Author: Anne Ellis

Rated NC-17 for lots and lots of gratuitous sexsexsex. If you're underage, vamoose before I tell your mommy on you.

Summary: Do Tegan and Turlough ever do anything but argue? Yes, sometimes.

LEGAL STUFF: They have much more fun with me than they do with the BBC. However, all characters in this story are copyright of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are being used without permission and without intent to profit.

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There was never any such thing as night, or darkness. That alone made him uneasy. When he'd had to manage other things like this, before, there was always the chance to slip through the dim silence while everyone else was asleep, to do what had to be done in a quiet and hush so unknowing that he could persuade himself that it was someone else's hands he watched, someone else's betrayal. Here there was always the white raking light, the changeless wakeful hours; and as for the Doctor, he never slept.

Turlough watched him now as he had watched him for hours. The Doctor hummed tunelessly as he peered over half-moon spectacles at an entry in the computer, a fringe of blond hair falling near his eyes. The smooth lines of his face were untroubled, unworried; as Turlough said through a yawn, "Doctor?" he glanced up, his smile pleasant and open.

"Doctor, you've traveled all through the galaxy's history."

"Mmm. Yes." The Doctor studied some readings, leaned further over to set the coordinates, his long body hiding his hands and actions from Turlough.

"Then you know what happens to Nyssa, don't you?"

Now the head came up, the blue eyes sharp and watchful, the smile and the pleasantness gone. "Perhaps," the Doctor said coldly, in a tone that invited no further questions.

"Then don't you think it'd be nice to at least drop a hint of it to Tegan? You don't have to tell her the whole thing," he added hastily, as the blue glare narrowed. "Just tell her that it all turns out right." Turlough smiled, weakly. "It'd mean a great deal to her, you know. And it needn't be...strictly true."

"Tell her lies, is that it?"

Under the searching look, Turlough turned half away, pushed a hand through his short gingery hair. "Lies, truth. Why not tell her what she wants to hear?" he said, and his anger was kept carefully from his voice. "Would that be so wrong? She can hardly eat or sleep, she mopes around here as though she'd lost her best friend, which, you might remember, she has. Would it be so very hard for you to let just a few words slip, a few kind words that would put her mind at ease?" He looked into the Doctor's face and quailed a little at what he saw there, but he still said, "I can do it for you. If you like."

For a moment they stared at one another, and Turlough forced himself to hold the Doctor's gaze.

"I rather think," the Doctor said slowly, moving around the console, "that this conversation is at an end. Tegan has already gone to bed; I suggest you get some sleep as well." He flicked at a switch on the console. For the first time, the lights in the room dimmed, the hard white sourceless light replaced by a soft, almost pinkish glow from the roundels. In the deep shadows, the Doctor's face was no longer young or boyish. "Good night, Turlough," he said, with finality.

As he turned, a pale blur in the long light frock coat, his back and shoulders held very straight, Turlough thought, that's about par. Night when he says it is, morning when he says it is; everything obeys the Doctor's wishes. His voice even and bland, he said lightly, "You're right. I think I could use some rest. Good night, Doctor."

The door swung shut behind the other man noiselessly, without a backward glance or a parting word from him. As the door clicked, Turlough dropped to the floor with silent haste, his breath held as he listened for sounds from the corridor. This was an opportunity he didn't intend to miss.

He pried open the little door in the base of console, using the leverage of strong, thin fingers. Ripping at wires, he began to work at the strange shape cradled in the midst of them, the silvery gobbet that moved under his fingers like mercury, caged in a shimmering and solid blue light.

The space-time element, the Black Guardian's voice echoed in his mind. You are touching the heart of the TARDIS. Couldn't lever it free before, Turlough thought grimly, but I've bought a little time now, even if it's bloody dark in here. I'll have it out, and then I'll be free, free of all of you.

For a moment he pictured the Doctor's face with a softer expression, hand extended to him in friendship, Tegan's smile at him on the lazar ship when he had found the way out of the ventilation tunnels they'd been trapped in. The Guardian had promised to save him when the TARDIS broke up, but what about --?

That game was for fools. He set his jaw. Vislor Turlough was no fool; he hadn't survived this long by being soft. Especially not about two people who could could care less about him. One of whom wouldn't blink at seeing him dead, he was sure; Tegan was a dirty hard-case where he was concerned.

The element proved no easier to dislodge than it had on his previous attempt, and after a moment he sat up, shucked off the too-tight coat, loosened his tie. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, baring thin forearms corded with muscle, and then lay on his side on the floor again, working at the housing of the element until sweat stood on his brow.

Some second sense must have warned him. The door had opened and shut silently, and her bare feet had made no sound on the smooth floor. A prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck, though, told him suddenly that he wasn't alone, and he looked up to see Tegan standing over him.

She'd been crying again, he was sure of it. She must not have been able to sleep, had come looking for the Doctor. She was just a little too pale, her dark eyes wide pools in her set and unsmiling face. She wore a nightgown, a thin white cotton one with string straps over her bare rounded shoulders, ruffled lace hem only half-concealing her thighs. She looked down at him and said, her voice low and sharp, "What are you doing? I'm going to get the Doctor."

As she turned, he scrambled to his feet, his heart thudding in his chest. Over the noise of his blood, he heard his voice, well-trained and practiced, say with relaxed good humor, "Adjusting the relativistic timing. Very tedious, more mindless drudgery than anything else. Still, it must be done, and I suppose the Doctor wants me to handle my share of the scut work."

She turned, her soft mouth set in familiar lines of suspicion. "The Doctor told you to do... whatever it is you're doing?"

"Oh, Tegan. Of course he did," Turlough said. He knew the smile he gave her was a good one, though he couldn't manage any warmth in it. His fingers began to uncurl against his sweaty palms. "Naturally. Do you think I'd dare play about with his precious TARDIS if he didn't?"

He nearly had her; he could see it as she hesitated, her weight shifting slightly on bare feet, her face uncertain. Against the soft light from the roundels, her short dark hair gleamed and her body was outlined through the thin cotton nightdress. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, staring at him.

"No," she said suddenly, decisively. "You're lying. And if you aren't, you won't mind if I go and ask him."

She turned on her heel, and before he could think, before she could react, he'd moved forward swiftly, caught her in his arms. As she tensed immediately, then turned, her nails digging into him, gathering breath for a scream, he held her with all his strength, pressed one hand against her mouth.

For a moment they struggled, locked together, until he managed to bend her backward against the console, lean over her, pinning her arms with his hands and her body with the weight of his. As she panted against him, her dark eyes full of hate, he said in a breathless whisper, "Scream if you want. He'll never hear you. And what makes you think he'd care if he did, Tegan?"

It hit home. The raking, angry eyes were suddenly wet. She glared at him, spat like a cat, "What were you doing, then? What were you up to? Something that'll get us all killed."

He shook his head. His face only inches from hers, he inclined his lips to her ear, whispered the words like a love-secret, the syllables slow and caressing. "No, Tegan. I'll admit, I was meddling where I shouldn't have been. But I was only curious. I wanted to see the temporal drive, the advances the Time Lords have built into it. On Trion we weren't so very far from this kind of travel before our civil war. But you know that he would never have allowed me that. He doesn't want to share his power, like all of his arrogant race. I only wanted to see, Tegan. Nothing more."

She was mercifully silent for a moment as she considered that. He leaned against her more heavily and tried to slow his breath, feeling the silken brush of her hair against his face, the taut muscles of her body beneath her softness. He let himself relax slightly and turned his face against her neck, breathing her scent, light and flowery, soap and warm skin. His fingers curled around the narrow fragility of her wrists, but gently.

"I don't know if I believe you," she said finally, much more quietly. Turlough murmured, almost deliriously, "Oh, do. Believe me. You can believe me, Tegan. You can trust me."

The part of him that watched and judged, the ruling cold presence of mind, suddenly fell silent, and he found himself blindly brushing his lips over the smooth skin of her shoulder, her neck, the curve of an ear. She shifted beneath him, not struggling, really, as his body pressed between her parted thighs. He lifted her from the floor until her weight rested between him and the console, her heels hooking over his calves.

The cold part of his brain never quite forgot, though. As her arms went around his back to keep her balance, as she lifted her face to his, he whispered, "You're better off trusting me. I wouldn't have left Nyssa. I wouldn't have let her stay there on a leper colony by herself. And I wouldn't have let Adric die."

It was a calculated risk, and for a moment he thought he'd misjudged it. She tensed against him violently, all softness gone, and her body arched under his like a bow as she tried to push him off. He let a hand drop to slide beneath her buttocks and lift her higher, just off-balance. As she raised a hand, fingers curled, nails angled to rake at him, he caught it in his own.

"I wouldn't! I wouldn't have, Tegan. And I wouldn't have left you to cry over it all alone."

She made a little wounded noise, her body sliding loose against his again, all fight gone. As the tears started, he found himself holding her more tightly, found himself bending to touch her lips with his, even though the still, cold little voice had said nothing about this part of the plan.

Her mouth was as soft as he'd imagined, as sweet. She was still for a long moment as he explored her throat, her cheek, the thin skin behind her ear, returning again for a longer, slower kiss, his tongue delicately parting her lips; then her arms moved around his shoulders, holding him hard. The soft white cotton of her nightgown rucked higher as she slid against him, and he felt the bared skin of her thighs against his forearms.

He groaned against her mouth, his body pushing against hers. There was an urgent whisper from the part of his mind that made schemes, that made plans, that warned him when things were getting out of control; that little voice was distant, unintelligible enough to make him want to laugh. Things were already out of control. Out of his control, at least.

Tegan half-lay beneath him, sprawled on the console, the loose strap of her nightgown sliding from her shoulder. She looked up at him, an odd expression on her face. Her eyes were soft and dark. She licked her lips, the shine enough to make him lean toward her hungrily again, and as he did she planted a hand in the center of his chest and said, "Stop. Listen to me."

He nodded wordlessly and held his breath. He was so achingly hard that he was almost afraid to move, didn't want to move from his position cradled between the smooth warmth of her thighs. Her hand slid down his chest, nails just lightly raking through his shirt, and in spite of himself he sucked in his breath. If she touched him, just once, he knew he'd come instantly.

Her eyes narrowed, she whispered, "You're not going to say anything. Not a word. If you say anything after, ever, to me or to anyone, I'll kill you. I mean it, Turlough. Do you understand?"

He nodded again.

She smiled. "Good," she said, a little breathlessly. "Good." Her arms came up around his neck again, pulling him to her, and this time the kiss was hot and deep and long.

After a moment he pushed himself back a little, away from her, and pulled at the knot of his tie until it worked loose. He dropped it to the floor. Her hands were at the buttons of his shirt, working swiftly, and as the cloth parted beneath her fingers he pushed at the strap of her nightgown until it fell from her shoulder.

She tilted her head back, breathing deeply, her eyes falling nearly shut as he caressed her breast, his long fingers curling around the soft heavy flesh, stroking the rounded curve. He rolled her nipple gently between thumb and forefinger, felt the little crest of soft peach-colored skin suddenly become tight and harder. She sighed, her fingers threading through his hair as he bent to suckle gently, tease with his tongue, just let his teeth scrape lightly over the delicate ruched flesh. As he drew more strongly with his mouth against her breast, her fingers curled around his head, pressed him to her.

"Turlough," she whispered. He mistook it for passion until she said again, a definite note of question in her voice, "Turlough?"

He raised his head reluctantly.

She looked almost embarrassed. "I don't know why I should care, but... you were at school... I mean, you're not very old, are you?"

He laughed, bent close to her again, his hands drifting over her. "Older than you imagine. We don't reckon age as you do on Trion. And even if we did, people die young there. We're not inclined to wait."

"Oh." Her eyes were startled. "I feel better, then. I think."

He took the hem of her nightgown in his hands, slid it high above her belly, his hands moving over the bared violin curve of her waist, the softness of her hips, the rounded peachskin smoothness of her buttocks. "I know my way around well enough," he whispered, smiling. "And I'm no child. Shall I show you?"

Tegan pulled him closer, reached to unfasten the button of his trousers, tug at the zip. As the grey cloth loosened, she pushed it over his narrow hips, the strong muscles of his legs, dragged trousers and underwear lower until she was able to touch him, take his rigid length in her hand. "Not bad for a schoolboy," she said, her fingers closing over him, her eyes bright.

He arched against her hand involuntarily, pushing into her tightening grip, and then with a noise of impatience he pulled at the bunched cloth around his hips until his trousers and shorts fell to his ankles. He leaned in, kissed her again, let his fingers trail over the satin skin of her thighs, move to the soft cleft between. He stroked the silky damp nest of curls, drew one long forefinger gently through the slick wetness to find the tiny nub just at the top of the delicate folds.

She made a long, soft sound, her hand moving to cover his, press it closer to her. "There," she muttered against his neck. "There."

He moved in slow circles over the little bud of flesh, felt her hips move in time. She turned her face, bit softly at the curve of his neck where it joined his shoulder. Her arm tightened around him as she lifted herself against the rhythm of his hand. Her other hand pushed back against the slope of the console to steady herself, fingers spread wide against lighted dials and gleaming switches. In spite of himself, Turlough flinched. Not pressing anything too important, I hope, he thought, as she moaned, pushed harder, faster against him. This would be bloody hard to explain to the....

Tegan's head fell against his shoulder, her fingers digging into him, and he pressed her to him more tightly, felt her riding the rhythmic caress of his hand until she gasped thickly, her body beginning to shudder. He kissed her, all other thoughts forgotten in the wild sweetness of her face, and when she became quiet at last, he stroked her hair, held her to him.

"Boy or man?" he said, laughing, and when she raised her face to him, he was startled to see tears again.

She wiped at them awkwardly, roughly, with the back of a hand. "Sorry," she whispered. "I'd just... forgotten, that's all. I've been so lonely."

"Oh, Tegan," he said, half-bewildered, and took her face in his hands. He felt a sudden wrench of tenderness, a feeling so unfamiliar it presented itself as pain. He kissed her as he moved between her spread thighs, his body covering hers, his hands curling under her to lift her to him, and as her arms went around his neck, he murmured to her, said things that he was sure neither of them would want to remember later. He moved against her, pressed himself slowly inside of her.

He was almost lightheaded for a moment at the sweet tightness of her. He leaned forward into her, bracing himself on his forearms, willing himself to move without haste. He felt the dizzying tingle move through him, lower to the center of him, lower to where he was buried in her, as he bent her back over his arm, thrust home.

She cried out, lifting her hips against him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her back arching. The virginal white of her nightgown was crumpled between them, the pinkish light of the dimmed roundels gleaming on her bared breasts, on the fine sheen of sweat over her forehead. Her nails dug into the small of his back.

"Harder," she breathed into his ear, and he tightened his arms around her waist, lifting her with his muscles, lifting her with the force of each solid thrust, the aching pleasure of it almost unbearable. He watched her face, fascinated, as she moved with him, their sighs, their gasps the only sound in the humming quiet of the room.

If it went on much longer he felt that he would die. Control forgotten, he let himself speed up, his body pounding into hers without gentleness, with dark need, and she met him in kind, her nails scoring along his shoulder, her body rising to meet his thrusts with abandon. He felt his breath stop, his eyes dim almost to blindness for a moment as the pleasure built to critical pressure within him, and he seized her hips in his hands, thrust deep into her as she made a low sound of delight, her face contorted and somehow more beautiful in passion.

What made him look up then, look past her, he never knew.

Distorted by the glassy curve of the rotor, its slow rise and fall, the Doctor stood silent and still, half inside the door, his blue eyes wide and dark.

How long --? Turlough felt himself tense for a moment in shock as their eyes met, as Tegan moved beneath him, lifted her hips to him, moaned his name. She rode out her pleasure beneath his thrusts with little, rhythmic, gasping cries, as he pressed his lips to her forehead, to her closed eyes, his gaze still holding the Doctor's silently. The fair boyish face was pale and expressionless in the shadowy light.

Look, go ahead and look, he thought almost savagely. You have everything else, but you don't have this, do you? You don't have this and you don't have her. You never will....

He bent his head to Tegan's shoulder with a gasp, felt the pressure suddenly free itself in a blinding, wrenching spasm of pleasure that wracked his body as he moaned against her helplessly, moving inside of her to a final drained and panting stillness.

Afterwards, as they slid from their leaning angled position against the console, as they lay tangled with one another on the chill floor, he'd glanced over again at the door. They were alone in the dim quiet of the humming room; no one else there.

She pushed him away, sat up, pulled her strap up her shoulder, her nightgown down over her thighs, looking down at him where he lay on his back on the cold white floor. She was still breathing hard.

"Let's get something clear. This doesn't change anything," she said. "I still don't like you, Turlough. And I don't trust you, either."

"But you can't call me good for nothing any more, though, can you?" He tugged his trousers back up with one hand as he reached over her for his tie.

She stifled a laugh, then frowned at him and punched his shoulder lightly. "Don't play the fool. I meant it. Not a word. Ever."

He raised a hand, touched her face, stroked the softness of her cheek, her lips. "I promise," he said, and smiled at her thinly. "My word as a gentleman, Tegan. No one will ever know about it who wasn't in this room."

******

The Doctor's awfully quiet this morning, Tegan thought, a brief flash of unease passing over her. She looked narrowly at Turlough, who smiled at her with bland innocence. He'd brought the tea things in, was busy laying them out as the Doctor sat silent, studying his folded hands.

She watched Turlough, the thin body, the whipcord strength in his arms, the amiability he wore like a mask on his sharp-featured face. She remembered that body covering hers, the feel of his hands caressing her...

The Doctor's voice at her elbow made her start, her tea slopping into her saucer. "Thinking?" he said, and there was something in his tone she couldn't identify.

"Yes. Woolgathering, I suppose," she said, and frowned when her eyes seemed to refuse to focus anywhere but on the console. Her hand stole around to rub her sore tailbone unobtrusively, her face suddenly guilty.

"You look like you feel much better this morning, Tegan," Turlough said cheerfully, pulling up a chair between them. "Doesn't she look like she feels much better, Doctor?"

"What?" he said vaguely. "Oh, yes. Yes, I suppose she does."

As Tegan kicked Turlough under the table, she wondered at the look in the Doctor's eyes.