could hear a machine chirping double beeps in time with his hearts and in the dim light he could see an intravenous tube snaking from his hand to a hook with bags of fluid and blood. He was strangely numb and from how heavy his eyelids felt, he suspected he was anaesthetized. He attempted to sit up and, with a groan, revised his assessment. Those anaesthetics were clearly wearing off. Fiery pain lanced up his leg as he tried to move, taking the breath from his lungs.
He settled back down with a grimace and heard someone else stir. Movement registered in the corner, silhouetted against the grey light filtering through the slats.
"How are you feeling?"
Of course it would be him.
The Master shifted slightly, gritting his teeth. "I've been better." He tried not to sound as groggy as he felt. "Why are you here, Doctor? Waiting to gloat?"
"I rather think gloating is more your area of expertise," the Doctor grumbled, though he hardly sounded committed to the spar. "And seeing as you saved me from similar injury it would be grossly ungrateful of me to mock you."
His customary lisp was bordering on a rasp through what looked like lack of sleep. Once upon a time the Master would have called it charming. Admittedly, he couldn't actually think of another word, even now. It would have been comforting to imagine that the Doctor had been losing sleep over him, but he didn't dare entertain such hopes. That particular ship had set sail a long time ago and he'd neglected to board.
"Then do indulge me, Doctor. What brings you to my bedside at so early an hour?"
"Do I need a reason?"
"I suppose not." The Master shrugged. "Although I find it odd that you would choose to spend your hours here without cause." He waved a dismissive gesture with the hand that was not stuck with an IV. "In any case, you may go now. Your armed guards should be more than sufficient to contain a cripple."
The Doctor made a face, though something glinted in his tired eyes that sent a jab of apprehension into the Master's stomach. "Why did you do it?"
"You're going to have to be more specific, my dear fellow."
"You threw yourself in the way of weapons fire to save me. Now I find it odd that you would do such a thing without a damned good reason." Something of his usual imperiousness returned to his tone.
"A momentary lapse in judgement, I assure you." The Master swallowed as pain throbbed more insistently in his calf.
"Answer my question and I shall answer yours," the Doctor snapped.
"Then, regrettably, we shall both leave without satisfaction."
It was a familiar game, one they'd played many times. Endless verbal sparring as they danced around a mutual past neither would speak of. Constantly afraid that to do so would be to irreparably provoke the other. But if the sour expression was any indication, the Doctor wasn't in the mood. With a sigh of frustration he rose, snatching his Inverness cape from the back of his chair.
"If you wanted to be left alone you only had to ask."
The Master swallowed as the Doctor crossed the room, not sparing him a single glance. He knew the other man well enough to recognize the hurt that hid beneath the bluster. He would have ignored it under normal circumstances. He would have... but why had the Doctor spent what seemed like the entire night at his bedside? Some part of him recoiled in fear and begged him not to get his hopes up, insisted that he'd only be disappointed. But there was another part of him that was louder now. A younger, less damaged, more hopeful part that urged him to speak; promising that it wasn't too late. Just say something... anything. This is what you've been looking for all this time. Don't throw this away. You've done so much that's wrong but it's not too late! Just...
An old, familiar knot returned to his throat. He was still angry. He had so much to be angry about: being abandoned with Axos, the Praxilion debacle, Darkheart. And that original betrayal—so many years ago now, yet still as painful to think about as it had been then. And yet, he knew that the day he'd left Gallifrey behind he'd been perfectly willing to forgive the Doctor. In fact, he hadn't blamed him at all; he still didn't. But so much had happened since... He'd died so many times, and become angrier with each incarnation. He'd gone from being a man who saved worlds to a man who destroyed them. He'd done so much... But that hopeful voice in the back of his mind cut off his train of thought. Nothing will ever change if you let him walk out of that door.
The Master took a deep breath. "I have been unaccountably... unforgivably... cruel to you, and to your friends." He kept his eyes down, fixed on his hands. Whether unwilling or unable to look at the Doctor, he wasn't certain. It was hard enough to find the words. How did one go about asking forgiveness for crimes of his magnitude? "I don't even know why. I... I never wanted this. I never wanted to hurt you." His voice wavered. "I don't know where it all went so wrong."
The Doctor stood frozen, his hand white-knuckled on the door-latch. A weighty silence had descended on the room, thickening the air and making the slightest hum of equipment into a throbbing buzz. Afraid that the Doctor would leave without further words, the Master continued.
"I left Gallifrey to find you. Yet after all this time, when I finally did, I... I handed you over to Autons and Daemons. I tried to kill you. I very nearly had Miss Grant blow herself up, and if you hadn't pried that gun from her hand, Miss Waterfield would be dead, too." He shuddered, remembering how naive and kind she'd been and how callously he'd ordered her to shoot herself. "There are no words that suffice, but, I am truly sorry, my dear Doctor."
"Don't." The Doctor's voice was hardly more than a whisper.
The Master's chest seized and he tried swallowing the lump still stubbornly lodged in his throat. He closed his eyes. There it was. The disappointment. He knew how this story ended. The Doctor would storm out and not return, they would both return to square one, yet another bridge thoroughly burned. He tried to keep the pain out of his expression. He waited to hear the door open and close, waited for the sound of retreating footsteps, but none came. Instead, he heard the Doctor draw a shaky breath.
"Don't apologize, my dear. You, of all people, know I don't deserve that."
The pain of old wounds knifed into the Master's chest. Wounds he'd salved and buried long ago. His every instinct was to close himself away. It had been centuries since he'd allowed himself to be vulnerable and it scared him. Especially skirting such issues as they were.
"Nevertheless," he whispered. "I'm sorry... for everything."
The Doctor's hand released the latch and his head fell. He rubbed his eyes, taking a deep breath as if he were composing himself. The Master almost wished he were close enough to reach out and lay a hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry, too." The Doctor's voice was quiet and hoarse, with a brittle edge of emotion. "I... I don't even know where to begin."
"You don't have to—"
"Yes. Yes, I do." The Doctor turned to face him, pallid in the feeble light. "You very nearly died yesterday. I've been so caught up being your enemy that it had never occurred to me that I... I might lose you." His jaw clenched as if he were forcing himself to continue. "And I realized that I wouldn't want you to die without knowing that of all my many mistakes, there are none I regret more than my abandoning you."
The Master bit his lip. His hearts were still racing and an ache was spreading. An ache he hadn't felt in a long time. He'd imagined this conversation, run it through his mind a thousand times, but he still wasn't prepared. Nothing could have prepared him.
"I forgave you a long time ago, Theta."
The Doctor twitched, almost as if he'd been struck. He swallowed, hard, his lips tightening as if to stop them quivering. "Why?"
"What do you mean, why? I just did. That's what you do when you love someone." The Master looked down, self-conscious the moment the words were out of his mouth. "I woke up the day you left... I went looking for you... But you were already gone." There were tears on the Doctor's cheeks when the Master looked up. He was looking back at him as if he were seeing him properly for the first time. "I've been chasing you ever since."
"You still loved me? After everything?" The Doctor's voice was choked.
The Master chanced a shy little smile. "I couldn't have stopped if I'd wanted to."
There was a long silence; the Doctor sniffed and rubbed the back of his neck. He was trying to conceal the tears but his valiant efforts were in vain. Each time he swiped the wet trails from his cheeks, more took their place. But he managed to maintain his dignity. A few cautious steps brought him to the Master's side, nervous hands dancing above the blankets as if uncertain where to land. The effect was almost comical. To see this tall, stern, and imperious version of his old friend reduced to the same shy, awkward boy he'd been in school... He very nearly laughed.
The Doctor must have seen the mirth in his eyes because, with a quiet little chuckle that shed the last of the sadness from his face, he closed the remaining distance between them. Reverent fingers brushed over the Master's dishevelled hair; hands cradled his head as the Doctor leaned down, pressing a brief, shy kiss to his lips. Chaste as it was, the Master nevertheless found his hands clinging desperately to velvet-clad shoulders. He felt as if he were floating. Clearly there was nothing like the mix of waning anaesthetics, adrenaline, and profound relief.
Damn that heart monitor, he thought as the machine's shrill sounds betrayed his elevated heartsrate. Another soft laugh came from above him and he had to remind himself that, while the Doctor was half the telepath he was, with their skin touching there was little they could hide from one another.
"If you think that's fast you should feel mine."
The Master brushed his fingers against the Doctor's throat, feeling the flutter of his racing pulse. As much from fear as from excitement, he suspected. The fear that the wrong word at the wrong moment could shatter their peace and put them back at each other's throats.
"You know I mean it, don't you?" he asked, his voice quiet. "I mean it... when I say that I love you. Irrevocably and unconditionally."
The Doctor's mind was a swirl of contradicting emotions, just tangible on the periphery of the Master's own. If anything, the Master's words only increased the tumult. But when he spoke, the Doctor's voice was as calm as before.
"I love you, too." He swallowed, a little of his sadness returning to his eyes. "I always have and I always will. I only wish I'd acted like it."
The Master smiled, stroking his hand through soft, silvery hair. "It's not too late."
The Doctor's answering smile was wide and open and spread into every corner of his face. It was a smile the likes of which the Master had not seen for a very long time. His hands straightened the Master's mussed hair.
"Do you trust me?"
The Master chuckled. "Oh, I don't know if I'd go that far."
The Doctor leaned in to kiss him again and this time the Master met him halfway, though the movement drew a flinch as a fresh stab jolted his leg. When they parted the Doctor looked down, concerned.
"Your anaesthetics must have worn off." He frowned. "Should I fetch the nurse?"
"No, no," the Master waved dismissively. "I'm sure she'll be along." Then something occurred to him that, perhaps, he should have noticed earlier. He probably would have had he not been laying himself bare. But there it was, in plain sight. "I'm curious, though. Where did you get the blood?" He glanced up at the IV bag. "It can't be human, and I very much doubt this planet keeps a stock of Gallifreyan blood..."
The Doctor smiled sheepishly. "They don't. Thankfully they had one better."
The Master swallowed. "It's yours?"
"Well I couldn't exactly send home for some, could I?" A little grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It's not like I'm going to miss it. And you were... You needed it."
The Master had caught the pause and he wasn't letting it go. "I was going to die, wasn't I?" He'd wondered. The Doctor hadn't reacted this way when he'd been injured before. He must have been very afraid indeed to chance saying the things he did.
A solemn look passed over the Doctor's face. "Without the blood... Yes. Your hearts actually stopped on the table. Apparently it was a fight to get you back. Beckett was ready to call it."
"What stopped him?"
"Haven't the foggiest." Almost absentmindedly one of the Doctor's hands drifted up and cupped the Master's face. "I must say, though. Whatever it was... I'm glad."
He would have said that he was too, but that much would have been obvious to just about anyone, even that drooling idiot Trenchard. So instead, with a final lean into the Doctor's palm, he said: "You know, you should probably be calling the Brigadier. I imagine he has you on some kind of check-in schedule."
"Oh, but of course," the Doctor chuckled. "He's perennially afraid that you'll find some way to hypnotize me."
The Master snorted. Clearly the Brigadier didn't fully comprehend the depths of the Doctor's stubbornness. "Whatever will he say when he finds out we've kissed and made up? Literally."
The Doctor grimaced. "Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?" With a parting squeeze of the Master's hand, he made his way to the door again. "Take it easy on yourself, Master—"
"Oh, you don't have to call me that ridiculous name."
"You chose it."
The Master shrugged. "Yes. But is it not the custom of our people to continue the use of given names between close friends and family?"
A look of profound happiness swept the Doctor's face and he gulped, as if taking on some sacred responsibility. "Yes, I suppose it is." He unfolded his Inverness cape and slipped it on with a shimmer of purple polyester lining. "Take care of yourself and rest, Koschei."
"I'll do my best, Theta."
Smiling from ear to ear, the Doctor stepped from the room, the door swishing shut behind him. Through the glass, muffled, he heard his authoritarian tone demanding: "There you are. Took you long enough! His anaesthetics are wearing off! Is that any way to treat your patient?"
The other muffled voice was a timid-sounding young woman with a hint of a welsh accent. "I'm sorry, sir. There was a shift change and UNIT hasn't been keeping us up to date. I would have been here ten minutes ago but your UNIT guards had me take some ridiculous test."
Koschei admired the steel that entered her voice. Not so timid after all. His leg may have been hurting more than he let on, but he certainly wasn't going to give her a hard time about it. Especially since it was his own fault that she had to go through said ridiculous test. They had to make sure she was immune to hypnotism.
With the Doctor's disapproving tones still making their muted way into the room, Koschei eased himself back into the mattress. He felt surprisingly ordinary for a man who'd just turned over his own universe. He would have thought that he would feel different... changed. It made him somewhat apprehensive. If he didn't feel different, had he actually changed?
But perhaps that was the beauty of it. So much had changed with nothing more than simple words. There had been no revelations, no visitations, no angels blowing trumpets. Just himself and Theta, saying things that they should have said a very long time ago.
It briefly crossed his mind that it all might have been some drug-induced dream. That he might wake up and find that he'd never had that conversation. The possibility was terrifying, but he shoved it away. He was a Time Lord. He knew the difference between dream states and reality.
And anyway, this was far too good to be a dream.