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ofrunning:

The Master laughs (?), and then he lies, and (!) the Doctor gets the joke.

All those nasty pieces of Academy gossip about their eccentric neighbors, all the basic test flights where TT Capsule pilots were required to avoid it, and the whole history of mad Morbius–there’s no way the Master is serious. Or has he merely spent less time archiving such things in the back of his mind? Maybe he is so much older, enough that the little details and even the bigger ones have stopped mattering to him. Something very cold writhes briefly in the Doctor’s guts at the idea. Whether he’s upset for the Master’s sake or his own, he can’t fathom.

He hasn’t kept track, in the flowing seconds, of exactly when the sight of the TARDIS’s edge became a security line for him, but now there’s no doubt. He can’t look back. 

And then he does.

The fingers that are running down his sleeve. The way the Master has lied. He looks back and sees this whole encounter as if he has just now walked in on it from stage left. 

“The Flame,” he says, the words tumbling out like he’s finally shaken them loose. “I relocated it for the Sisterhood before the fighting ended. Old Karn is just an uninhabited shell now.”

They owed me a favor goes unspoken. They made me new again, as well, but it is explained nonetheless, between the lines the Doctor’s fingers make as he trails them down the back of the Master’s hand. A warm touch, one that’s slow and bad at pretending to be a swatting gesture.

“Can’t imagine what it looks like where you’re from.” When his eyes trail up the Master’s face, they are carefully pondering different questions. Stirrings of inclination that might lose their luster if put into words. “Can’t imagine how I’d not think to do a thing like that.”

The smile he gets in returns pulls up tight lines around the edges of his eyes, the perfect mapping of a tension headache laid out for all the world to read if they only know the language it's set down in.

"Balance, perhaps. One of us had to die, after all." (and there, there, only for a second but there nonetheless - the years all between them, time where there should be none at all around his shoulders like a fur coat, like a noose.) "You're quite the exemption to the rule, as far as I've gathered."

The light makes his eyes look golden, as though the unused regeneration is pushing its way out through any crack it can find. The homesickness rattles through him - unexpected and unwelcome, a ghost of a feeling he'd carefully cut out rearing its head for the first time in absolute centuries. He'd stood under twin souls and waited for it to hit him a thousand times over and then once again; and he'd felt nothing, or less than. 

Here, though, now? Well. With exhaustion sitting in his chest like a rattling clock he's not even the energy to deny it, to push it to the back of his mind and press on. Here, in the last leg of his journey out, so far from the brightest point of all the timelines, where the echoes of the parasite drag still ripple through reality - here, he finds it. Of course he does.

It's worth it, though, worth the dry-mouthed dread just to have them on the same page of the book again for a few moments. He moves as if to turn away, drag the distance back between them - and catches his hand where he has left it, the implication of punctuation anchoring him now into the cuff of the Doctor's shirt.

"Do not go gently into that good night, indeed," he murmurs, almost absently.

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                         & – mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.

               Clara Oswald. It's complicated.

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That gets him a laugh all his own - the first dulling edges of honest affection tampering with his natural smug grin, how human, how dreary, move on - a laugh that echoes through the pages of the books so sharply that it all but turns their titles upside down, a laugh that barely ends itself in time enough to catch his next words.

Karn? Oh, he remembers Karn, echo of a story he never set foot in (except, except, for all the ink in the universe that they are the same awful tale told two different ways), never saw.

"No." Yes. "Can't say I remember much of it, at least." I want to hear you say it.

He pivots with it, clumsy, joints sticking. It's been a long journey and a longer one before that and - well, you get the picture - and now he finds that when the time finally calls for white-hot action he's more in common with that rusty old scrapheap rescue than he ever had before. He settles, as far as he can admit to himself that he has settled, for running his fingers down the inside of the Doctor's sleeve like puncuation, an elipsis made pressure.

To miss the sly inflection in that repetition, the Doctor would have to’ve been worse than deaf. To take the bait, or to appreciate the exaggerated banter offered, he’d have to be younger, not stinging from the sore spot of too many built-up regrets. Soon enough the Master will leave, anyway, and take all of his secrets and infuriating smugness with him.

Yes, the thought still hurts.

"The answer hasn’t changed," he shoots back. His eyes roll as he speaks, sticking at the top of their arc like he’s already explained this a hundred times. "I regenerated, it’s not like I bartered for another year. As if there were anyone I could barter with.”

No, he didn’t barter, just called in a favor with the Sisterhood of Karn. The words almost get lost in his mouth, and what should feel like a triumph ends up spoiled, something to gag on. He looks away, down the end of the shelf row, to where his TARDIS is just visible from around the corner. “D’you remember Karn.”

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21. Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don’t make a noise, don’t leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to dream about. We used to do a lot of things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the bread and devour it. I’m in the hallway again, I’m in the hallway. The radio’s playing my favorite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I’ll keep walking toward the sound of your voice.

from ‘You Are Jeff’ - Richard Siken (via thankyou-inadvance)

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metuere

Oh wow.

x Good. Now try it with human emotions.

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x And the shake and the pause and the turn of him says more than that nasty old denial ever did, gives him another bitter layer to the Understanding Cake he's been building up and building up throughout this encounter. Kill him in cold blood? No, no, never. But maybe - maybe it nearly happened anyway. Maybe worse! He'll have to find the old bastard and ask him, won't he.

 "What are the odds of me showing up from a universe?" Non-existent. Try again later. Your call has been forwarded to the Virgin Mobile Voicemail Service. 07444 444 444 is not availiable to take your call. At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished, you may hang up, or press one to change your message.

That is: he asks the question like he'd die if he didn't, like he wants to be caught, and oh, oh, isn't that just the whole damned point of them. Laws be damned, this is it. Catching and being caught. Lying and being lied to. 

"- where you didn't bite it and grow a chin, right, right. Pretty low. Oh-point-two, and that's the highest I'll go. What, does that mean that you've been cheating fate? Shame on you, Doctor. I'll have to join a Nunnery to balance us out. How long did you get, anyway?"

"You leave the old man to die?" 

For an instant he is smothered by revulsion. His head does not turn back in the Master’s direction—it snaps, as if whiplashed. “N—.”

Composure. He claws for it, forcing himself not to speak until the Master is finished, forcing back the memory of how the words had felt in his mouth ("Look at you! Not remotely important!”).

But this conversation has taken an awful turn, and the amusement in the Master’s tone is like something rotten being forced down his throat. If he could run now, the carpeted floor against the soles of his shoes would feel freeing. Instead, shame and determination root him to the spot, and he might as well be standing in quicksand.

"I did not kill Wilfred,” the Doctor snarls quietly, speaking over the Master’s final word. (It’s more than a contradiction; it’s an utter refusal of any reality to that effect.) “And Donna left. Had to. Long time ago.”

That said, the emotional quicksand begins to recede, and now running is a tantalizingly possible option. Except it isn’t, because he has to see the Master out of this universe, remember? “What are the odds of you showing up from a universe where I don’t loophole out of prophecy?” It’s a stupid question, a first-impulse question spoken with a tight, false smile; anything to get them out of the past and into the present. 

Even though Time doesn’t work like that.

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x I said it once, and I'll say it again: who missed me?

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He tightens his grip on her hand ever so slightly and actually smiles - no smirk, no grin, an honest-to-whatever-god-you're-subscribing-to smile. All of the rampant sharpness dials itself back into an even less-reassuring manic kind of triumph. Let the sea blow dry and yadda yadda, fuck it, he's got the girl.

"Well then - I suppose I am asking you. Arrange all the plant-watering you need to arrange, Miss Flora, because I am hereby and officially whisking you away to foreign parts. If there's anything needs packing, pack it, but don't worry about clothes - we can buy as we go."

Is that too forward? Maybe. Probably. Who cares? He'll buy her new clothes. He'll buy her a new wardrobe ten times over and have change spare for jewels. He'll take the rail with her all across the continent and show her everything redeemable about this stupid rock and then he'll show her to the stars and if she thinks he's moving too fast, good, good! As long as she can keep up, as long as she wants to, he'll outpace even himself.

The hint isn’t as useful as it could be, but first hints rarely are. Mentally, Flora tallies another hint coin spent, and her mind provides her with the second hint: that the Professor won’t be home for another week and a half, if that. 

"I- the P- I mean my Father, he…" She chokes here, not able to grind out another word on the Professor— he’s off having an adventure, right now, while Harry offers her one and the only thing she can think of to say is "My Father would worry about me".

( Because Flora’s not as good at puzzles as Luke, she goes in for the third hint. It’s structured like a question. It asks her, aren’t you tired of holding down the fort while the Professor forgets you even exist? Didn’t you want an adventure, some excitement? Are you really so fearful that you’ll turn one down just for the safety of your boring, stupid, unhappy life? )

"…If you asked me," She starts again, slow and hesitant— she catches Harry’s eye again, and although the intensity of his stare is almost frightening, Flora forces herself to maintain it, "I might, um- I might say yes, I think."

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She is not the girl that he tried to marry. That's -  he knows that, yeah? Let's get that out on the table right now, that he's got his hand on hers and she has all her fingers and she is not the girl that he fell in love with as slowly and sweetly as being violently stabbed, that his universe burned up beneath him and it was only a lifetime's worth of loopholes that kept him ahead of the crashing wave, that everything is gone or different or both.

That he knows this girl is someone he's never met before with the same intensity that he knows his own bone structure. 

He attempts to smile, but it doesn't really work. He wants her to make a choice too much to pay attention to worthless human things like faces or body language (leaning forward like a hungry hawk), wants her to say yes or say no or say - well.

Anything but that.

"I'm only asking if you're saying yes, or if I'm just charming enough that you'd say no and not hold my asking against me" the Master offers.

There’s something Harry’s not telling her. If Flora didn’t understand that fact before this very moment—if she thought he was just a charming stranger, too handsome by half—then this must be the pivotal point, the dividing line between confusion and clarity. There’s something unfamiliar in him informing the inquiry, which could be another joke if it wasn’t tainted with urgency enough that even she understands that it’s a puzzle. A hidden one, and perhaps not quite traditional, but a puzzle.

( Puzzle No. 057: Popping the Question. 99 Picarats. A red-headed man you’ve just met asks whether you would say yes to leaving the country with him tonight. You know that he is charming, and charm can be insincere. His voice is soft— you’ve only seen that in bald-faced honesty. From his facial cues and body language, can you tell whether he’s being sincere? )

"I- I mean, I do think you’re very charming…” His hand is still on hers, Flora realizes. She doesn’t know what to say, and her words trail off into nervous silence.

( Would you like to spend a hint coin? Yes. )

"…Are, um- are you asking me that, Harry?"

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Her laugh is brilliant and burning bright and for a second he something something sentiments, something something echo of better days past before one selfish trick wiped the board clean and left everything else toppling like drunken dominoes attempting to conga, something. He's never been one for waiting, no matter how long a plan had to take, and sitting her beside her is eating at him.

The possibility of having her there was never one he considered, and now he finds his options splitting out he's utterly stumped. What if she's different? He wants to wait, to build up a picture of her, and move from there - but that's a lie, isn't it? He's vicious and ugly and compulsive, and his one redeeming trait was that he never made it a secret from her. What to do, what to do -

"I'm glad you think I'm charming," he tells her softly. "But, how charming? Am I charming enough that, say, if I asked you to tour Europe with me and leave tonight, you'd say yes?"

To say Flora doesn’t expect such a silly thing to come from charming, well-spoken, utterly intimidating Harry would be an understatement of the highest magnitude. She laughs without meaning to: helpless giggles that make her shake, with an expression like the sound’s been startled out of her.

"Well- well, I-" She manages, once she gets herself under control (mostly: a smile still clings to the curve of her mouth, twitching like she aches to keep laughing), "I think that you’re charming, four.”

Oh, nope. There it is, one more tiny fit of giggles for the road. She’s hyperaware of his hand on her own, a cool and oddly comforting weight that gives her the tiny courage to smile unselfconsciously. She thinks briefly about what it would be like to lace her fingers with his. Even now she isn’t that brave, but it’s a thought.

(It might even count as a daring thought.)

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Aw, Doc, you've always been a little bit of a sucker for me. That's why I made the bet so low - unless I missed a really bad credit situation?

I had dogs. They were nice. I spent a little holiday period psyching out a very nice man who knew I was awful but didn't know how. I'm sure they're fine.

That’s a sucker’s bet and despite what some might think, I’m not a sucker. Well, not that big of one, anyways.

You had dogs? Um…I think you still have a fell beast somewhere.

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He nods, distracted, and digs the screwdriver out of the top level. Her name hangs in the air light a weight, and his hearts don't skip a beat (but they haven't in a long time) though his stomach turns itself over with shame and fury and furious shame.

He digs the screwdriver under the bridge of his wristbone and squints at it. The air is thick with barely-controlled energy, and a smarter man would be scared. 

"Come to bond? The assorted ex-boyfriends? You should have called ahead, I would have rounded up the whole gang. Would have put the kettle on."

He snickers to himself, levering the joint open.

"If I knew you were comin' I'd have baked a cake, baked a cake, baked a -- did you want something, sorry, or is this all power play?"

He sighs, loudly and slowly. Another push of his glasses and a shrug. He shouldn’t be surprised Lilly would pick one that could see right through him, not that she ever could.

"Fine, fine. Ruin my game why don’t you." He hands off the tool box before continuing, cutting the mask on his power at the same time. "Lucifer, the Original Fallen. And ex of one…oh Jesus what’s she going by now…Lilly?"

Spoiler alert, he knew exactly what name she was using, he’s just going to find ways to continue to play dumb. Despite that huge—though not as huge as it once was thanks to Falling ans time travel—power flickering around the room.

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Definitely not. Give it a week, I'll know eveything. Bet you a fiver. 

Fantastic. I'll sell it all and buy a fast car. Do I still own dogs?

You seem to know most everything and that’s almost a humble statement, the one you just made. Back for now is good enough. Besides, I think you do actually own a lot of property still. Or did. Or will. One of those.

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He opens his mouth and closes it again, close enough to the overlap points that he can taste the echo of him playing along with the lie - like breathing underwater, or drowning. 

He opens his mouth again, interest already fading.

"You have ten minutes to come up with a better lie than that, de Lioncourt. First, though, pass me the toolbox. If you're going to wonder out to the edges of everything and try to whatever it is you're trying, you can at least think up a decent excuse for being in my house."

Good that’s good, take him by surprise. A quick check of how much power he’s suppressed—enough to be mostly harmless, but not enough to appear human. He stumbled inside the doors, pushing them closed behind him.

Breathe, in and out, and push your glasses up. He manages a sheepish grin, running his fingers through his hair. He hoped that he was pale enough, not that he could control that, or at least appeared frightened enough. 

"S…sorry..You’d think I’d be better at dealing with large people eating things chasing me…" he wheezes, laughing quietly. He shakes himself out, straightening up.

"Oh, how rude of me, running into your home without introducing myself. I’m…Lestat." Hey look, he managed to get through that without cracking up, someone give him an Academy Award right now.

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If I told you that, I really would know everything. I'm back for now, I think. Does that count, or do I need to start buying up property?

You seem…back. Are you? I have this…thing with my head sometimes.

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drhfgordon 

fRICK

You seem upset.

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- and he doesn't know that it's Lilly's ex come to track him down past the boundaries of everything reasonable, but if he did he'd be wetting himself laughing. Little old half-gold rattlesnake him, barely a year our of that clockwork fake-death subterfuge extravaganza, hiding out on the edges of reality where not even he can find himself (not that he's looking. It's called a vacation for a reason, you know.) 

Enter, stage left, the ex before , all wings and glaring and yelling outside his ship. Or -

It's late afternoon, he's thinking of unscrewing his palm to see if it's possible with bone, and there's someone outside the ship knocking and begging for help. Opening it wouldn't even be suicide, it'd just be stupid. Mad.

Well. His people always did lose the plot at about this age. Why not?

He unlocks the doors.

The Master was decidedly difficult to find. Then again, it probably would have been easier had Lucifer been not looking for a specific segment of the Master’s timeline. Time travel was just barely in his grasp these days, thanks to years of having been a fallen. 

But, he did manage to find the correct timeline, all with a time where Lilly was not currently there. He didn’t need her getting involved yet. He leaned against the TARDIS door, tapping his fingers against it,frantically, with a grin.

"Please, help me!" …It probably wouldn’t be enough to make the Master give a shit, but maybe he’d poke his head out the door?