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before.
Having escaped thirteenth century England, Turlough had followed the Doctor to the TARDIS library to engage him in their customary game of chess. They always played two matches: in the first, the Doctor would always beat Turlough, but Turlough liked to think his skills had improved; in the second, Turlough would cheat as often as possible, and was teaching the Doctor in turn to catch Turlough at it. These games Turlough usually won.
“Checkmate,” Turlough said.
“Hm?” the Doctor said, then frowned at the board. “Ah. Yes. It seems you’re right. How on Earth did you manage that?”
Turlough wrinkled his nose at the mention of Earth, but shook his head. “I switched our queens over when you were staring off into space. It wasn’t very difficult.” Then: “Is something the matter?”
“I suppose so,” the Doctor said. “It’s a very complicated matter involving an old friend.”
“That would be the man we saw today, would it?” Turlough asked.
“The Master,” the Doctor agreed. “We have a long history. We used to be very close, but a great many things happen, and I suppose he and I differ in… moral philosophy.”
“Perhaps I ought to have actually stabbed him,” Turlough said, mostly a joke. He was curious as to how much he could pry from the Doctor.
The Doctor, mercifully, laughed. “I don’t think you would’ve enjoyed that, would you?”
He imagined the blood scent up his nose, the way it would spill out from the wound, and his stomach turned. “No, I don’t imagine I would. But I would do it,” he said, earnestly, meeting the Doctor’s eyes. “If you asked me to. I would.”
“Then it’s very good I never would ask that of you,” the Doctor said, then sighed. “In no small part because I don’t think I can condemn him to death, not properly. I’ve certainly left him in a few places where I thought he’d die, but I can never quite bring myself to ensure it. Maybe one day. I think I’d like to.”
The Doctor had drifted off a little, his eyes unfocused, and Turlough wondered if he was aware of how he sounded, talking about cold-blooded murder. The wistful tone set Turlough a little on edge, but—well, Turlough had his own sins. And he had watched the Doctor kill those Eternals, even if they couldn’t really die. He wondered what the Doctor would’ve done if Turlough really had killed the man—the Master. If the Doctor would’ve taken Turlough’s bloodied hands in his. If he would’ve hated him or loved him for it. If he could ever forgive him for killing this Master where he could forgive Turlough for trying to kill him.
“So, more than just an old friend, then?” Turlough asked, once again aiming for a jovial tone and not quite landing on it.
“Hm? Oh, I suppose best friends would have been a better descriptor. The two of used to be inseparable. Though that may say more about me than I’d like it to.”
“So you didn’t…?” He let the sentence trail off.
The Doctor frowned. “I’m afraid I’m not quite sure what you’re suggesting.”
“Kiss, or, um, more?” His cheeks flushed hot. “Do Time Lords…?”
“Ah.” Now the Doctor, too, was flushed, a shade of pretty pink that made him more attractive. Pink and gold. “Time Lords certainly aren’t supposed to,” he admitted, “but there was a brothel in the Low Town, and I suppose the Master and I certainly did have a few—encounters. Not for a while,” he added, hasty. “I wouldn’t—not while he’s—”
Turlough found the Doctor’s lips as he stammered, watched the way he wetted them with his tongue while trying to find words to express that he wouldn’t let the Master touch him now, watched the way pink slipped over pink, and thought how much he’d like to paint him.
The Doctor had stopped talking, he realised, and looked up. The Doctor had been looking at him looking at the Doctor’s lips. The Doctor’s eyes fell, deliberately, to Turlough’s own lips.
“Doctor,” he began, using the table to push himself up, only to overbalance the chess board and send pieces flying everywhere.
“Don’t worry,” the Doctor said, kneeling. “Come and help me pick them up.”
Turlough did, but only because the Doctor had asked, even if it was his fault. He could feel that the moment between them had passed. “Tell me more about the Master,” he said instead. If he couldn’t have the Doctor, he would settle for knowledge of him in pieces.
“I do hope you’re not asking about our sex life,” the Doctor said, and laughed when Turlough spluttered and dropped the pieces he’d gathered up.
after.
“My exile has been rescinded,” Turlough said. The words tasted bitter in his mouth, after years of wanting. For a long time, the only thing he had wanted was to return, or for the clock to rewind. He wanted to go home, to his estates and his neglectful parents and siblings still alive and art covering every wall of his rooms. Now, he wished more than anything that they had tried to arrest him, so him and the Doctor could run free. Gallifrey had welcomed the Doctor home and he’d run anyway. Turlough wasn’t brave enough, not unless—
“I’m pleased for you,” the Doctor said, and Turlough thought his heart may have broken again. How to convey to him that he only wanted the Doctor to ask him to stay? He would stay, if the Doctor asked. He would do anything if it were the Doctor that asked.
“Doctor, I—”
“I shall miss you.” There—the final nail in the coffin. The Doctor severed the thread between them as if it were nothing, as if it had never been anything, as if they had never been anything.
“I don’t want to go, Doctor,” Turlough said, and hoped the Doctor understood what he was saying. Ask me to stay. “I’ve learnt a lot from you.” I thought I would learn more if I stayed with you, Turlough told the Doctor, when he decided to stay. Understand me, he pleaded, silently. “But I have to go back to Trion. It’s my home.” You ran from Gallifrey again, even when I expected you to stay. Help me run, too. Please.
Ask me to stay.
And yet the Doctor, oblivious or simply cruel, said, “Better to go back while you’re a bit of a hero, eh?”
He wouldn’t call this heroics. But he took the Doctor’s hand anyway, and wished it were a kiss. Wished the Doctor would hold him, just one more time. Wished the Doctor would close some of the difference between them.
“Thank you for everything, Doctor.” It was woefully inadequate for who the Doctor was to him, what the Doctor had done to Turlough. Found him in ruins and reshaped him in his image. Held him when Turlough most needed to be held. Broke him in ways he didn’t know he could be broken, then help him climb back up. He made himself look away from the Doctor. He made himself look at the girl he’d rescued. “Look after him, won't you? He gets into the most terrible trouble.”
Then he turned before she could respond and left, unkissed. He waited for the Doctor to call after him, either for a proper goodbye or to ask him, just once, to stay.
The TARDIS dematerialised, and, despite the heat, Turlough felt terribly cold.