The Doctor slept soundly and would have kept sleeping if the warm comforting aroma of fresh scones hadn’t roused him. He stirred slowly, relishing the soft cushions around him and the peace and calm permeating the air. Too often he’d awoken, day-after-day, to the sounds of death, and the smell of decaying flesh. Too many times he’d seen another friend fall; another civilization wiped from existence. The scent of scones was like ambrosia in comparison.
“It isn’t tea, but it’s similar,” Turlough said, sitting down on the bed beside the Doctor. In his hands he held a small tray with a steaming cup and the first helping of scones. “Did you sleep all right?”
The afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, which were thrown open to let in the light, and a cool breeze. It made the room golden and Turlough seemed to glow with its effects. His hair, always a vibrant red, positively shone in the light. He wore a crisp linen shirt as well, belted at the waist, and tan slacks that tucked into fancy boots that matched. The Doctor sat up on his elbows. “Well enough, thanks.” He accepted the food and drink, finally taking his eyes off the feast that was Turlough to settle on the tray. “Smells wonderful.”
“Marteen enjoyed making them. He always did like you.”
Turlough watched him as he ate and the Doctor thought he ought to be self-conscious, but he wasn’t; he was ravenous. He couldn’t recall when he’d last had a meal, but he was fairly confident it hadn’t been in this regeneration, and before that it had been war rations, which had tasted mostly of the steel containers they were shipped in. The scones melted in his mouth, sweet and tangy all at once. “Tell him thanks for me.”
The tea, if it could be called tea, was wonderful too. It was unlike anything he’d ever had before. If he’d been comparing it to English breakfast tea, he would have been horrifically disappointed, but it was so much better than the stale water and oily coffee he’d subsisted on for months prior that he found no way to complain. Every taste was extraordinary to him, now.
“Now I know it was bad,” Turlough said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re obviously enjoying that tea, and I know it’s wretched.”
The Doctor’s brows rose guiltily, sending ripples up to crease his brow. In the light of day, being a moping, crying Time Lord before Turlough seemed terribly out of place and he struggled to stymie it. “It’s good, I think,” he said slowly. “Wouldn’t have served it if you thought it were all bad.”
While in the light Turlough looked golden, the Doctor got the distinct impression it made him look sallow. Perhaps he was, too. He certainly felt washed out and colorless. His hands looked yellow to his eye, almost ashen, and regeneration or not, robust or not, he was worn out from war. “I’ll be all right, you know,” he said simply, noting the anxiety etched on Turlough’s face. “Though I do appreciate the concern.”
Turlough lowered his eyes, studying his own hands in the afternoon sun. “I told Malkon you were here,” he said, changing the topic. “He wants to see you, of course. I tried to explain to him you were resting, but he’s rather insistent that you present for dinner.”
The Doctor rather quickly polished off the scones and tea, setting the tray aside when he finished. It felt wonderful to have food in his stomach. He stretched languidly. “Suppose I could do dinner, providing you’re not parading me about town, then. Not fond of too much domestics. Just not up for that. Something quiet, perhaps?”
“It’d just be us three, Doctor,” Turlough said with a smile. “No one else would believe you’re you, anyway.”
The Doctor reflectively touched his own face. “Is it really that bad?”
Turlough studied him for several seconds before smiling. “It isn’t bad at all, really. Just different. For one, I’m used to you being blond.”
“I haven’t been blond since—” he trailed off, holding his tongue.
Turlough’s brow arched. “How long has it been, Doctor?”
The Doctor lowered his eyes. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see you sooner, Turlough. You know that.”
“How long, Doctor?” Turlough shifted on the bed, moving closer.
“Two . . . two hundred years, maybe?” He was being generous; it was probably closer to three. His eyes were focused on the blanket Turlough had brought over and draped on him during the night, but at the prolonged silence, he finally lifted his eyes to look up at him.
“Two hundred years,” Turlough repeated.
“Give or take.”
“Two hundred years, which makes you something ridiculous like nine-hundred and fifty, and even after all that, you came to visit me?”
Turlough’s face was drawn tight. His eyes were doing something that the Doctor hadn’t seen before—they were searching the Doctor’s face, as if seeking out an answer. There was uncertainty there: self-doubt. Even after all their time together, Turlough hadn’t yet been able to understand what a Time Lord like the Doctor would find interesting in someone like him. It made him smile. “Yes, you. Who else is there?” Aware that Turlough was about to start naming names, the Doctor cut him off. “Don’t question it, please,” he softly said. “Just accept it and be glad for it, all right? I’m . . . I’m too tired to explain better. I just needed to be here, with someone I cared about, and who cared about me. With you.”
Turlough’s face softened. “You’re welcomed to stay here, Doctor. As long as you’d like.”
For a moment, as Turlough wavered where he sat, the Doctor thought the Trion was going to lean over and kiss him. He anticipated it, trying to remember the warm feel of breath on his skin, the softness of Turlough’s lips. He struggled to recall how the other man tasted, but it was a memory that wouldn’t return.
Turlough didn’t lean in; instead he drew to his feet, looking uncertainly down. The Doctor couldn’t decide if he was unsettled, perhaps by the regeneration difference, or because he didn’t want to be too forward. The Doctor cast his eyes to the tray on the bed. “Are there any more scones?” he asked, casually breaking the mood.
“Of course,” Turlough said, picking up the tray. “I’ll get some more.”
The Doctor watched Turlough’s hasty retreat with sorrow. He didn’t have time to play games. Either they were going to be together, or they weren’t. His hearts weren’t going to be able to handle the give and take of courting Turlough again. Pushing the throw off, he got to his feet. The floor was carpeted in thick, plush fiber, which felt marvelous between his toes. He couldn’t remember if it was new, or had always been there. Things seemed so much more intense in this incarnation. Even if it was old, everything felt wonderfully new and alive.
He crossed to the adjoining bathroom to freshen up. He relieved himself and scrubbed his face vigorously with hot water. He was clean, but ever since this new regeneration he felt like dirt—blood—was clinging to him. After toweling off he lifted his gaze and was startled by the unfamiliar face and haunting eyes staring back at him through the mirror. He looked older than his last regeneration, with very dark, close-cropped hair. What a contrast it seemed, compared to the young and gentle, foppish look he’d grown so used to in his eighth form.
He didn’t dwell on it, disturbed at the unfamiliarity of it all. Everything still felt like a dream: the deaths, the victory, not to mention his part in everything. Nothing felt real, least of all himself. When he returned to the bedroom, he found Turlough sitting on the bed again, the tray of scones and fresh tea on his lap. He was looking at the Doctor’s leather coat, which had been draped over a nearby chair. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Doctor,” he said.
The Doctor approached him, studying him with a haunted expression. Turlough didn’t look up, so he reached down, cupping the Trion’s cheek in his hand, gently lifting his chin. “Two hundred years and all of time and space and I ended up here, Turlough,” he said with a small, sad smile. “What do you think you could do that would possibly make me uncomfortable?”
There was that searching look in Turlough’s eyes again, that uncertainty, and it tugged at the Doctor’s hearts in a way he didn’t understand. He was the lost one, not Turlough. He ran his thumb along Turlough’s jaw. The Trion had changed a little, over the five or six years he’d been back on his home world. He’d been eating better and had reached proper adulthood, so his body had filled out. Without the boyish uniform he seemed like quite the striking young man.
The Doctor tilted Turlough’s head up a bit more, meeting their eyes. There was a cool, burning glow that settled over him as they looked at each other. Then he casually bent in and kissed Turlough very slowly. It was a light kiss—the Doctor didn’t have the energy for passion anymore—but it was wonderful. Turlough was warm and sweet, like he remembered, and he tasted so familiar. It wasn’t the sort of taste he could put into words, but it was right: warm and inviting. He memorized it, so he’d never forget again.
He broke this kiss after a few seconds, but looking down, he smiled seeing that Turlough had obviously wanted to continue. For a moment the other man’s eyes remained closed, his lips slightly parted, face upturned. With the golden light filtering into the room, the Doctor though he looked like an Adonis and wondered if perhaps he could sketch Turlough. They’d spent a little time in the past doing that sort of thing, and he hadn’t practiced much since. His fingers yearned for the release. The languid familiarity of it was enticing. There was no home for him anymore. Not that Gallifrey had ever really been home to him, but even the TARDIS seemed too quiet and foreign to him now. She had regenerated along with him this time, and he wasn’t used to the new look yet.
Right now, this was home, or the closest to it he was going to get. He settled back down on the bed beside Turlough, but closer this time, so their knees touched. Turlough smiled rather smugly, and the Doctor liked the way the expression looked on him. That, too, was familiar. “Cheeky git,” he teased, nudging him softly.
“Eat your scones, Doctor,” Turlough replied, but the smile didn’t fade.
--
The Doctor took a bath that lasted almost an hour. The hot water seemed to slice through his weariness and eke it away. He relished in it, drawing strength from the steam that wafted up. Turlough had filled the tub himself, infusing the liquid with some sort of therapeutic beads that dissolved in the water. The scent was vaguely medicinal, but it filled the Doctor with peace and calm as he relaxed, so he didn’t mind one bit. If there hadn’t been a dinner date with Malkon to keep, he would have luxuriated even longer.
As it was, when he exited, he found his clothes were gone, off somewhere to be laundered no doubt. In their stead, he found a crisp, folded black garb. It was similar to Turlough’s, but all black with gold threads. It wasn’t something the Doctor would have chosen for himself, but it had a decidedly Trionian appearance to it and the fabric was cool and soft against his skin. His Earth-style shoes felt strange coupled with the trousers, but when he met Turlough in the bedroom, the other man said nothing about them.
“You clean up surprisingly well,” he amusedly noted. “And already look much healthier.”
“Feel much healthier, too,” the Doctor admitted, absently fingering the fabric. “Did you pick this out?”
“Yes. Like it?”
The Doctor shrugged, smiling faintly at the mental image of Turlough picking out clothes for him. “Not much for fancy dress, me,” he said. “But it’ll do. My things’re being washed then, are they?”
“Yes. I thought you might feel more comfortable in some Trion wear. I tried to match it to what you had on, but jumpers and jeans just never caught on here.”
“Or Brendon uniforms, I take it?” the Doctor teased.
It was Turlough’s turn to grin, and he did, fingering the tall collar of his shirt, where there was no tie. “I’ve still got it, you know. It barely fits anymore, not that I’ve tried recently mind, but I did keep it. Even after all those years, and having hated it for so long, I kept it. In the end, it was because it reminded me of you.”
That was sweet, in a weird sort of way, and the Doctor’s smile broadened. He adjusted the sleeves on his shirt, rolling them back up to the elbows. “So, then, why exactly did we fight, last time I was here?”
Turlough got to his feet, preparing to lead the way to the door. “You’d turned into a tasteless, selfish, arrogant asshole, as I recall.”
“Oh yeah,” the Doctor mused. Then he furrowed his brow. “Hey, I wasn’t . . . well, I was, but so what? You’re not exactly Mister Sunshine and Roses yourself.”
“But you like me because of that, Doctor,” he replied smugly. “We simply couldn’t both be that way. All we did was clash.” Casually Turlough looped his arm through the Doctor’s.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said softly. “Change is never easy,” the Doctor noted as they existed the bedroom, staring toward the stairs.
“And yet there’s still no Mrs. Vislor Turlough,” he noted blandly.
“Isn’t there?” the Doctor questioned, glancing over.
Turlough gave him an impish grin that was reminiscent of his boyhood. “There isn’t.” His grin turned devious. “Not that I haven’t had the opportunity, mind. Lots of opportunities.”
The Doctor had to ponder that for a while, relating it to all the chances he’d had over the past few two centuries, recalling those advances he’d taken and those he’d turned down. None of them, he realized, had been done with any sort of thought or allegiance to Turlough. He wondered what, if anything, that meant. “Thought I’d come back, did you?” he gingerly asked.
“No,” Turlough replied easily. “I really didn’t think you would, especially not after that last visit. I thought you’d changed too much. I figured we both had.” His brow furrowed at the memories.
The Doctor wasn’t sorry for having changed, as it wasn’t a thing he could have prevented, so he didn’t apologize. He just followed Turlough down the stairs and said, “Change isn’t easy, but sometimes it works out all right anyway.” When they reached the ground floor, Turlough unlinked their arms.
“Change definitely can be good. Malkon got married, for one,” Turlough said. “Mellowed him out quite nicely. Maybe too nicely. I have to let him tell you about it though, or he’ll kill me.”
--
Turlough had filled out but his personality hadn’t changed much. Malkon, on the other hand, was like a completely different person. The Doctor had witnessed some of the changes, in the past, but having let two-hundred and some odd years pass between then and now, he found the changes were even more striking. No matter how long he knew Malkon, he was fairly confident his memory would always first supply the mental image of a gawky young man, reluctant Chosen One and leader of the people of Sarn.
He always expected to see sun bleached fabrics, a cloth headdress and a startled look in the young man’s eyes. It was hard to reconcile those memories with the broader, smartly dressed man who greeted them as they entered the dinning room. Malkon hadn’t grown taller, but he had rounded remarkably well. Where Turlough had filled out, Malkon had simply put on muscle. He was broad and strong and wore his dark hair combed and swept back in what was a very classic Trionian style. He was adorned in fancy court robes, which were a flattering slate grey, trimmed in fucshia. It wasn’t a style the Doctor would have ever adopted, but Malkon wore it well, and carried himself with pride.
“Doctor!” he exclaimed as the pair entered. “Vislor said you had changed for the better, but he didn’t mention how marvelous you look now.”
The Doctor cast Turlough an intense glare, but Turlough just shrugged and was soon blocked from sight as Malkon swooped forward for a hug. “Nice to see you, Malkon,” he the Doctor said, awkwardly returning the embrace. “You look healthy.”
Turlough’s travels with the Doctor had changed him; made him less of a material person, and someone more compassionate. Being rescued from Sarn had changed Malkon, too, into a somewhat selfish, greedy person. He was now the type of person who felt the world owed him back for the injustices he’d endured as a child. Perhaps he did. It didn’t make Malkon into an unlikable person, but most of what he said felt faked, and the Doctor found the insincerity stifling. The two brothers were as unalike as they could possibly be. Yet, he knew Turlough cared fiercely for the other man; he was his only surviving relation, and the Doctor understood that need all too well now.
Malkon quickly ushered the Doctor into one of the dining room chairs. The tableware was laid out, but the food hadn’t yet been served. Turlough sat down across from the Doctor. Malkon settled down at the head of the table and rang a little bell. After a few seconds, Marteen arrived, carrying the first course.
It was a pleasant enough affair. Malkon told the Doctor all about his new bride, whose name just happened to be Nyssa. There was no relation to his former Traken companion, but the Doctor subconsciously inserted his former companion’s face into the role of Malkon’s wife, anyway. Nyssa would have done well here, he thought. The Turloughs had not been a particularly wealthy family before the political war on Trion, but they had held judicial sway. During the regime change, the entire family had been exiled; most had died. It meant that when Turlough and Malkon had returned, most of the inheritances from those who had died were turned over to the boys. As a result, the Turloughs had money now, certainly money enough to please the likes of Nyssa of Traken.
The brothers had bought this house with some of the money, as well as many more things. The Doctor had even helped the negotiation of some of the purchases, so many years ago, back when he’d first visited Turlough to make sure that Trion really was being on the level with him regarding their current views on persecution of its political prisoners.
He’d liked Malkon a lot, then. The boy had been full of wonder and excitement at the technological advances he found on Trion. His joy at simple marvels—like fresh, running water—were a delight to behold. But he had grown up a prince among his people, and despite his reluctance as leader of the people of Sarn, he clearly missed the idolization. It didn’t take long for him to learn the ropes and to manipulate the Trion world to his will. The Doctor was fairly sure not more than six years had passed since Malkon had been returned to his home world, and in that time the man had been completely assimilated into Trion life.
On another occasion, when it was apparent that the old Malkon was effectively been replaced by the new one, Turlough had explained it as the Turlough gene in Malkon’s blood that drove him to act the way he was. It was part of their heritage; how the Turloughs had come to power to begin with. The Doctor had wondered how long it would take for the things he’d taught Turlough during his time on the TARDIS to fade away, replaced by the Turlough heritage once more, as well.
When he’d visited, in his sixth form, he’d figured he’d found the limit was four years and that Turlough had returned to his blood along with Malkon, but now, watching him politely roll his eyes at Malkon’s prattling when the other man wasn’t looking, the Doctor wasn’t so sure. Of course Turlough had adapted back to some of his ruthless Trionian ways, but, by and large, he was still the same person the Doctor had grown to love. The changes he’d endured in the TARDIS, with the Doctor, had stayed: the important ones, at least.
“So, Doctor, how long are you staying?” Malkon cheerfully asked.
It was only in that moment that the Doctor realized that Turlough must not have told Malkon the how and why of his visit. Malkon knew about some of their relationship, but Turlough was a rather private person when he wanted to be, and the Doctor had respected that. Now though, he almost wished he’d divulged the information. He was trying not to think about the war and death and what he’d lost. “I’ve not decided yet,” he admitted at last.
“Well, I hope it’s enough time for you to meet Nyssa. She’s heard all sorts of wonderful stories about you and would be terribly disappointed to miss you.”
The Doctor stared down at his food but nodded. “Of course. I’d like to meet her.”
Malkon perked up. “There’s a little gathering tonight, over at Veridianna’s,” he began.
Turlough cut him off. “The Doctor has had a very long journey, Malkon. I think he’d like to rest, at least for tonight.”
Startled at being cut off, Malkon turned his eyes from Turlough to the Doctor, seeking confirmation. “Is that really so, Doctor? You’ve always enjoyed our after dinner parties, in the past.”
The Doctor mustered up a smile. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, this time, though send my regards to Veridianna. Perhaps I’ll join you another night.”
Malkon looked ready to protest, but the Doctor simply fixed him with a gaze, and it silenced the other man. The Doctor had taken one look into his own eyes in the mirror and had been frightened by the depths of sadness therein. He knew what Malkon was seeing was only a fraction of its effect, and yet more than powerful enough to dissuade him.
Turlough rose. “If you’re finished, Doctor, perhaps you’d like to retire?”
“He’s only just woken up!” Malkon protested.
“Bit tired yet, is all,” the Doctor amiably said, rising as well. “Do bring Nyssa around tomorrow though, won’t you? Fancy meeting her.”
Malkon clearly didn’t know what to say. He just sat there, staring at the two of them as they prepared to leave. “Doctor, I insist you stay, at least for some after dinner wine.”
Casting his eyes over to Turlough, the Doctor gave a tiny little smile. “Tomorrow, Malkon. Reckon Turlough and I have some catching up to do. Good night, Malkon. Thanks for the company.”
The Doctor pushed his chair back in turning to collect Turlough, linking their arms together once more as they exited the dining hall together.
When the doors were shut behind them again, and they were in the relative safety of the hall, Turlough gave him a sidelong glance, eyebrows raised. “And just what sort of ‘catching up’ do we have to do?” he queried, smirking delightedly.
The Doctor met the smile with a small one of his own, slipping his hand comfortably into Turlough’s as they started up the stairs together. “Bright boy like you, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
--