Cold.
Biting and vicious, it cuts through his scant layers like they aren't even there. Cold that takes the breath right out of his lungs and settles in its space, leaching all the warmth from his body. Four minutes and this white world of wind driven snow and ice has stolen every bit of warmth from his body.
Well, almost every bit.
His lips are still burning. Burning, burning, burning, burning. If he licks them they taste like her. Like iron and salt and cinnamon with just a touch of sweet peppermint left over from the hot chocolate she had been drinking.
He kissed her.
By all that is holy he kissed her. He had pressed his lips against hers. What had possessed him? Why had he done that?
This is important. Why had he done that?
He was bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. A very bad man. He is worthless and useless. Nothing. Twisted. Mad. And he had kissed her. He had instigated an intimacy, had let the contaminated air from his lungs fall onto her skin.
Thanks.
That's it. He wanted to express thanks. He wanted to…
Wait. That can't be right. What does he know of gratitude? The idea that he would desire to express thanks is laughable, even more so since… since he learned the truth of himself.
Greed? Selfishness?
That seems more correct.
He is leaving. He is doing his one good deed: leaving before the inevitable happened and he destroyed the human. Consumed her. Ripped her apart. Made her into nothing. Into himself. But he didn't want to leave. No, no he didn't.
Still didn't.
If he stopped walking and turned around he would still be able to see her building. Still be able to make out the windows of her living room. Is she watching him walk away? She didn't want him to go. She wanted – wants – him to stay. She worries about him. Worries. About him.
Right.
That's why he is leaving.
She worries about him. She bought him a moment of peace. She tended him and fed him and… Right. That is why he is leaving. She's just an ape but she… well. He will protect her, even if he is only protecting her from himself.
But he's selfish. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. Selfish.
He doesn't want to go, so he stole from her. Stole a kiss from her lips, a breath from her lungs. Stole just a little, tiny piece of her that he can still taste on his lips. It won't last him long. No, not long at all. But long enough.
It will last long enough to get away, to put distance between him and her before the beating starts up again, before the drums become so incessant and so loud that he might – that he will – consider inflicting her with the plague and time bomb of his presence in order to make them stop. It bought him time. And it gave him something of her.
Right.
Glad to clear that up.
He puts one foot in front of the other and trudges across the packed expanse of snow. With every step forward he can feel the beat slowly growing louder. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four, he counts silently to himself, tapping his fingers against his hips through the fabric of the hoody's pockets.
He lowers his head to protect his face from the brunt of the wind and licks his lips.
Moving.
Leaving.
Right.
Crinkling. Chiming. Like broken glass. What is that? Oh. It's him. That's disheartening. Well, if there had been anything to dishearten. As is, it's kind of just expected at this point. His sweatshirt is full of ice again. How did that happen? His clothes are dry. Were dry. She dried them for him. How are they frozen again?
Oh. That's right.
Slush on the road. Cars. Faster and faster, whizzing past him like he isn't even there. Is he here? No. Yes. Yes. This is established reality. Real. This is real. Earth. 2011. Utah. Well, maybe not Utah. Not anymore. He's not quite sure where he is or how long he's been walking. He's still following the road, right?
His feet slow to a stop and he raises his head to look around him. Yes. He's still on the road. Hmmm. He's supposed to find that mildly reassuring, isn't he? It's getting harder to think; harder to feel. How long has he been walking? He should know this. He's a Time Lord, at least genetically. Every atom in his body should be able to recount any specified period of time down to the very last particle of a second. He can't though. Long, his mind tells him, but not as long as his body would like him to believe.
Weak. Rassilon, he is so pathetically weak.
Diseased.
Will the drumming take even this from him? The one thing that he could be certain was always his own? That inborn instinct of the Time Lord, the ability to sense and measure the movement of time around him.
He sighs and hunches his shoulders against the blast of wind whistling over the hills. Cold. Wet. Frozen. It seems he is back to where he started, with only the difference of knowing that this is true and real instead of madness conjured up to torment him. That should make a difference. It doesn't.
He lowers his gaze to the ground again, saving his eyes from the bright lights of the oncoming car.
Think.
Rassilon, why cannot he even think? Is that too much to ask? That he might have use of his own brain? Shit and double shit. So weak. Nothing. Worthless. If he were a horse he'd have been shot and turned into dog food long ago. What was he doing, wandering around?
Plan. He needed a plan.
Rassilon, why could he not just die?
Memories of gentle fingers running through the short strands of his hair forces a shiver that has absolutely nothing to do with the frozen conditions he is existing in and everything to do with the sensory overload that comes with such memories. Reflexively he licks his lips and feels something fall inside of him as he can taste only his own skin.
They're chapped and all trace of her is gone.
Unable to stand he sinks to his knees and flexes his fingers in the inches of exhaust and slush. One. Two. Three. Four.
How long has it been?
Wet. Cold. He should get up. Why did he go down?
He licks his lips and shuts his eyes.
Right. That. He's all alone again. Alone and lost with only the beating in his head. Never ending. Forever. She made it stop, for a little while. He should go back. He turns his head and glances back along the way he came. He should. She didn't want him to leave in the first place. No, that had been all him. He'd tried to be noble.
Him. Noble. Rassilon, isn't that just a bucket of laughs.
Going back. He's going back.
No. Yes. NO.
No. He won't do that to her. He can't. He'd destroy her. He doesn't know how but he'd do it. He'd taint her, twist her and that would ruin her, would ruin what she did for him.
No.
No going back.
So what then?
So cold. Cold and hungry. He can't do anything about the cold but she said something about food, right? Or is he just imagining that? No. She definitely said something about food as she handed him…
He scrambles a bit, jolting to his weary feet so that he doesn't drag the backpack through the slush and get it even wetter than it already is. Fingers, made thick and clumsy, fumble at the zipper before yanking it open partway.
He nearly goes to his knees again as the smell of her rushes out. He's suddenly torn between trying to climb into the little black canvas bag or slamming the zipper shut – need for food be damned – to keep every last particle of that scent inside. It's not her touch or her voice – oh, her voice – but it is her. She who bought him peace. She who made the drumming stop.
Why isn't he going back?
Nobility. Right. Of all the times to not be a selfish bastard.
He sighs and fishes around inside the inky darkness of the backpack's interior until his fingers brush up against the unmistakable curve and give of an apple. That'll do. Doing the zipper back up, he slings the bag back onto his back and takes a bite out of the apple.
Right.
Onward.
Yellow. Bright. Burning. Light. That's what that is. He's been walking in the darkness for… how long? He can't remember. One. Two. Three. Four. He's a fucking Time Lord, why can't he remember how long it's been? A night? Two? Five? Did the fucking sun extinguish when he wasn't looking?
He fights the urge to scream. Why? Why doesn't he want to scream?
Right.
Earth. Utah – or somewhere thereabouts. 2011. Light. Don't scare the humans. They'll lock him in a loony bin and wouldn't that just be the kicker. Escape imprisonment on Gallifrey and torture at Rassilon's hand only to be detained by apes. Never mind that a loony bin was exactly where he belonged.
One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four.
It's a gas station. A big one. Maybe he'll go sit inside. It looks big enough to have a restaurant of some form. He has talked his way into the good graces of Daleks and Cyberman, convincing a mere ape to give him free food would be child's play. Rassilon knows, he'd certainly charmed his way into enough trouble as a child.
Pins. Burning. Hot. It feels hot inside. It's probably not. He's probably just that cold. Still. It hurts. And not just the heat. The bright blaze of artificial lights burn the back of his eyes. He wants to turn away, to shut his eyes and hide. But. Well. The ape behind the counter is already eyeing him with suspicion as is. The males are always suspicious and bristly. Like a dog with its hackles up, growling for all it's worth.
Rightly so.
The chair is hard and cold. The table is sticky. It smells like industrial disinfectant and old shoes. Wet dog. It also smells like… oh. That's him. Right. He lowers the backpack to the chair next to him and pulls both chair and backpack closer.
Pathetic. So pathetic.
He opens the backpack and peers inside, suddenly curious at what else she might have put in there. A few more apples. A couple bottles of water. A, now quite wet, box of granola bars with… He cocks his head to the side and stares uncomprehending for a long moment, the scent of cinnamon and flowers tickling at the edge of his senses. Slowly, hand shaking with cold – because of course it was cold – he reaches in and picks up the box of granola bars. He cradles it carefully between his two hands, all ideas of conning a cheeseburger suddenly gone from his mind. The cardboard is wet and fragile, practically crumbling beneath his touch, but he still clutches it like it is made of gold. Over and over his thumb strokes, caressing the damp paper.
Take care, her neat handwriting instructs. Please, it adds a line later – sprawling across the remainder of the post it note and underlined. Twice. So I know you're not dead in a ditch somewhere, his memory tacks on.
She wanted – wants – him to live and she did her best to see that he would, even when he insisted on leaving. Food, water, and… he counts silently. One. Two. Three. Four. Four hundred dollars in cash. His lips twist at the corners. Of course it would be four. His entire life has been dictated by that number.
One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. His fingers idly drum ever so softly against the edges of the cardboard box. He should stop or it is going to collapse. He doesn't want it destroyed. Why? Why does he want this little scrap of wet cardboard to stay intact? He stares at it, searching. This is important. Why?
Because it carried her words to him.
But it is either tap or scream and he doesn't want to scream either.
After a moment of thought he pulls the sticky note and the cash from the box and slips the granola bars back into the backpack. Still clutching the note and money in one hand, stroking it with his thumb like it is something precious, he lets his other hand drum silently against the damp cloth covering his thigh.
Four hundred dollars and his mind. His diseased, broken, mind.
He could be charming, when he tried.
Right. There really is only one thing he can do, isn't there. Lovely.
Well, first things first.
Musty. Acrid. Stale. Old air, old building, old carpet. Damp. No. No longer. Previously damp. Still. No dust. No smudges on the windows. Everything overlaid with the burning, thick lemon scent of chemical cleaners. Even the faded carpet, long since past its prime, gives a little under his feet with the unmistakable fluff of the recently washed and frequently vacuumed. He checks the bathroom. Also clean.
For forty dollars, it'll do.
He sets the backpack on the bed and takes out plastic bag containing his gas station purchases. Clean shirt. Pair of sweat pants. Bottle of cheap shampoo – floral, but not quite right. Too much English garden, not enough tropical paradise. But it is close. Close enough that just for the barest fraction of a moment he can lie to himself. Enough to remember. Enough to give strength to his insane attempt at nobility.
Rassilon. What is thinking?
Pathetic and weak, that is all he is. And that is why he has to pull this off. Even if it makes him want to cry and scream all over again. It's either this or try to burn through whatever regenerations he has left, dying and dying and dying until he either runs out of lives – because Rassilon knows how many of those he has left now, he shouldn't have regenerated this last time and yet he clearly had – or he does enough damage that not even regeneration can save him.
It's an option, but one he has already tried. No matter what else he forgets, no matter how much the endless drumming steals from him that experience is something that will forever be branded across every molecule of his existence. Two lives. He'd only made it through two of his thirteen lives before abandoning his attempt and resigning himself to the maddening beat.
Weak. Coward. Pathetic.
Every day, every hour, every passing second since then he has hated himself. Despised that he could not be stronger. That every pitiful thing about him meant that he was – is – stuck this way.
He showers in the dingy tub, closing his eyes and letting the hot water beat on his head. One. Two. Three. Four. He washes his hair. Twice. Three times. Maybe four. He loses count. It doesn't really matter though. He dresses himself in the clean clothes, fighting the urge to cackle manically at the words "Gone Huntin…" stamped across the chest of his shirt. Appropriate.
He munches on a granola bar and turns off the sickly yellow lights before sliding into the bed. Sleep. Right. It's been... however long since he last slept. He's not sure if actually needs to sleep or not but he's got nothing better to do here in the dark of the night. Well, he supposes that he could walk trash shows on tv. Except the very thought of adding more noise to what already exists in his head is more than he can even begin to bear. Of course the silence is equally unbearable so… damned if you, damned if you don't.
Business as usual then.
Maybe he should have done this a long time ago. Maybe he should have listened. Maybe he should have trusted.
Right.
That's more unbelievable than him trying to be noble.
One. Two. Three. Four.
He shuts his eyes and lets his fingers tap against the worn, yet somehow still scratchy, sheets. It's cold in the room, despite the fact that he turned up the heat a ridiculous amount as soon as he had entered the room. Unlike… that night. Both nights. The one he can remember and the one he cannot. He was warm then.
Right. He has to stop this. Has to. He can't keep… obsessing like this. Yes. Obsessing. That's the word. She's just an ape and he's a mad Time Lord.
He has to get away.
He has to go. Go find the only being that might be able to help him. Well, help him and not get destroyed in the process.
Tomorrow he starts hunting the Doctor.
"Well then, Mr. Yana, if you don't have any questions for us…?" the man across from him tips back in his chair and laces his fingers together. He supposes the man thinks it makes him look smart or calm and put together but really it just makes him look like he's about to fall in an ungraceful heap on his ass the moment someone even touches his chair. Oh, Rassilon, he wants to be that someone. But he won't. No. Because he has spent the last hour chatting and talking and being so fucking charming that he feels the need to rip his tongue out of his mouth and light it on fire just to get it to shut up. No. No. No. No. It wouldn't do to blow it now. Not after all his hard work. Considering that eighteen hours ago he had been waking up in a cheap hotel room wearing clothes that he had bought at a massive truck stop gas station he definitely considered it an impressive feat that he was sitting here. In an office. Wearing a suit. Smiling like a car salesman and making it sound like he was vomiting up frosting and sunshine.
Oh, Rassilon, death would have been better than this.
Pity that death wouldn't return his calls.
"No questions. Well, outside of the obvious one but that's generally considered interview taboo," he drawls, raising an eyebrow suggestively. Beneath the cover of the desk overhang his fingers tap softly against the edge of his shoe, the smooth rubber of the bottom a different nice break from the sensation of tapping against his pants. One. Two. Three. Four.The man across from him – Tom? Tim? Does it matter? – smirks in response to the grin on his face and laughs along.
"Well, if you don't have any questions…" the man makes a I'll-think-about-it face and waves his head from side to side. "I suppose I can safely say that you'll be hearing from us. Most definitely. And very soon."
Of course he would. There'd probably be a message on his newly purchased phone before he hit the lobby. He'd probably be starting right away. Tim? Tom? Whatever his name is probably has big dreams. He's painted the idiot a picture and the ape has fallen for it so fast its despicable. Oh, he has ideas now.
Oh, Rassilon, he can't wait to tip that chair over.
Tumble, tumble, tumble, tumble.
The dilemma of his situation is easy to comprehend. The Doctor, in and of himself, will not be difficult to locate. The idiot has an obsession with humanity, and thus an obsession with Earth. He'll be back. He always comes back. He can't stay away. What's more, he always comes back to London. And therein lies his problem. He is in Utah. On the other side of the damn planet.
He isn't used to having nothing. Being nothing, yes. Having nothing, no. Being human wasn't bad when he didn't know any better but being human when he was really a Time Lord? Oh, bad doesn't even begin to cover this situation. Intolerable. Unbearable. Absolute torture.
Because, being on the opposite side of the world with nothing meant one simple thing: monotony. The monotony of a mundane, human existence until he had the money to pay for a plane ticket to London. Getting up, going to work – assuming he'll get the job, which he will, he's that charming.
"I look forward to hearing from you," he says in response, flashing the man another grin just for good measure. When dealing with apes a little extra never hurts.
Oh, Rassilon. Maybe this is prison.
Smooth. Slick. Harsh and soft. Bright glaring lights, soft gray walls. Hot toner, hot whirr of air from the heat vent. Tap, tap, tap, tap of keyboard keys and drumming pencils and staplers going click.
He doesn't believe in hell. Not in the 'traditional' way that the apes clustering around him believe, but if he did… well. He's pretty sure it would look and sound like this.
Perhaps he's exaggerating. Him? Exaggerate? Never. Except for always. He is sure that he has been in worse places than a simple office building, working a simple day job – what is it that he does, exactly? He's not sure. But apparently he does it well – but he tries to not think about those. Nope. He doesn't need any reminder of where he has been or what he has done, marching to the beat of those damned drums that will just not die. No, he doesn't need any reminder of lives that meant nothing. Of an existence that was little more than a cosmic joke.
No. Maybe an existence measured by how many times blondie-across-the-way has to reprint the same report or consumed and made up entirely of the tapping of fingers against plastic keys wasn't hell after all. Of course he wasn't ready to pass that judgment. He'll probably just add it to the long, ever growing list of hells.
Oh. Time for him to go print another report. Staple it together. Haul it over to Mr. Big Plans' office. Plop it on his desk. Come back and resume… whatever it is that he is doing. How can he be good at something if he doesn't even know what it is? Or how he is doing it?
"Still here, Matt? Thought you took off with everyone a while ago!"
Talking. Someone is talking. Who is talking? Oh. Mr. Big Plans and his latest soaking of artificial scent. Perfume? No, that's women. After shave? Maybe. He shakes his head a little.
"Oh. No. Just wanted to finish this up," he replies with a grin, tapping the warm and freshly printed pile of papers. "Didn't want it hanging over my head all… weekend." Weekend. Right. Two days in which to do nothing. That's going to go well. Going to be a bloody miracle if he makes it without killing half the city. Or trying to kill himself.
Maybe he'll just curl up on the floor of his hotel room and count dots on the ceiling. Except he did that last night.
"Well, it's done. Thank you. Now go home! You've had a great first couple of days. Hell, you've done more in two days than your predecessor did in two weeks." What does someone say to that? Honestly. Thanks? Yay me? Go Team? Damn straight? He just smiles. That's safe enough. Smiling. Stick to the safe moves. Don't get creative. Just smile like the bastard you are and keep moving forward until you can get out.
"Just headed out now," he responds, handing the still warm stack of papers to Mr. Big Plans – what is his real name? No. Stop. It doesn't matter. "Have a good weekend."
"Have a Merry Christmas!" Bi Plans calls after him as he strides down the carpeted corridor, all too relieved to get away from the headache inducing scent of whatever it was his employer was wearing. He lifts a hand and assumes that it will be taken as the semi-universal gesture for 'you too' before stepping into the elevator.
Cold. After spending the day inside a super heated office it is definitely cold. And snowing. Again. He lifts his eyes to the clouds and tracks the descent for more than a dozen fluffy flakes. It's not a blizzard. Not yet. With his luck it will be soon though. He's not going to be walking around in it. Nope. He's going to go back to his hotel. Eat a… something. He ordered it last night? Cheesy. Crust. Bits of meat. Pizza, that's the word he's looking for. He still has pizza left over. And then… Staring at the ceiling? Watching TV?
Oh, how the mighty have fallen, he thinks bitterly as he sidesteps around a particularly slick looking sheet of ice. Dying would be so much nicer. He stuffs his hands into the sparse covering of his trouser pockets and fingers the plastic of his room's key card.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Of course dying would be nicer. He should stop thinking about it. It's not going to happen so what's the use in dreaming. Dreaming. Hah. What would someone like him dream of? Too many things. Nothing. Who knows? He inhales sharply, the biting cold nipping at the lining of his lungs. He wouldn't breathe if he didn't have to. No use suffering that sort of cold if you have a respitory bypass to well, bypass, the discomfort. Except then people would notice. Notice that he wasn't breathing and while apes were thick and blind and stubborn they weren't completely stupid. They'd realize something was wrong. Different. Alien. And wouldn't that just be the cherry on top of the hot fudge sundae of his life.
He stops. Just stops. Nearly causes the person walking behind him to either run him over or turn straight into the side of the metal pole that is manning the intersection. Stops because he can't go further. He can't. He simply… can't.
Cinnamon.
He can smell it. Cinnamon and tropical flowers and… her.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Lay in a dilapidated motel room. Decide to seek out your – former? – best enemy and finally take him up on the eternal offer to fix you. Drag your brain into enough coherence to find out where you are. Realize that you're going to need money. More money than you have. Decide that the quickest way is to go to the nearest large city. Realize that the nearest large city is the center of population you just vacated. Weigh going back versus going to a different city. Decide that your nobility only stretches so far and that time is of an essence here because distance is only going to matter for so long.
He can prattle and laugh about nobility but he knows the truth. He's a selfish bastard. A selfish, insane bastard who has known nothing but torment for the entirety of his lives. Save for half a weekend of peace.
He will do anything to regain that. Anything. Which is why he must get away, get to the Doctor as fast as he can.
So, he weighed the costs and decided to gamble. After all, there are a couple million people in that city – what are the odds that the one person he is trying to avoid will stumble across his path?
Apparently one hundred fucking percent.
Give the universe the finger and apparently she slaps you in the face. Twice.
No. No. No. "No," he whispers to himself, forcing his muscles to freeze. Already he is – was – moving forward. Forward towards her. "No," he repeats to himself, shaking his head. "I won't let you destroy her too. It ends with me." No. No. No. No. "Please," he begs softly, shutting his eyes. "Let it end with me. Don't…"
Flowers. Cinnamon. And something… harsh. Tangy. Salty. Bad. It coats the back of his mouth.
Fear.
His head snaps around again, eyes unerringly looking down the street he knows she will be standing on. She's there. So close. He can smell her and she is afraid.
Her? Afraid? Unacceptable.
He isn't even aware that he is moving again until he growls "Excuse me," and pushes his way through the thick line of people waiting to board the trax car that he had meant to get on.
"… no one should be alone on Christmas. Really, it wouldn't be a big deal. I know a great place that just opened up. We can get some dinner, order some nice wine, make an evening of it…"
"Really, Rick, it's very nice of you to ask but…"
"I wasn't really asking…"
There.
Tall. Broad shouldered. Built like a soldier and wearing a suit that's just a little too small. Standing in front of a nice, if nondescript office building. Leaning. Towering. Dominating her space.
No. No. No. No
Unacceptable.
"Rick. I'm flattered…"
"But she has plans, don't you love?" he drawls, slipping up next to her and sliding an arm possessively around the curve of her shoulders.
She starts a little at his touch, eyes widening in recognition at the sound of his voice. Momentarily speechless she tilts her head back and stares up at him. Looks at him with that glance that he knows, he knows, can not only see through him but see every bit of him. Every ugly bit magnified and thrown up on sky sized projector screen for her to study on a whim. He glances back, briefly, but focuses most of his attention on the man standing… across from her. Is that…? Is he…?
Keep it together, he tells himself sternly. No growling. None. You're not an animal. You're a Time Lord, albeit a broken one, but still. Time. Lord.
"Oh yes," she agrees after a rather lengthy – one minute, thirty-nine seconds – pause, a small smile breaking through the tightness of her face. "We definitely have plans."
He inhales deeply and lets the myriad of scents play through his nose. There is only one that matters. Hers. Cinnamon. Salt. Iron. Flowers. Fear. But the fear is fading, becoming more of a bad aftertaste instead of being the main course.
Him.
He did that.
He has made the fear fade, his presence at her side.
Stupid, stupid, he chides internally but he can't stop the sudden feeling that he's going to choke on something overly large that has lodged itself in his throat.
"And you are…?" Rick asks. Each word is clipped and bitter. He doesn't like the Master. No, no he doesn't. Good.
He grins in response. He smiles and lets every ounce of crazy leak out into that smile and into the mirror of his eyes. For once he doesn't want to play normal. He doesn't want to blend in. He wants to be exactly what he is: an insane, murderous, madman with no hope, no conscience, and the barest slip of a plan.
"Matthew Yana," he introduces, unable to keep the tiniest thread of a growl from rumbling in his chest as he holds out his free hand in a mocking offer. "Sam's boyfriend."
