Author's Notes - Oh, look, an update! Here's a quick recap in case you don't have time to reread the last chapter. Doran and Emma discovered the ugly truth about Starship UK. Inside a voting booth, he chooses to forget and then leaves himself a message explaining why he should get Emma off the ship. Jumping to Sto, he retcons them both. This chapter picks up when he wakes in an unfamiliar spot. If you've stayed with it this far, I sincerely hope you enjoy the new chapter.

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Jumping to his feet, Doran's eyes swept the unfamiliar room. How had he come to be in such a sordid place? The last thing he remembered was . . . Emma! She'd been injured when they'd assassinated the Ogrons sent to infiltrate Starship UK. Covered in the blood of her target, it had been easy to miss her head wound. He'd discovered her injury just as he had programmed his Vortex Manipulator to take them . . . not here, wherever here was.

With three quick strides, he stood beside the sagging bed where she lay unconscious. Someone had taken the time to clean her of the blood that had covered her face and hair. On her right temple, a faint scar ran through the middle of a yellowing bruise. She wore new clothes, a green blouse and black trousers with black running shoes. Only then did he realize that he no longer wore the gray jumpsuit marking him as a technician on thirtieth century Earth. Instead, his appearance reflected hers, black trousers, white shirt, black blazer and stylish yet practical black boots.

Automatically, he checked his wrist strap. It didn't take long to grimly calculate that he had lost nearly three standard days of memories. Hoping to discover something, anything, that might spark a recollection, Doran checked his pockets. Reassuringly, he found his sonic blaster tucked inside his blazer. Wherever they were, they weren't likely to be prisoners. Reaching into the pockets of his trousers, he discovered the vial which held his emergency supply of retcon. Empty, the evidence suggested that his confusion upon waking had been self-inflicted. He truly hated when that happened. Usually, it meant in the course of his work he'd stumbled into some sort of paradox too dangerous to remember.

Continuing his search, his fingers encountered something small and round in his right front pocket. Pulling it out, he stared, completely dumbfounded. In his hand he held a delicate band of silver fashioned from three-cornered interlacing knots. Too small to fit on his pinkie, it could only be a woman's ring. Who was he kidding? Not simply a woman's ring—a wedding ring.

What series of events had led him to purchase a wedding ring? And, where had he found such a perfect one? To a time traveler, the ancient Celtic knot represented the past, present and future, beautifully overlapping and interconnected. He could think of nothing more fitting to symbolize the relationship he shared with Emma. But why wasn't it on her finger? Had she rejected his proposal, or had he simply run out of time?

When she began to fret in her sleep a few minutes later, he shoved the ring back into his pocket. He had far more important issues to worry about. Perhaps she could tell him the reason for the retcon. Sitting beside her, he watched as her lips tightened into a frown. Lovingly, he cupped her face, smoothing away her grimace with his thumb.

"Doran?"

A tender smile softened his features as Emma leaned into his hand. His anxiety on the rooftop had manifested itself as anger, but he'd never been happier to see her open her eyes. When she had collapsed, he'd feared he'd lost her again.

"How do you feel, sweetheart?"

"Better." Sitting up on her elbows, she looked curiously around the room. "Another one of your safe houses?"

Well, that answered his question about the retcon. She didn't know anything more than he. Following her gaze, he looked around the dingy room. The peeling green wallpaper revealed orange walls underneath. Years of use had scarred the spongy carpet with a pitted path from the front door to the bed and from the bed to what he hoped was the lavatory. The orange bamboo bedframe had cracked, and deep gouges marked the room's solitary table. He'd seen similar décor on a dozen different worlds, but only one allowed continuous video adverts to be displayed on the ceiling. For whatever reason, he'd taken them to Sto.

"Not sure how safe it is, to tell you the truth. It seems I retconned myself sometime after we got here. I'm missing three days of memories."

Leaning against the wall, she grimaced when she unthinkingly rubbed her temples. "I can't help. I don't remember anything after . . . ." The color leeched from her face. "I killed the driver. She was hardly more than a child, and I killed her."

Though he understood her regret, he worried at its depth. They had both acknowledged the danger of leaving witnesses. For the sake of the timeline, the deaths of the Ogrons had to be classified as a simple hate crime, not some interplanetary conspiracy.

"I know, Sweetheart, and I'm sorry. But, she would have died anyway. It's not your fault. If anything, you should blame the Daleks."

Wrapping her arms around him, she groaned against his chest. "I'm so tired of killing."

"I know. " Instinctively, he rocked with her, just as he had on Galbon. In her own way, he believed Emma to be as broken as Melina. Though susceptible to bouts of depression, at least Melina had been blissfully ignorant of the guilt that had brought such hopelessness to the surface. Until the kidnapping, her life as Rochmel II's daughter had been a relatively happy one even if it had been a lie.

After a few moments, she stiffened and pushed herself away from him. "I'm not her."

"No," he quietly agreed. "But I'm still me."

Incredibly, his explanation satisfied her, though it barely made sense to him. The remorse and self-loathing she carried in her eyes dimmed as if his words had banked a fire. When he looked closely enough, he could still see her pain, but he no longer feared it would consume her.

He thought of the wedding ring hidden in his pocket and grinned unabashedly. Definitely ran out of time. She raised a single eyebrow in query, a ridiculous expression on her youthful face if he'd ever seen one.

"You know I love you."

Emma rewarded him with a lingering kiss. As soon as he thought it might turn into more, she playfully pushed his hands away.

"I'm hungry."

Huskily, he whispered in her ear. "Sweetheart, I've never failed to satisfy."

With exaggerated forbearance, she pushed him away once more. "Just for that, you're stealing me dinner."

"Stealing? Who said anything about stealing? With my charm and good looks, we'll be dining in no time."

She simply rolled her eyes. He couldn't have been happier.

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Lying nude on the surprisingly comfortable sod bed in an unremarkable hotel on a dull farming world of which they hadn't bothered to learn the name, Emma traced her finger along Doran's cheek. The scab where he'd been shot by an ionic laser pistol kept splitting open and would most definitely leave a scar. The former Time Agent had only grinned the last time she had warned him not to scratch it, opening the wound yet again—not that he'd cared. He impishly called his injury a badge of honor, an honor he had earned by pushing her out of the way of a barrage of laser fire.

The Time Lord, however, could not be so blasé. Doran could have easily died, and it would have been her fault. If she hadn't insisted on trying to save the hostages the Ogrons had exploited as sentient shields, he would have never been injured in the first place. They could have obliterated the underground headquarters using a ground penetrating bomb from miles away. The Judoon Central Command had been prepared for the loss of the civilians, but she had begged and cajoled until they had given her permission to attempt a rescue.

The fact that every one of the four hundred six captives had survived their ordeal scarcely assuaged her guilt. Doran's body armor had been hit so many times on the mission that the protective ceramic coating had crazed. Had he been hit again as he had struggled to rise, she would have certainly lost him. Instead, she owed his life to a Judoon lieutenant who had launched a sonic grenade at the advancing Ogrons.

"You're doing it again." Not bothering to open his eyes, Doran took her hand away from his cheek to kiss her fingers. He'd been too tired to do anything other than fall onto the soft grass mattress the night before, but he now radiated a contented, refreshed indolence.

She deliberately mistook his meaning. "It's going to scar if you're not careful."

His eyes snapped open as he put down her hand. "It's going to scar, period. That's not the point. You can't be dwelling on it like this, Emma. I'm alive. You're alive. Hell, even the hostages are alive. I count that as a win in my books."

Stretching, she let out a long breath of air, hoping her naked form would be enough to distract him. He chuckled at her obvious ploy, but willingly gave into it. Languidly, they pleasured each other with mind and body, both thankful for the opportunity to feel rather than think, if only for a little while.

Showering together, they scrubbed the grass stains off each other's skin. Then, they dressed in the outfits they had found themselves wearing on Sto, both finding them comfortable and suitable for running. She quickly plaited her hair in a simple braid in the hope that she could escape their room before Doran asked the inevitable question. Her stomach clenched when he blocked her retreat by leaning casually against the front door.

"So, what's next?"

He asked in such an easy, breezy way without a hint of judgment in his tone. In fact, he smiled as he spoke to impress upon her that he had no qualms about being a foot soldier rather than a general, the brawn to her brains. In the last four months, such unswerving loyalty had uplifted her enough to grin back as she divulged their next mission. Today, however, she could barely meet his gaze.

"Emma?" When she didn't answer, he gently wrapped his arms around her, kissing her on the forehead. "It's alright. Whatever it is, we'll get through it together. I promise."

Why did he have to be so damn understanding? Her voice cracked when she finally answered. She hated herself for the show of weakness. "I don't think I can."

"Yes you can. Whatever the Daleks did, we can fix it."

"It isn't the Daleks," she begrudgingly admitted as she shook with unshed tears. "They didn't . . . . We've reversed everything the Daleks did."

She put a subtle emphasis on the word 'Daleks', hoping he would understand. With a profound sense of relief but absolutely no satisfaction, she watched his smile slowly vanish and the optimistic spark in his deep blue eyes darken. His hold tightened, as if he feared she might break apart in pieces. Perhaps she would.

"You don't have to." He whispered into her ear; the earnestness in his soft tones as alluring as a siren's song. "I will. I'll show him the cellar; bribe someone to blame it on Salow. There was so much blood. Your body never has to be found, Sweetheart. You don't have to do this. He'll listen to me."

Sorely tempted, Emma breathlessly considered his proposal. She could stay on this insignificant little planet and wait for his return. She'd never have to set foot on Galbon or hear Rouchmel's voice again, never have to see his anguish when Doran declared her death, never have to witness the disintegration of the life she had come to love. No, she could stand back and let him do it for her, alone.

In the end, she could live with only one answer. Tremulously, she met his gaze. "Together, Doran. Or not at all."

His eyes searched hers. For once, she had no hint as to his underlying emotions, and unexpected anxiety surged through her. She'd grown so used to his connectedness that its absence frightened her. Clenching her fists, she fought panic, but try as she might, she couldn't control the racing of her hearts or the shortness of her breath.

"Emma?"

She inhaled deeply as his concern and devotion enveloped her once more. Leaning heavily against him, she didn't bother trying to explain. Her reaction hardly made sense to her. How could she describe it to him? When she had recovered some of her equilibrium, she tightened her arms around him in a fierce embrace.

"Sorry."

He returned her hug, albeit more gently. ""You don't have to do this, Emma. I promise I won't judge you, not about Rouchmel. Hell, sending you back into that situation is asking for trouble. I know you love him, Sweetheart. It's okay. I'm a trained Time Agent. I know what to do. It's okay for you to stay here."

She pulled away. Far from being tempted, his offer merely strengthened her determination. "I'm not stupid, Doran. You love him too. Don't you dare leave me behind."

Again, he studied her, as if he could judge the depth of her resolve by her outward appearance. "You're sure about this, Sweetheart?"

"Yes." A warm feeling of pride suffused through her, and she knew that whatever happened, she had made the right decision.

"Okay, then. We're going to need a plan."

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As Emma skipped a rock across the picturesque lake behind their hotel, Doran bit his tongue. He silently counted to fifty, then sixty, then one hundred. Only then could he speak without shouting.

"Having you die is not a plan, Sweetheart. You know Garron. He'd insist on an autopsy. Why can't we just say we stayed on another planet until you were healed?"

She pitched another rock towards the placid lake, but instead of skimming, it sank like the stone it was. "Melina would have begged to be taken home long before that. Besides, the less we have to emphasize the time travel aspect, the better."

"Fine," he huffed as they continued to stroll along the shady path that encircled the wide lake. After her near panic attack the day before, he didn't want her on Galbon at all, much less on Galbon weakened and vulnerable.

"We'll have to return to the biosphere so we can retrieve our clothes."

He stopped walking. He'd never considered that he'd have to wear those bloodstained garments again, but she was right. Had Emma not regenerated, he would have wasted no time returning her to Rouchmel.

"We'll have to think of something else for you, though."

"Why can't I wear my clothes? I doubt you had time to incinerate them."

Shit. He'd forgotten she didn't remember. He didn't want her to remember. When she hadn't asked for the details of her death, he'd been more than happy to remain silent.

"I left your skirt in the cellar where I found you because I'd cut it off. I thought I could stanch the bleeding, but when I saw how bad it was, I knew it was too late. Your shirt and jacket are in the biosphere, but you're going to have to have a strong stomach to wear them. There's sick all over them." He gave her a wan, lopsided smile. "Sorry, Sweetheart."

Bending down, she searched the dirt path for another rock. After a few seconds, she gave up. Once she had dusted the soil from her hands by wiping them on her trousers, she slowly stood to face him. When he saw the determined tilt to her chin, he braced himself for the inevitable question.

"Why couldn't you stop the bleeding?"

He gritted his teeth. Hell, he'd done his best to bury that particular memory, although it plagued his nightmares all too often. "You were hemorrhaging vaginally, Emma. There wasn't anything I could do."

She gripped the trunk of a tall evergreen tree to stare at the sparkling blue water. When she didn't move, didn't speak and no longer seemed to be aware of her surroundings, he cautiously approached. On Starship UK, she'd bristled so much when he'd alluded to what Ninety-Six had done to her that he'd dropped the subject completely. Now, he wished he hadn't.

Moving to stand in front of her, he waited. At first, she gave no indication that she perceived him at all. Then she blinked a few times, as if trying to rid herself of a painful afterimage. When she finally focused on his face, he knew better than to touch her.

"You should have told me. Why didn't you tell me?" She continued acerbically in the next breath, and he decided it had been a rhetorical question.

"It doesn't matter. We can use it to our advantage. No one would dare contradict me when I show up at a Council meeting bloodied and battered to accuse Salow of rape. He'll claim to be framed like last time and flee, and half the army will follow just like before. When the civil war starts, we'll disappear in the confusion. The timeline will mirror the High Council's alteration. As long as the alloy is never sold to the Daleks, they won't notice the changes."

She deliberately looked away to peer at the fern-covered forest behind them. "It's the perfect plan, and one I might not have considered. Fortunate, really, that I had you to tell me."

He couldn't stand it anymore. Reaching out, he patted her shoulder. Her brittle mask of indifference broke with his touch. Wrenching herself away, her face contorted with unchecked fury.

"Don't! I don't need your sympathy, Doran! I'm not a victim! Everything that happened on Tuem was my choice! I let that sick bastard rape and torture me! It was all part of the mission! I could have killed him at any time! I was the one in control, not him! And, if the Daleks hadn't messed with my head, I would have killed my attacker on Galbon! Snapped his neck without a second thought! I'm a killer, Doran! NOT A VICTIM!"

He put his hands out in front of him in supplication as he walked towards her. He'd known she was broken, but he couldn't let her shatter in front of him. "I know you aren't. No one could ever think that of you, Emma. You're a fighter, remember? But that doesn't make you a Cyberman. It's okay to be upset, okay to be angry. Hell, it's okay to be scared. I know I was terrified. Those feelings don't make you any less of a person."

"I'm not upset! There's no reason for me to be! I was the one in control!"

Her screeched protest didn't stop his advance. Inches away from her, he swallowed the hard lump in his throat so he could tell her the truth she needed to hear, the one he hated to say. "You are a fighter, Sweetheart. But you're kidding yourself if you think you were ever in control."

She stared at him, wide-eyed, as the brutal truth of her imprisonment finally sank in. Staggering backwards, she hit a tree root and ended up sitting heavily on the ground. He sat down next to her. When she didn't bolt, he carefully put his arm around her shoulder. Not saying a word, she scooted over a little to lean against him. Her ragged breathing betrayed her silent tears, but he didn't say anything for fear she would misconstrue his words of comfort.

As the chirping of birds and clicking of insects slowly filled his ears, Doran stroked the top of Emma's head. He should have realized how much the Time Lord's imprisonment had affected her long before now. He'd thought her insistence that she be called a killer stemmed from her guilt over the countless lives she had taken in the Time War. He hadn't understood how much she had used that label to disassociate herself from the terrible events that had occurred on Tuem. He'd chalked up her recklessness in battle to that same guilt, but now he wondered if she hadn't been trying to prove something to herself all along.

It had been easy, though, to dismiss her behavior as regret until he had witnessed her profound insecurities the day before. He'd shielded his mind out of instinct rather than premeditation while discussing Galbon, but his act had led to a disturbing discovery. The mental connection they'd shared had not disappeared when Emma had regenerated. Instead, she'd been using that connection as an emotional stabilizer, much like Melina had done on Galbon. And, no matter how much Emma protested that she wasn't the same, the young woman was a part of her, a fragile part that had suffered greatly from the memory of Ninety-Six's torture. He should have made that connection from the beginning.

The shadows lengthened. Emma's breathing evened. He watched a few fish jump in the lake. A dark green bird of prey swooped down to kill what looked to be a field mouse. Something that appeared to be a cross between a snake and a centipede crossed the dirt path. An intermittent breeze ruffled his hair.

"I don't like feeling helpless."

"I know."

Heartened that she'd broken the silence, he stole a look. Her face a blotchy mess, she stared into the distance.

"I wanted to die."

He squeezed her arm. "I'm so glad you didn't."

"I'm scared."

He almost said, 'me too' but quickly changed his mind. "Of what?"

"Of becoming like him."

Leaning down, he kissed her forehead. "Sweetheart, you never could."

She gazed at the lake until the glow bugs made their appearance above the now black water.

"I'm scared of being a coward."

Her fear took him by surprise. He'd never associated that word with her, no matter how many times she'd thought herself a coward on Tuem. "How could you be?"

"I don't think I can destroy Rouchmel a second time."

"Maybe you won't have to."

"You think that's possible?"

Standing, he waited for the pins and needles to stop pulsing through his legs before helping her to her feet. In the dim light, the faith shining from her pale green eyes reminded him of the twinkling lights of the glow bugs. He'd do anything not to douse her confidence.

"It has to be."