Making Amends

"We can, we can go together, just you and me. Just like the old days."

For a long time he had thought that the last few centuries had made him wiser, but now he only had to look into the eyes of his oldest friend and he remembered running hand in hand through the red grass of their home planet, an orange sky above. They could do it. They could go together.

"You'd be clapped in irons."

Strange emotion crossed her face.

He still vividly remembered the day she preferred death over the fate of being imprisoned with him. He remembered her dying in his arms, both of them still wearing different bodies.

"If you like."

He hadn't been lying. Not about the cuffs, at least. They weren't tight enough to truly hurt her and not long enough to severely restrain her movements, but yet they were too much of an inconvenience to ever entirely forget about their presence. There wasn't a moment where she wasn't conscious of the weight of cold metal around her wrists.

With one arm around her waist he lead her back into the Tardis, leaving behind the little Earthgirl she had gifted him. She was still staring after them, one arm still extended in his direction as if that could hold him back.

Goodbye Clara, my lovely Clara.

The plan had been a good one. Had he pulled the trigger of her little weapon, he would have been left with nothing but the coordinates to Gallifrey she made up. Coordinates which could only show him the void of space in the place where there home world used to be.

But he didn't kill her.

She could have told him she lied. Right then and there.

She could have told him the truth about how she escaped Rassilon and the Timelords and Gallifrey the moment they stepped over the threshold of the Tardis.

But she didn't.

She couldn't stop.

She had to keep playing her games with the Doctor, even knowing that there wasn't anything in it for her to win.

He raged. He screamed. He cried. He hit his bare hands against the console until sparks were flying and his knuckles were bleeding.

Telepathic waves of anger, of disappointment, of grief and of sheer desperation were radiating from the sobbing creature in front of her and she absorbed it all greedily.

She always knew how to hurt him. She could play him, like a finely tuned instrument and she always knew which strings to pull.

But then he looked up.

Looked at her.

-And the melody ended with a sharp discord as if someone had ripped the instrument from the player's hands.

His eyes were reddened, his blood-smeared hands were trembling and he was breathing heavily.

She wondered whether he'd shout. Whether he'd yell at her and blame her and only her. Maybe she could get him to beat her. Nothing would make him feel guilty like seeing her with a bruise or a burst lip for a few days.

But nothing happened.

Centuries had passed – but she could still read him.

He was looking her way – but not at her.

He was angry – but not with her.

He was disappointed – but not in her.

He was filled with hatred – but he didn't hate her.

"Doctor…" She started, but he only shook his head.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, still staring at her with wide eyes, but then suddenly he was staggering. His knees faltered beneath him and he was stumbling to the ground. He went down like a puppet that had its strings cut, falling down hardly onto the bottom of the stairs leading up to the gallery above.

She expected him to stand right back up again, to keep on shouting and raging and crying – but he didn't.

All fire was gone from his eyes.

"I had to lie." In her own ears it almost sounded like an apology, and she hated that. "You should have seen our face, when you opened these doors and there was nothing. Such a pity I forgot to take a picture, really."

There was no reaction to her words, as if he hadn't even heard her.

She kept going.

"You know. Your little friend. Clara. Clara Oswald. You didn't deserve her. You didn't deserve any of them. They are always there for you to show them the big, wide world out here. And it always ends in tears and blood and pain and in the end you're alone again, always looking for the next stray. You're ruining one after the other."

Still, he didn't even blink.

"Where has she gone – Martha Jones? The girl who walked the Earth, day after day, only to spread your word? Gone. Donna Noble? Forgot. And I know about Manhattan too. I watched you all this time – you and your lovely little Ponds and the dear Professor River Song. I considered killing her, obviously – but I found couldn't. She was already dead, from the moment you first laid eyes upon her. She was dead all this time and it was your fault."

She almost thought she'd seen some expression cross the Doctor's face- only one traitorous twitch, maybe? But maybe she'd just imagined it, because when she studied him closer, he was as still and motionless as a statue.

She crossed her arms.

"Get a grip. You knew I'd only lie to to you."

No response.

She discovered the sonic screwdriver happy rolling past her feet on its way to the edge of the platform, but she broke its way with the tip of her boot before picking it up.

Holding up the screwdriver, she jangled her chains in front of his face auspiciously, batting her eyes at him.

"I could just free myself, if don't stop me now, my love…~and who knows what I'd do next~…" The last part had turned into a light singsong, but it still failed to catch his attention.

He was still looking through her, as if she wasn't even there.

She reconsidered for a moment.

Then she let the screwdriver slide into her pocket.

"Or I don't. This is…fun. In a way." She jangled the chains some more and raised the gleaming links up to eyelevel. "We could have so much fun, my dear Doctor…"

Still nothing.

"But when have you ever been one for fun?"

With those words she announced her retreat, leaving him behind in the console room. If he wanted to mope, she wouldn't stop him.

The Tardis had been redecorated, since she'd last been in here. Back then, with Lucy by her side, she'd been the Lord and Master of the Doctor's favourite planet and had turned his beloved spaceship into a paradox machine. The Tardis didn't seem to have forgotten about any of that either, because apart from a telepathic aura of general displeasure, she seemed very intent on changing her inner lay-out wherever the Time Lady went.

Old hag.

A whole day had passed, and for all she knew the Doctor hadn't moved once from that spot. He didn't eat, he didn't sleep, he didn't drink. Instead he was still huddling up on the stairs like some very angry owl. Meanwhile she had caused some (more) chaos inside the private rooms aboard the Tardis and nicked a few things here and there.

She wasn't sure whether his companions were in a habit of leaving behind some of their clothes when they left or whether the Doctor was preparing for a female incarnation himself, but she found a very nice pair of boots her size, a Victorian dress, a funny brooch shaped like a cat, a little vanity case that looked either Chinese or Venusian (she could never really tell) and a pair of round-rimmed glasses. All of which she started hoarding in the room she had claimed for herself.
It was the largest bedroom she had found so far, but in the end it had been the giant bed that convinced her that this was the right place for the Queen of Evil to reside.

For some reason she found a police uniform as well as an ancient Roman armour in the cupboard.

Curious. Although eventually she deemed that riddle not worthy of further pursue and so she instead inspected the library, the park, the theatre and she even broke the Doctor's Flappy Bird record.

Sometimes she tried talking to him. She told him her own little stories of her travels through space and time.

She told him of planets she burnt, of fields covered in the ashes of the dead and the feeling of naked bones breaking beneath her feet.

She waited to see the spark of anger in his eyes and for him to clench his fist.

But there was no spark. And no fist.

She told him other things as well.

She told him of her time on Kynamox IV in the Yellow Galaxy, where she had lived for several decades.

She told him of her friendship with Tolstoi, who always appreciated the conversations he had with her twelfth incarnation.

She told him of the markets of Pyamos II and that wonderful restaurant, of which she had long since forgotten the coordinates, unfortunately. She only knew it was somewhere on an asteroid near the Belt Of Orion and that it served the most tender Sch'g'schmag meat and a tea that reminded everyone who drank of it of their home.

He didn't eat.

But what if he was hungry?

She couldn't tell whether what she was feeling was guilt, but when she prepared dinner for herself the second day in a row, she fetched a bag of jelly babies from the shelf, returned to the console room and tossed it into his general direction.

Then, she left.

He didn't touch the jelly babies.

So she retrieved the bag once again and took it back with her.

Then she decided to make him an omelette, but had to remind herself to wait until it was finally cold, before bringing the plate to him.

When he didn't touch it, she looked up that old recipe for a soup with Xyramonan glass noodles she knew he liked, for reasons that eluded her. When he didn't react to that offer, she ate it on her own, in front of him, savouring each bite. After that she went to rinse out her mouth.

She threatened him with all kinds of things she would do if he further refused to eat. She'd lay fire to his dressing room. Or the library. She'd erase all of his friends from reality. She would stop eating herself. She would, she would, she would. She was creative.

Eventually she settled for chucking several plates full of food out of the door into space and then some more food from the kitchen and then some from the supply rooms. Suddenly, they were out of food. So she went back to her own business. As easy as that could ever be, with one unusually tight-lipped Time Lord always on her mind.

"…And then of course there was sweet little Osgood. I enjoyed killing her, you know? Much more fun than Seb. I liked Seb…but he was a bit dull. But Osgood? For some reason there are people who say there is no satisfaction in crushing a bug, but they are lying. I told her, I'd kill her. I even gave her a helpful little count-down. Time for her to prepare, you understand? She even tried to negotiate, that little ape. Really negotiated with me, she did. Of course that didn't help much."

She plunked down onto the stairs next to him and took her own weapon from the pocket of his coat. He didn't stop her. So she leaned against him, wrapping one arm around his neck, like she had done with Osgood, only slightly impeded by the chains around her wrists.

"Just…Pop!...and she was gone…but you knew the best thing of all? I could feel her thoughts, I could hear her thoughts. She was so sure you'd come to save her. She waited for the Doctor to come and to protect and to take her with him in his Tardis like he promised. Like she dreamed for her whole dreary life."

Her finger was resting on the trigger, but for once she wasn't sure what to do.

When he didn't react, she let her hand drop.

By now she had noticed that she could walk through the corridors and hallways of the Tardis almost unimpededly. Apparently the time machine was more concerned with her Time Lord than the intruder he had brought aboard with him.

She was looking through the things of his companions. There was Susan's room. Oh, she remembered Susan. She had always liked Susan, back on Gallifrey. A smart child, very similar to her grandfather in many ways and yet very different in even more.

She found the room Nyssa and Tegan had once shared. Tegan whose aunt she had killed and Nyssa whose planet she had destroyed and whose father she had killed.

There was the room of that legendary Rose Tyler of whom both Jack and the Doctor had liked to talk. But that had been two bodies ago, for both of them.

In some rooms she nicked a few things, most of them she left untouched.

Again, she was sitting next to him. Motionless like him. Silent like him. Her eyes were pressed shut.

She had almost stopped breathing.

The drums were long gone from her mind, but now she felt even more restless and every second passing in silence made her even more fidgety. Insanity was crawling beneath her skin like ants and she felt the urge to run and run and run and talk and talk and talk. Sometimes she caught herself humming or reciting formulas or commenting on fantasies only happening in her own mind, in which she tortured and killed and bathed in the blood of innocent creatures.

Blood and bones and sinew and muscles and pain and bodies and death.

At some point she was the one being tortured, but it wasn't this body, it was an old body, the body of a white-haired man only clad in the remnants of a dark hoodie and he was being punished for the murder of the High President Rassilon and on Gallifrey no one was tortured, but here he was and they tortured him and every second lasted for an eternity. She was yelling and screaming in pain and she wanted a friend, her friend, her companion, her Doctor, her Theta and his arms which had always felt so safe.

She endured 47 minutes and 24 of sitting next to him, in silence.

She went to the library to scream.

She screamed and screamed and screamed.

She screamed until her throat hurt and she lost her voice.

And then she kept screaming.

When she came to herself, she was lying on the carpet in the library, whimpering and trembling and her throat hurt and her face was wet with tears. She didn't remember crying.

Pathetic.

As if in a trance she wandered down the corridors of the library, letting her fingers slide across the spines of the books.

She followed the labyrinth of shelves, so high she couldn't see whether they met the ceiling floating above her. The deeper she got, the thicker the layers of dust coating the books became, the lines where her fingers had slid across them the only sign they had been touched in the last few centuries. Entering the library there were works from all over time and space on display, but down here, collecting dust in silence and darkness were encyclopaedias, essays, stories and novels written in the language of the Time Lords. Some of them books, you'd find in the library of every Tardis – some handpicked by the Doctor to accompany him on his travels.

At the bottom of the library there was a round hall and in the middle of it a pedestal were you were expected to find an ancient and unbelievably dry tome called 'The Laws Of Rassilon' in every time capsule. She shuddered at the name of its author. It was the holy book of time travel, full of rules a Time Lord was never allowed to break.

There was no doubt that between the Doctor and her there was no rule left unbroken inside that book.

She expected to see what some might call the bible of the Time Lord's right here.

Only. It wasn't there.

Instead there was an old book with a wrinkled cover, its title written in Latin letters and German language.

"Die Märchen der Gebrüder Grimm."

"The Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm."

It was a book she knew.

She knew this book, specifically.

She hurried down to the pedestal to brush away the dust from its cover, keeping her own touch soft and tender, as if it might fall apart in her hands.

Carefully she opened the first page, finding the curved circles of Gallifreyan scripture right beneath the Latin letters.

"From Earth. I hope these stories will make you happy. Happy Birthday, Koschei."

Even as a child, the Doctor had always been different. There was a great number of people who couldn't stand him. But there was only one person he had called a friend and she always counted him as her only friend as well.

With her thumb she traced her old signature. Only a nickname, almost forgotten.

It had been Theta's twelfths birthday and they had celebrated in their room at the Academy, only the two of them. The last time they had snuck out at night, they had smuggled cheap wine and sweets back in from the city. The wine had been disgusting, the sweets hadn't and Theta had cried a little over his present and hugged Koschei and sometimes he'd be reading from the book, at night, when he thought no one was listening.

He always had troubles sleeping, that's what he told Koschei.

Koschei knew about his nightmares.

She closed the book again. She shouldn't have opened it. Now it was once again lying on its pedestal, but there was still the imprint of her hand left on its cover.

She had to leave this place.

Again, she was sitting next to him.

This time, she would hold out longer. That she swore.

She endured the fire of her insanity raging under her skin, trying to force her to move, to hurt, to speak, to hurt, to run, to hurt, hurt, hurt, hurt…

She endured the whisper of Rassilon's voice in her ear and the illusion of drums beating far away in the distance.

Behind her closed eyes she could see dead bodies, a planet burning. Her last, quick look up at two bright suns and an orange sky, clouded by an army of Dalek ships, before she was lead down to the dungeons.

She let them lead her down into the darkness, deeper and deeper.

She was sitting by his side, unmoving, while behind her eyes hell descended and memories long thought dead came back to life.

She saw herself, her hands chained to the wall, standing in a puddle of her own blood, warm and red.

She could make out a figure standing right in front of her, but she couldn't make out the face. There were fingers on her temples and the presence of another being invading her mind with brutal force. Her worst nightmares, her darkest, most painful memories, all her visions of horror and every sensation of physical pain, came to life and became truth.

She woke up from unconsciousness, again and again and finding new injuries, new fractures, new wounds every time.

The strokes of the whip had ripped her back open and her throat was hoarse from screaming.

Her own body was flickering and fading and craving for meat, meat, meat, but they gave her just enough energy to keep her alive.

She felt the handcuffs the Doctor had put on her more than ever, because now they were the same as the chains put on her on Gallifrey and now they were tight and short and painful with hooks cutting deep into her flesh and she was fighting them, she was struggling, ripping at them, trying to escape, screaming and kicking and squirming.

Now she whimpered and trembled.

She wanted to be free.

She had to be free.

A hand took hold of hers and the churning mess of her thoughts were suddenly orbiting around it, clearing up, ordering.

She opened her eyes to look at him.

She wasn't alone.

Not alone.

For once.

The touch was gentle and soft and she knew at once what it meant.

She knew she had failed. She had tried to stay with him and to share his silence, but she'd been too weak.

He didn't meet her gaze. He was looking down at his own hand, where it had reached out to hold hers.

He was so close.

Through their contact she could feel his sadness and longing. Longing for contact like this. His mind – warm and alive and lonely – was gently brushing hers.

The last of the Time Lords.

He could have pushed forward, could have plunged right into her mind – her shields had been left in ruins after her ordeal on Gallifrey and she knew it. But he didn't. Maybe he had felt her fear of such an invasion, now stronger than it had ever been before. Maybe he was too good. To decent.

She was careful around his presence in her mind. Keeping everything away from him that was important and yet she extended her own feelers to his mind, inspecting him, letting him in but only at her own pace.

He didn't hurt her.

His presence was almost…soothing around the sore wounds that were here destroyed shields and the painful trauma of the invasion of her mind.

When she opened her eyes, carefully balancing his presence in her mind, he still didn't move.

Her chin found its way onto his shoulder and she said something she hadn't said in a long time – and hadn't meant in a time even longer.

"I'm sorry." She said. And she repeated it. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She repeated it.

And repeated it.

She couldn't tell anymore what she felt sorry for. Lying about Gallifrey? The Cybermen? Osgood? Throwing the Brigadier's daughter out of a plane? The kiss?

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

"I'm sorry."

She repeated it.

Until finally she discovered the only thing she truly felt sorry for – and she let him feel it.

She was sorry that she was no longer Koschei.

"I'm sorry, Theta."

It was stupid. And childish. And there were so many worse things he could rightfully accuse her of. So many things she should feel sorry for but didn't. But this was what she felt sorry for.

She didn't see him turning his head until they eyes met and the grip on her hand became firmer.

Their minds were now closer than ever before, all lines blurring and she knew that now he too was inside her mind just like she was in his. She had to repress a short moment of panic at that realization.

She almost expected him push on. To go deeper.
But instead of plunging deeper, he lured her further into his mind, bringing forward memories.

His own memories.

Memories of them running through red grass, shouting at an orange sky. Memories of them sneaking out of the Academy at night, always looking for trouble they could get into. He shared the memories of long nights they had spent together in the mountains. His memories of cheap, sour wine and of the two of them sitting on Theta's bed, pushing the bottle into the other's hands, the whole duvet covered in sweets and there he was, unwrapping a book full of fairy tales from Earth.

"I'm sorry, Koschei."

And he showed her what he was asking forgiveness for.

For leaving her alone.

She had fallen asleep.

She couldn't tell when.

When she woke up, she was sitting upright on the stairs, her back propped against the rails. There was a pillow between her head and the railing behind her.

She was surrounded by the humming of the Tardis and for once she almost felt at home hearing it.

"Slept well?"

She looked up. The Doctor was standing on the gallery, back in an ironed shirt and coat and looked back down at her, as if nothing had happened. Pointedly she pulled out the pillow and threw it across the room. If she had shown any weakness yesterday, she attributed it to fatigue.

"I could ask you the same, my dear. Half a week in a vegetative state and here you are on your feet. That can't be healthy."

"There is nothing better to revive the senses."

She didn't dignify that with an answer. Instead she pulled herself up onto her feet and climbed up the stairs herself.

"Tea?" He asked and pointed to the little tabling standing next to his armchair. Two steaming cups were standing next a jug and a little bowl of sugar on whose lid a naked angel was lolling about.

"You call that a breakfast?"

"It seems that someone had a little tantrum and chucked all our food supplies into open space."

"I told you to eat. When I tell you what to do – you better do it."

She almost caught him cracking a smile, but instead he stepped forward and extended a hand.

"Give it back."

"What?" She batted her eyes at him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

With a dramatic sigh he retrieved a longish silver something from her pocket and held it up.

His sonic screwdriver.

"It was worth the try."

This time he did smile, but it went as fast as it had appeared.

"We're the only of our kind."

"We always have been, my love."

That was the truth.

He let his screwdriver snap open and for one moment its buzzing became louder. She stared at the glowing tip.

Then, with a snapping sound and then a thud her handcuffs dropped from her arms to the floor- and they both looked down at them for a moment.

She was the first to look back up. Making a point to step right over them, she picked up one of the cups from the little table and took a sip.

It was warm and sweet and terribly familiar. If only she knew where from.

"What is this?" She was sure that taste reminded her of something.

"I don't know." He answered absentmindedly. "By the way, have you ever been to Barcelona? Because I haven't in a while."

"I've been there. Reigned the damned planet for three centuries."

"What happened? Toppled?"

"No, abdicated. Vacation at the seaside was never my kind of thing."

"Well then, let's go."

"Where to?"

"Everywhere."

"Everywhere?"

"Everywhere, except Barcelona."

She smiled at that, when he wasn't looking.

When he turned around, she hid her smirk behind another sip of tea.

Only to recognize that familiar taste from her visit to a small restaurant at Orion's Belt.

Strangely, it reminded her of him.