Warnings: No Spoilers, Eleventh-Era, Dark!fic, Implied Slash, Implied Violence, Blood
A/N: I have no idea where this came from, as this isn't even close to what was trudging through my skull. I want to think it is attached to Darkness Burns Brightly, but there are a few differences that tell me this is a whole 'nother story. Either way, it insisted on being written. Mostly unbeta'd, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. As always, I apologize for any repetition, mispellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-dark/thinky and unbeta'd. Originally posted as a 'snippet' on Sept. 13, 2012
Disclaimer(s): I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!
He wouldn't be playing the Jesus card again anytime soon; an apt (if irritating) analogy from the Traitor's favorite little muddy ball of useless ape-creatures. The concept of Jesus was not unknown to the Time Lord race (a sweet fairytale known to several galaxies, actually) but he had to admit - Rassilon played it better.
The Doctor did a fair summation though, with all those endless crosses he bore.
What a yawn.
But he still looked appealing crucified across his own console.
"Too easy, Theta – I'm sorry, you haven't used that name in a while, have you? Sorry. Things get...muddled when crashing through time. Again. No matter – still going by the moniker that belies your nature?"
He sounded amused, yet bored – though he was anything but. He did have to say, he liked what the old Type 40 had done with the place. Very steam-punk, very brash and brassy and bold and...new-looking. A lot like Her occupant.
Such a young face. So very out of place on the old villain.
He approved.
"You've slipped, Doctor." There - that sounded better. Stronger. Maybe it was the echo effects within the machine.
He should have Her stripped.
"Gotten old, careless - I'm sure you never expected to see me again. You should have known better. Six faces ago, you did."
Gloved fingers stroking over Her auxiliary adjustors. A firm pat to Her mapping navigator.
Some things never change.
Some hatreds never died.
Love was hard to concept of that way.
A restless twitch of a palm across the young-old face, fingers drifting over the high cheekbones, toying with the bowtie. A bowtie - really? How very retro-chic.
So very, very Doctor.
"Did you miss me, dear?" Leaning close, breathing in weary fear and contempt. He would close his eyes, turn away now - he always did.
Always.
"Did you think of me when I burned in the Hell you created? Do you ever, ever think of me? So eternally fickle, love - chasing your whims from paradox to paradox. Always such a child, Theta."
Licking a trickle of blood away from the corner of his mouth, smile twitching awake at the hissed intake of breath, the double thud of his hearts audible in the rushing quiet. He was always so reserved. So cut off. For one who indulged wildly in all manner of emotions, he was remarkably selfish about his own. He always took away more than he gave.
"I missed you," a confession - bitter upon the tongue and leaking tiredly from the heart. He only had two - and the Doctor had always owned them. Nothing else in the universe mattered. Never had, really. "I screamed for you. I cried, Theta. I cried and screamed and you never came. In my darkest hour - where were you?"
Straightening up to check the destination, the Rotor plunging away in its casing as the Old Girl raced madly to her next destination. Who knew if She would make it in time.
Or was that 'in Time'?
Thinking outside of Gallifreyian was so limiting.
"Soon, dear," he soothed, ignoring the fact the other Time Lord never answered him once. Maybe he was dead - for good this time. Maybe his hearts were broken, too. "Soon we will arrive where we need to be. But until then, there is time to discourse on other things - of sailing ships and sealing wax. Of cabbages and kings."
He removed his glove and ran new fingers through the messy scattering of bangs, ignoring the blood and damaged tissue just mere inches below his hand. He could repair him later...maybe. His outer appearance never made much of a difference (though the face, the outfit - so quaint- met with some approval); it was always, always the inside that counted.
He had such a glorious mind.
The hollow boom of landing echoed through the control room, shaking the shattered remnants of glass flooring - the Doctor's body swaying with the violent jarring motion, cry bitten back before it could be fully realized.
So defiant.
"Falling down the rabbit hole, darling," the Master purred at his catch. "Please do join me..."