Disclaimer: I is ownin ur Dr Who! :K
Thanks to Brownbug, ShirouHokuto, Ilssii-Koschei and MaxRide05 for the reviews! :D Yup, things are looking grim now... ;)
However, I'm very happy about all these lovely reviews I am receiving - nothing can kill that little buzz I get whenever one of you pops up in my inbox! :D And I'm so pleased that people are enjoying this fic! Sooo, without further waffling...
"…perhaps he's coming back…"
Sat back in his squashy armchair in front of the television, Wilf barely heeded the kaleidoscope of colour on the screen. In his hands, the book he had picked up off the kitchen side had been open at the same page for well over half an hour now. His gaze had long ago drifted over the top of the book and now rested distantly outside the window, where somewhere in the inky midwinter night, the Doctor was hiding with "the Master"…and elsewhere, there were Daleks preparing to make their next move.
"…I can't let you get involved this time…"
His mind was racing in a dozen different directions, and he had never felt so inactive in his life. Here he was, sat in front of "The Wizard of Oz" when a great man needed his help, whether he would relent or not. There was more at work than Wilf had initially realized: not just the Daleks, but now another Time Lord, clearly unwell in more ways than one, whom the Doctor had of course taken on himself the responsibility for…and now the TARDIS had been stolen and…
"…he doesn't even have a sonic screwdriver to his name now…"
"What's that you've got there, Mr. Mott?"
At the sound of Shaun's voice, Wilf's eyes flickered down to the open book in his hands and he realized he hadn't registered a single word. He turned it over and raised his eyebrows.
"Oh – it's this book Donna gave me. Joshua Naismith." He held it up for Shaun to read the title, "Fighting the Future"; Shaun sent his fiancée a bewildered look.
"What?" Donna retorted. "Don't you like it?"
"Well, it's by some businessman, isn't it? I've never even heard of him." Wilf had never been one to smile polite half-truths when it came to presents, but instead of the indignant pout he expected, Donna's eyes rested on the cover of the book for some seconds, clouding over as if touched by brief reminiscence.
"Oh…" she replied softly. Sensing the hanging pause, Sylvia lowered her own book. "Well, you never know, do you? Might come in useful one day…" Wilf watched as Donna seemed to hold her breath, and then shake herself, rolling her eyes. "You could've said so earlier, you know. I won't be able to return it now you've got all that turkey grease all over the cover." As she sat back against Shaun's shoulder, there was an almost inaudible sniff and Sylvia's face disappeared once again behind her book.
"What's with you and books, eh?" Shaun playfully elbowed Donna, and then dodged the elbow Donna aimed back at his ribs.
"What? Look who's talking – I met you in a library, remember?"
"Yeah," Shaun laughed. "When you came in looking like you'd forgotten the day of the week and asked where to find some author I'd never heard of – not that Naismith bloke…'Lee Mc-something', wasn't it?"
"Honestly," Sylvia spoke up from behind her dog-eared paperback. "Who finds love in a library?"
Mind once again wandering, Wilf found his eyes running over the words on the open page of the book. It appeared to be an autobiographical section, detailing the vast properties and fortunes of the book's author, a billionaire known for his extravagance, particularly when it came to his spoiled only daughter.
...
Abigail knew instantly what had woken her when she raised her head, which had been resting on her folded arms on her father's desk. Her heart leaped into her mouth and there was a churning of butterflies in her stomach as her ears caught the rumble of the helicopter returning. It escalated, the helicopter swooping over the mansion and coming in to land slowly and precisely on the landing pad at the far end of the Naismith estate – and Abigail felt a wild urge to race across the sweeping lawns and through the sparse copse of woodland that divided the house from the section of land allocated to her father's – her – private army.
Strewn across the desk, a few fallen around her feet, were sheets of paper, newspaper clippings, photographs and a dog-eared book with post-it notes marking almost every page – "Kiss Me, Kill Me", the cover read. She had read them all, poring over every word, soaking up the information and still hungry for more. One name, one face, jumped out at her as her eyes skimmed across the desk: Harold Saxon, catching her attention and sending a little thrill through her every time she saw it. She honed in, drawn as if by an irresistible magnet, unable to look away – the face held her gaze, the name filled her every thought. Harold Saxon…
But this wouldn't do – it wasn't proper – she had left the study in such a mess; her father would surely scold her when he arrived. With shaking hands, she swept the papers into a haphazard pile and shuffled it until it fell into some semblance of order, and then she carefully set it in the middle of the desk, lined up meticulously parallel with the edge of the desk.
Perfect – he'll be so proud…
"…ma'am?" Abigail glanced up. A guard stood at the door, visor raised – she hadn't even heard him enter. "They've got him, ma'am." Abigail's breath caught in her throat and she could feel her heart pounding against her ribs. The guard was still speaking, but it was no longer of importance. Breath coming in quick gasps, she hurried past him and down the corridor.
It had all been arranged beforehand – she knew exactly where to go, and stopped short outside the door to the staff kitchen, where another guard placed his black-gloved hand over hers when she went to turn the doorhandle.
"Can't let you go in there, ma'am," he said firmly.
"I…I have to see him…" Abigail managed to force out in a quivering voice.
"He's dangerous. We knew that before…before all this."
"He won't hurt me." Abigail held her head high, a smile turning up the corners of her mouth. Nervously, the guard shifted his weight from one foot to the other with an anxious glance at the heavy oak door at his back. He appeared to be studying her face, holding her eyes for slightly longer than she would have expected for a respectful member of her father's staff.
"There are precautions – I'm sure you understand," he persisted. Abigail was growing more agitated by the second – he was so close now… Her hand moved towards the doorhandle again, but the guard stepped in front of it, pushing her arm aside.
"Ma'am, with respect…" he began uncertainly. "Perhaps you should get some rest. Everything will be secure by the morning." She felt a surge of indignation – Daddy would never stand for this – and squared her shoulders, eyes flashing.
"How dare you!" she snapped, registering that the guard flinched – that was good. "You are a member of my staff – now let me through. Or are your services no longer required?" she added; the man's eyes widened and he threw an uneasy glance down the corridor towards the main hall where the Daleks worked on their Progenitor. He shuffled reluctantly back from the doorhandle, which Abigail seized without hesitation.
"I can't be held responsible…" His voice was no longer important – nothing else mattered except what was contained behind that door…
The staff kitchen – smaller than most other rooms of the mansion and certainly paltry when compared with the main house kitchen – had been converted at short notice into a medical bay. On the countertops around the edge, small boxes and clear plastic bags were scattered, sterile syringes in sealed packs and other medical paraphernalia unfamiliar to Abigail spilling out onto the scrubbed stainless steel. Benches had been pushed back against the walls to make room – and it was what was now in the centre of the room that immediately demanded her attention.
It was him. Harold Saxon. Her eyes widened and she felt her heart skip a beat – he was there, in the room with her! He appeared to be unconscious and was being strapped into a steel-framed reinforced chair in a sitting position by two helmeted guards. Two more guards stood by, rifles trained on him, and bending over him were two medics in grey and black uniforms adorned with the red cross emblem, conversing in subdued voices, one holding a stethoscope to Saxon's chest. They raised their heads as Abigail entered, but she was hardly aware of their presence, eyes only for their prize.
His appearance had altered markedly from the man in her collected photographs. There was his bleached hair, for one thing, and the rough stubble that covered his cheeks; and he appeared paler and much thinner, almost emaciated. In her mind, Abigail overwrote her idea of the sharp-dressed politician with the image that was now burned indelibly into her memory: the unconscious, half-starved captive before her. Superficial differences…it was still him. The man she needed.
"We're going to have to ask you to leave," one of the guards with the rifles was saying, heading over to her, voice infiltrating slowly through a chink in her elated thoughts.
"No – I'll stay here. I'll just watch," she replied breathlessly, eyes never leaving the man in the chair. The guard turned back to the others, one of whom flashed an OK signal from behind the chair, and he shrugged, heading back to his position while Abigail remained motionless by the door. She watched avidly as the guards pulled hard at buckles on the chair, securing him firmly with tight straps across his chest, stomach, legs, arms and eventually forehead, raising his lolling head and fixing it back against the headrest. One of the medics, removing the stethoscope from her ears and hanging it around her neck, then took over, still under the watchful scrutiny of the armed guards. She raised his eyelids and shone a penlight into his unseeing eyes, checked his hands for any sign that the straps were cutting off his circulation, pinched the skin over his knuckles and then rolled up one sleeve of his black sweatshirt to slide a needle into his bony arm. Generally somewhat squeamish, having lived a sheltered and sterile life, Abigail nevertheless watched every movement intently as the medics set up an intravenous drip, disjointed fragments of their whispering reaching her ears occasionally.
"...severely undernourished, dehydrated..."
"...five days tops, they said - no-one could possibly end up in this state in five days..."
"...'not human' - well what the heck is he, then?"
Abigail ran her gaze up and down him once more, feeling a shiver starting deep within her chest. There had been so many tantalising rumours, most of which only grew wilder as more details emerged of Harold Saxon's deception and brainwashing of the world. But standing here just steps away from him...she could almost feel the power he held, as though it radiated from him. Anything was possible now...her world was complete.
The medics departed eventually, informing the guards that they would return in a few hours when the potent barbiturate tranquiliser that had been used in the capture would begin to wear off. So, Abigail waited. Perched on the edge of a rickety wooden dining chair, she sat directly opposite him, back ramrod straight so as to be slightly lower than eye-to-eye with him where he sat restrained in his own chair.
Accompanied by a slow smile which spread across her face, a warm feeling of contentment grew steadily in her bones. For the first time in nearly two days, she was at ease where she sat.
By the time Saxon showed signs of stirring, a watery early morning light was sending its pale fingers between the blinds over the high, narrow windows. His fingers twitched slightly, wrapping around the edges of the armrests that his arms were secured to, and Abigail, who had slumped down in her chair, eyes dry with exhaustion, jerked upright. At the back of the room, the two guards had removed their helmets and chatted nonchalantly for some time before slipping into a weary doze at the monotony of their task, but at the sudden motion from Abigail, they snapped to attention, cocking their rifles and taking positions either side of the restraint chair. One pressed a button on a pager at his belt.
"Careful..." the other cautioned. "I've seen some of the UNIT files on this one - don't trust anything he does." Saxon's eyelids fluttered and he flexed his fingers cautiously, as if every movement pained him. Signalling the arrival of one of the medics, the pager sounded, four high-pitched beeps that repeated twice. Saxon's lips parted and he drew in a shuddering, hoarse breath which quickly deteriorated into shallow, rapid hyperventilation; the medic, who had entered through the door at Abigail's back, hastened forward to loosen the straps around his chest and stomach. His breathing slowed and deepened, and gradually, he half opened his eyes.
He had met her eyes. Abigail was certain of it. On legs stiff with pins and needles, she rose and took a step closer.
"Better fetch the tin cans," the first guard muttered; the second nodded curtly and departed, cocking his rifle and snapping into a smart march.
Saxon's eyes were following her motion now as she crept closer. There was a sharpness to his gaze, a wary alertness like a cornered wolf, confident in his superiority but curious to see what his pursuers' first move would be. He inhaled deeply and his tongue snaked out the corner of his mouth to slowly lick his dry lips, eyes fixed intently on Abigail.
"I'm starving..." he croaked.
"You'll be given food soon," the medic spoke up, and he visibly tensed, gripping the armrests of the restraint chair urgently. His eyes flickered down towards his bare arm with the intravenous drip. "Saline and glucose infusion," the medic explained. Saxon narrowed his eyes at her.
"Flesh..." he hissed. "Raw, hot fat...so much...have to eat...more and more and more..." His voice was growing louder and more frantic; transfixed, Abigail remained where she stood, just an arm's length from him. "...moreandmoreandmore..." Suddenly, there was a rush of light that seemed to emit from his own skin, a surge of energy that pulsed through him. His words caught in his throat and Abigail let out a cry of horror at the nightmarish vision of a bare skull that his pale face became. Skeleton hands clenched themselves into tight fists...and then it was gone and he was left white-knuckled, a sheen of sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, the tight bands that held him in the chair now seeming to support his weight more than restrain him.
A blur of motion at the corner of Abigail's vision must have caught both their attention, as Saxon once again raised his eyes and peered past Abigail to where the two Daleks had entered the room, followed by a guard and, trailing along curiously, the Vinvocci technician Addams. Through half-lidded eyes, he observed the Daleks' gliding movement across the kitchen. Unable to move, the only sign of his discomfort as they drew close was a discernible increase in the tension of the straps around his body - his face remained impassive.
"You are a prisoner of the Daleks," the gold Dalek stated, its eyestalk trained on Saxon's face.
"Really? I hadn't noticed," Saxon retorted, his breathing once again steady as he eyed the creature.
"You will serve the Daleks," it continued as if Saxon hadn't spoken. At this, Abigail felt a well of indignation rising, and before she could stop herself, she had opened her mouth.
"He will destroy you!" she burst out. "The Secret Books of Saxon spea-"
"Silence!" the green Dalek barked, whirling to face her while the gold one's eyestalk never left Saxon's face. Struck dumb, frozen on the spot, Abigail's chest rose and fell as she met its gaze with as much defiance as she could muster.
"You can't-" she eventually managed to force out, but was cut off by Saxon himself.
"It means shut up. You have no idea what you're talking about, Earth girl." Obediently, Abigail pressed her lips together and stepped back. Memory and situation were losing definition…
"You just leave everything to Daddy"
…he would fix everything, of course.