Author: Anne Ellis

Rated NC-17

Pairing: Fifth Doctor/Eighth Doctor

Standard Legal Stuff: The characters and setting of this story are all copyright of the BBC and are being used without permission and without profit to the author.

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The smoke which rolled across the plain silvered the sky, made the harsh light of the sun into a softer twilight which deepened shadows and smoothed the rough ground. The two men who stood in the twilight of the smoke leaned against one another, not speaking, as they watched the dull red anger of flames lick the horizon, far away across the flat bare earth, below the empty white sky.

"I've been here before," one of the men said, after a time. "At least the White Guardian told me so. I don't remember it, and I don't expect I will remember this either, when they're done with me." He looked at his companion. "Done with us."

"I have been here before," the other man said, brushing a dark tangle of curls back from his forehead. "And I do remember it. You haven't come here yet, though you will, when we all meet. All of me, of us, until then." He laughed, a strong joyful sound that was incongruous in the blasted landscape. "Personal pronouns become a very real effort in a situation like this, don't they? And the perils of verb tense..."

The younger man sat, easing himself to the dusty ground slowly as though the motion pained him. He drew his knees up, circled them with his arms; after a moment he lowered his head, as if he were very tired. His golden hair was silvered with ash, his trousers powdered with it; he brushed aimlessly at them, and then looked up at his companion, at the dark coat in tatters, the white silk shirt smudged and dark with soot.

"I look a mess, don't I?" he said, but his voice was indifferent. "Why do you suppose it must always be me? One would think there'd never been any other Time Lord in the history of this wretched planet, the way they are always summoning me here to Gallifrey for their dirty work. I gave place to you long ago, or to one of the ones before you, rather, and I'm sure I wasn't sorry to do it. I should like a rest. But I am still caught in my time, preserved like a fly in amber, trotted out at the whim of the Council, of the Guardians, of anyone with an inclination and a little ability at temporal mechanics. There has never been rest." His chin on his knees, he folded his hands more tightly, and said, "I don't suppose they give you any peace, either."

"Never felt the need of it," the dark-haired man replied, casting himself carelessly on the ground beside his companion to lie full-length on his stomach. "Sleep's for tortoises, remember?" He drew with one long finger in the dust, in the ashes. " As for them bringing me -- us-- here, the only way to prevent what's past is to put a stop to it before it happens." He raised himself on an elbow, steadying himself with one hand against the other man's knee, and then pointed to the flaring, sullen orange glow which filled the sky. "It's gone up proper now, hasn't it?" he said, a note of pride in his voice. "Ace always swore by nitro-nine." He rolled over onto his back, his smile making pleasant crinkles at the corners of his silvery-green eyes, and nudged the other man's arm. "When she wasn't swearing at me, that is!" He chuckled.

"I'd laugh," the blond man said, "but I don't know who Ace is. That rather spoils the joke. Perhaps we should go now. I think the Tower has been as thoroughly destroyed as anyone could ask for."

"It has. For a wonder, we weren't destroyed with it. I'm known for getting the job done," the dark-haired man said cheerfully, rising to his feet with easy grace. "That's why we so often get the muddy end of the cosmic stick, I suppose." He extended a hand to the other, helping him up. He stood nearly a head shorter than the blond man, his hands, his face thinner, more finely modelled and delicate, but it was he who put an arm around his companion's waist and said, "Lean against me, and I'll help you back to the TARDIS. You're nearly done in. And I ought to know, Doctor, so don'tcome all stoic and uncomplaining with me. Save that for those delightful lady friends of mine whom I miss so ardently these days. I know my own limits, and you've reached them."

They began to move slowly through the shattered landscape, their halting steps and the dull, distant roar of the conflagration a counterpoint to the sibilant hissing of the low hot wind. "The Death Zone," the dark- haired man said meditatively, after a time. "Not an imaginative name, perhaps, but an accurate one. Very Gallifreyan, in that way; a people who are nothing if not precise."

"Do you miss them?" the blond man said, his voice suddenly intent. "Tegan and Nyssa, I mean. Did I miss them?" As his companion stopped, bringing their slow progress to a halt, he leaned on him more heavily, his dark blue eyes shadowed, and said, his voice troubled, "Tell me, do I miss one of them more than the other?"

The dark-haired man burst out laughing, pushing his tumbled curls away from his face, and shook his head. "I'd forgotten," he said, "how much of a proper Time Lord I thought I should be, in the matter of self- discipline, once upon a time. You were the oddest phase," he chuckled, patting the blond man's shoulder with fondness. "Troubled by any affection, no matter how innocent. I made myself quite miserable, as I recall."

The other man tensed, and then pulled free of the arm about his waist. He began to walk, limping slightly, over the stony ground, away.

"Now, then. This is too bad," the dark-haired man said, catching up to him, then taking his arm again. "Don't be angry. I spent far too much time being angry at myself as it was."

"Did you?" the blond man said distantly. "Are you glad you've outgrown it?"

"I am," the smaller man retorted swiftly, with heat. "I didn't relish feeling that I must be perfect. I didn't enjoy disliking myself." He looked into the other man's face, raising a hand to touch his shoulder, his cheek, lightly. "I didn't like being so lonely," he said, and all annoyance was gone from his voice, leaving it gentle. "It was very hard to bear. I remember."

He moved his arm around the blond man's waist again, and as they stood, he took the other's hand, his green eyes clear and warm in the smoky light. They gazed at one another for a moment, and then began to walk on.

"You're not lonely now?" the blond man asked, his voice wistful.

"If ever I am, at least I don't feel that I deserve to be," the other replied with good humor. "Here, we've arrived."

Behind a stump of broken rock, the deep blue of painted wood showed against the white sky, the dull earth, the dust. The panel of the door was hot from the sun, warm against the dark-haired man's hand as it yielded to his touch; the cool rush of air which followed its opening billowing forth like the scent of the darkness within.

"Ah!" the dark-haired man said, as they stepped inside. "All put to rights, I'm sure. The Guardian said there'd be no lasting effects on the TARDIS." He spread his arms, looking up at the vaulted ceiling, the long vista of the dim room, the mellow gleams of polished wood and brass in the light of candles. "I never asked you before," he said, smiling at the blond man. "Do you like what I've done to the old girl?"

The blond man moved through the shadows, looking with mistrust at the quiet opulence of the huge oriental rug beneath his feet, at the enormous hourglass in its polished stand, sand running slowly from its upper bell through its slender neck to dimple the accumulating golden heap below. He touched the silken and velvet upholstery of the long sofa and the large wing chair. "No," he said. "No, I don't think I do. I recognize this. It's what I saw in Susan's mind, her dreams of its appearance. I tried to configure it to please her, but I knew so little then; the best I could manage was a few japonned knicknacks and a Tudor sidechair." He smiled faintly. "She was very forgiving. I think her imagination supplied the rest." He looked at the dark haired man, who had gone to the large console in the middle of the room, moved a screen into view. "Are we still trapped in the emboitement?"

"Yes," the other said. "For now." He raised a hand to smooth back his unruly curls, and then sniffed at the tattered sleeve of his velvet jacket and made a face. "I reek of smoke and cordite. I smell like a bonfire." He removed the coat, dropping it carelessly to the shining wood of the floor, and then tugged the loose silk shirt from his waistband, pulled it over his head, tossed it, fluttering, to join the dark heap of the coat, silvered with dust. He stretched, his arms and shoulders showing a relief of firm muscle under his pale skin, and sighed luxuriously.

"All-encompassing disaster averted yet again," he said playfully. "No wonder I felt so in need of a rest. I was worked rather hard in those days." He turned, saw the other man lower himself slowly to the velvet upholstery of the sofa, silent, his fingers clenching with the effort.

"You're hurt," the dark-haired man said, with concern. "You would rush in front of that Ice Warrior. Very dramatic, very unnecessary." He moved swiftly to the blond man's side, pushed him gently until he leaned back, his head resting on the smooth velvet. He pulled aside the long light coat, soiled now with dirt and ash, and lifted the greyed wool of the jumper. Beneath the other's pale skin, marked with the first greenish mottlings of several large bruises, the line of ribs showed symmetrical and even, and the dark-haired man's long fingers traced their contours softly, then ran along the curve of back and side, the taut muscles of the flat stomach, his face bent near the other's.

"Nothing broken," he said. "A minor miracle. It looked like a rugger scrum when you tackled him." He laughed, caressing the other's hair. "And that's not really your game, is it?"

He pressed the blond man's thin shoulders forward, took one hand, then the other, guiding them through the sleeves of the long coat, helping him out of it as though he were a tired child. The blond man sighed, hardly a breath, and said nothing as the other tugged at the hem of shirt and jumper. Obediently, he lifted his arms, bent his head as they were removed. In the candlelight, his skin gleamed, almost translucent, white marked with the faint occasional tracings of blue veins, and here and there on his pale flesh were reddening weals, angry wounds like long scratches, and the mottling shadows of bruises.

The dark-haired man's arms slipped around his waist again, and he rested his chin on the blond man's shoulder, his embrace affectionate. "You got much the worst of it," he said. "I am too old to be caught with their tricks any more. I know their ways now." He urged the blond man wordlessly to his feet, and then knelt on the silken carpet before him, running his hands along the length of one leg, then the other, his long fingers shaping their molding, the line of hip and thigh and calf, through the cloth, as the blond man rested his hands on the other's shoulders, steadying himself. As the other's fingers curled around his right knee, he moved slightly, and his lips tensed, but he made no sound.

"There," the dark-haired man said, looking up at him, the silken tangle of his brown curls brushing the back of the other's hands as he raised his head. "You've wrenched a knee. I thought as much. I almost felt it as you fell."

"I'm all right," the blond man said. "It will be healed in a few hours. It always is."

"But those few hours are never much joy, are they?" the dark-haired man said, smiling, his green eyes silvery, clear as water in the light of the candles. "Did I think I deserved that as well? What a silly ass I was, to be sure." He shook his head, raising his hands to the buttons of the other's trousers. "I won't allow this gloomy relish for mortifications of the flesh. Off with these, and lie here, on the floor."

The blond man said nothing, looking down at the face of the other, at his smile, half-mocking, half-tender, and then, as the striped trousers slid down, a puddle of grimy cloth about his feet, he tilted his head to examine his own long white body, the lean strength of his arms, the tightened muscles of his legs, with a gaze as dispassionate as though he looked at a stranger.

"It's odd," he said. "This is as young as I ever was, to the eye, until you. And yet I lasted less time than any of the others, you say."

The dark-haired man reached for a large brocaded silk cushion which lay on the sofa, putting it on the silky surface of the carpet just before him. He patted it invitingly, and said, "Stop talking, now. Stop thinking, if you can. You always did too much of that. Just lie down and be quiet."

The blond man stepped from the crumpled heap of his clothing, taking the other's hand for support as he eased himself gingerly to the floor, kneeling, and then lying prone. He wrapped the thick cushion in his arms, holding it to him, and as he felt the first contact of the long cool fingers of the other man, he sighed. The touch was soothing, familiar, expertly caressing, relaxing the painful muscles of his shoulders, his neck, and as the dark-haired man took his arm, flexed and bent it, rubbing the joints, the delicate length of the fingers, massaging the palm, he said, "You know me. You remember me. It's hardly fair; to me, you seem such a stranger. I almost feel that I would never know you for myself."

"I have arrived at a difference," the dark-haired man said, with humor. "I knew it almost right away. You recognize it as well." He traced the blond man's jaw, the curve of his lips. "You wonder, I wondered, where these faces come from which we wear; all of these strangers inside of me. Why old, why young, why fair or dark or tall or short. There never seemed any rhyme or reason to who I was." He touched his own face, the sharp chin, the beautifully molded mouth, the fine-drawn dark lines of the brows, and said, "Until now. Perhaps the genetic bonding has weakened, over the centuries; or perhaps it was the anesthesia. Perhaps it was simply time." He ran a palm, flat, over the blond man's back, smoothing the silky skin, the straight shallow line of his spine, and said, "I have thought of you more often, since. More than I have thought of any of the others."

He leaned forward, kneading delicately at the knotted muscles beneath his fingers, his narrow face intent and and faraway in the light of the candles. The blond man whispered, "Why?"

"Because I was most like I am now, then, when I was you. I felt things so deeply, so strongly; I felt everything. I never would show it. I was unkind to myself." He bent his head closer, working at the tensed muscles of the other's smooth thighs, his breath warm against the cool skin, his fingers gentle and insistent. "It was so sad."

For a moment they were silent, in the candlelight, in the dimness, not looking at one another, not speaking, as their sides rose and fell in the slow, perfect unison of their breathing. The dark-haired man ran a hand along the curves of the other's calves, his fingers avoiding the darkening, swollen knee, and then he pressed a hand lightly against the other's side and said softly, "Turn over."

The blond man did, with a little grimace of pain, and as he relaxed onto his back, his head resting on the thick cushion, his arms spread from his sides, the other knelt over him, his long hands lying along the curve of his jaw, massaging the tenseness there, stroking the sides of his neck with careful motions of his long, sensitive fingers. The blond man let his head fall back, his eyes closing as the soft touch found the thin skin of his throat, brushing it with barely perceptible sensation, and then he felt another caress, softer, stronger, on his lips, and he opened his eyes, looking at the dark-haired man with dreamy surprise.

"A kiss," the dark-haired man laughed. "I remember I thought quite often about how it might feel to be kissed, in those days." He leaned forward, his lips finding the blond man's, and kissed him gently again, tracing the outline of the other's mouth, brushing softly at its corners, and then returning to press with more insistence until the lips parted beneath his, gave admittance to the delicate, teasing advances of his tongue. The blond man raised his arms, held the bare skin of the other's shoulders, as though he might urge him away; instead, his hands pressed lightly, his fingers opening to fan against the other's back, and when the dark-haired man broke the kiss, smiling, he said breathlessly, "Like a tickle. Or a sneeze. Different, though. And better."

"A poor second-best, maybe," the dark-haired man said, and his smile turned up the corners of his mouth, made faint lines at the corners of the silver-green eyes. "I know who you'd rather kiss." He laughed, lowering himself to stretch close beside the other man, their bodies dusky-pale against the muted vivid reds and golds of the lush carpet, and said, "A blush? What's that for? Do you think you have secrets from me?"

The younger man's face was slightly flushed, and his tone was eager as he said, "Do I... did I ever tell her? Did I ever persuade myself to it?"

"No," the dark-haired man said, raising his hand to idly trace the line of the other's ribcage, the slope to the shallow bones of his hips. "I never did. I have always regretted it."

He bent his face to the other's, his breath warm, and whispered into his ear, "When the Guardians came to me, I asked them to bring you as well. I asked for you. I wanted you here with me. I wanted to give you a gift."

He lowered his mouth again, this time finding an eager response, the touch of the other's tongue swirling slowly against his own, and as he explored, tasted, returned the play of the other's kiss, he drew his hand along the long line of one lean thigh, tracing it to its juncture, feeling the brush of the curling hair there, a darker gold, thicker, less soft; then he cupped the loose velvety skin of the sack, moving higher, to the satiny heat of the shaft which quivered, pulsed, stirred beneath his long, caressing fingers.

The blond man broke away, his eyes startled, and the darker man pressed his head tenderly to his shoulder, and said, "Shhh. Don't. Be quiet now. Be still. Think of her." He lowered his face to breathe the scent of the other man's skin, closing his eyes, and said, "Think of her here with me, you, imagine that she touches you, caresses you, kisses you; she is holding you close, and she is looking at you with such love in her eyes, such love..."

The blond man relaxed, his dark blue eyes dimming, half-closed, as he let his head fall against the other man's shoulder, his body trembling slightly beneath the other's touch. The dark-haired man's eyes were distant, dreaming as he moved his fingers along the hardening, pulsing warmth in his hand, releasing it after a moment to lay one finger just below the thick smooth swelling of the head, on the little vein which beat there, its double pulse in perfect time with his own. He drew his finger up, along the ripe fold of the crease, and then opened his hand over it, felt hot droplets slick his fingers. Rubbing gently over the head, he took the shaft in his hand again, his fingers sliding easily now along its length, closing firmly over its rigid heat, and the blond man cried out softly, raising his hips with blind instinct to thrust into the tight circle formed by the other's grasp.

The dark-haired man held him close, kissing his brow, his eyelids, his cheeks, his chin, murmuring soft broken words to him in the liquid language of their birth. As the rhythm of his movements became deeper, more forceful, the younger man threw back his head, gasping, and the other bent to him, damp tendrils of dark curls clinging to his neck, his kiss greedy, his pale skin flushed, tinged with heat, the clinging motions of his caressing hand more insistent. They moved together, locked in one another's arms, their limbs a pale graceful tangle against the dark jeweled hues of the thick carpet, their rising passion stamping their faces with a mysterious, indelible likeness, more powerful than that of blood.

The blond man moaned, half-rising, his body still thrusting with involuntary motions against the other's firm grip, and whispered, his voice thick in his throat, "Wait. I... stop, you must stop, or I'll..."

A ragged gasp silenced him, and his brows contracted, his eyes closing and his mouth falling open in a soundless, rapt cry, his body arching against the other man's, against the building pressure, the spreading heat that gathered force and then burst from him in shuddering spurts. His face was taut and wild, instinct with ecstasy.

The dark-haired man caught him with one arm as he fell back against the pillow, to the soft thick carpet, his muscles slack and languid, his skin flushed. One hand was still pressed to the younger man's stomach, feeling the hot wetness there, the scent like fresh earth after rain, and he murmured to him tenderly, his lips brushing his forehead, the multiplied, joined echo of their beating hearts keeping time against his chest as he leaned against the other, resting his head on his shoulder.

The blond man swallowed once, with difficulty, and then said hoarsely, "Was that your gift?"

"Yes," the other man said quietly.

"I imagine," the blond man said, after a time, his voice more steady, "that is much like death will be, when it finally comes to take us. Bitter and sweet and dark, all at once, and quite impossible to resist."

"Yes," the dark-haired man said. "Yes."

The other's shadowed blue eyes regarded him with a faint questioning. "But you know I won't remember this. Not until later, until I am you. So why? What have we done?"

"I had lost faith in myself. I no longer trusted my instincts, my own mind. I hated myself, for a time. You hate yourself, your existence." The silken tangle of his soft brown hair fell over his eyes, over the high white forehead, as he bent his head to the other, their faces touching, and whispered, "I wanted you to know that I remember you, I remember myself then. It all came out right in the end. I did the best I could, did what seemed right, and time healed the rest. It always does. It always will." He kissed the other, lightly, and said, "I want you to love yourself again. That much the Guardians will leave in my mind. It's the only payment I've asked for."

They rested, curled together, locked in one another's arms, not moving, not speaking, as the candles burned lower, the flickering honey of their light smoothing the shadows around them, glistening on the contours of their skin, the only sound the ticking of the many clocks, the little sounds like the dripping of time. Then the blond man raised his head, abruptly, his blue eyes wide, and said, his voice sharp, "No, not yet! I -" and was gone.

The dark-haired man lay in middle of the dull rich colors of the thick carpet, alone, his face melancholy, and then rose to his feet. He looked at the grimy trousers he still wore, their buff color darkened with ash, and undid them slowly, stepping out of them, rubbing the thin material through his hands before tossing it aside. Naked, he stretched for a moment, and then ran his hands over his body, the smooth firmness of his chest, his muscled flanks, his strong legs, and then wrapped his arms about himself tightly, feeling the strong double beat beneath his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

"Now, to see about that emboitement," he said, moving toward the console. His voice echoed through the high-ceilinged chamber, small and faint, and he smiled. "Talking to myself. Another popular vice."

Near the console, he felt a texture on the polished floor, grittiness beneath his bare narrow feet, and he stooped to touch the piles of dust tracked in, the single line of footprints traced in ash which led from the door into the TARDIS. He swept the grains in his palm, looking at them, his green eyes clear and without sadness. He touched the little heap lightly with a long forefinger, and then tilted his hand to let it run from between his fingers, run away, silver and golden and fine.