Burning.

Burning. Burning. Burning. Burning.

Why is he burning? Has he been seared or lit on fire? No. No fire. That's happened to him before and it didn't feel like this. This is a different burning. It's deep and aching, a thousand repeating pin pricks sinking into his flesh and running through his veins. It's the type of burning that settles in your joints and digs at your lungs and heart, pulling and shredding in an effort to remove them from your chest.

Cold.

That's what this is. This type of burning is because of cold. Why is he cold? Why is he…? Oh. Right. That's right. Outside. He's outside and in naught but the flimsy covering of his cheap polyester dress pants. Rassilon, he hates cheap clothes. Hates them. But why is he outside in nothing but trousers? And why does his throat burn? His chest? His eyes? Why…?

Oh.

Samantha.

Bond.

Drums.

Right.

His heartbeat. They were his bloody heartbeat. His bloody, fucking heartbeat. His own heart. They used the sound of his own heart to drive him mad. No wonder he couldn't escape it. It was obvious, so obvious now that she – a mere human – had pointed it out. The heartbeat of a Time Lord – a unique sound in the expanse of space and time. Especially because the Time War had rendered the presence of Time Lords outside of the Time Lock rare. Add in that they must have tagged him, enhanced it… he'd not just been a flashing advertisement his entire life, but a sitting duck. He'd been easy to find, easy to form a psychic link with – broadcasting his every location loud and clear. Why hadn't he considered it before? Why had it never crossed his mind?

Because even to him it was an idea too cruel to contemplate. It crossed a line: a line he didn't even know he possessed. But it did. And it made everything so much worse.

They had not merely burnt him up and wiped him out, but they had used who and what he was to do it.

He blinks and blinks again, feeling the cold slide of liquid down frozen cheeks and drop in a gentle patter to shivering of his flesh. Raw. That's the word he's looking for. Raw. And not just from screaming. It's like he's been flayed, both inside and out. He's raw and broken and crying, kneeling in the snow.

There. Her apartment is just there. He can see the strange pastel salmon of the door if he turns his head just a fraction of an inch. Couldn't go more than a dozen feet from her front door before collapsing in the snow.

Snow. That's why his knees hurt. He's kneeling in snow.

No wonder his trousers are damp.

Weak. He's so pathetically weak. And selfish. Such a selfish bastard. Even now, after all he's done he can't make himself leave her.

He can hear the unmistakable sounds of her crying. They're fading now, weakening as a hoarseness crowds her voice. He can smell the tang and salt of her tears, taste them across the back of his tongue.

Damn superior physiology.

Unacceptable. It's unacceptable. Her crying is absolutely unacceptable.

But it's his fault. He did that. Him. All him. He destroys everything he touches, and he's touched her. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why did he touch her? Take her? Bind her? By all that had ever been considered holy why had he done that to her?

A strangled, sobbing laugh echoed out of his chest.

He knew why. He'd always known why. He'd known as soon as he heard his name.

Selfish. He is a selfish bastard. After all the miserable years of his existence he'd found something – someone – that had taken away the pain, that had soothed the frayed and aching wounds of what he had become. She is the first person to ever treat him like… like he means something, for no other reason than that he is himself. She cares for him, she… he swallows harshly, remembering her own words… wanted him just for him. Not because he could save a race of pompous, doomed idiots. Not because he was another living Time Lord. But just because.

She'd given him a weekend of peace. Nearly two days of quiet and caring. It was a precious gift. Sacred, even. And something that he had in no way deserved. He should have taken it and run, run like he planned. He should have held it in his hands and cherished it, holding it tight for the remainder of his days.

But he should have never come back.

He should have stayed away. Should have thrown himself in front of a bus. Jumped out of an airplane without a parachute. Put a bullet to his head. Repeatedly. He'd have run out of lives eventually. Anything, anything to prevent this. A thousand deaths, yes, he'd die a thousand deaths if it would save him from this. From the sound of his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears. From the taste of her sorrow running down his throat.

But he had come back and he had bound her.

Lost in the throes of passion, in the sensations of peace and possession and want he'd just taken, taken and bound her in the only way he knew. Desperate to keep her forever, or for as long as he could. Until he managed to destroy them both.

Sooner rather than later, it seems.

Such a selfish bastard.

Why can't he just die?

The one thing of the ape's that he'd always envied was their fleeting and singular existence. Once and done. No do overs, no take backs, no second chances.

Oh, Rassilon, it always came back to that, didn't it? The curse of the Time Lords. The ability to keep on ticking even when you didn't want to be kicking.

Well, fuck this. He'll die eventually.

Of course, his resurrection had been botched. He should have died confronting Rassilon. Truly died. There shouldn't have been a regeneration. But there had been so he had to assume, unfortunately that there'd be more. Eleven more. At most.

Eleven.

He can manage to die eleven more times. It can't get much worse than this, surely.

Of course, that's what he'd said before and look where he was now.

"God damn it, you idiot, you're going to freeze to death."

He jumps a little, scrambling about in the inches of wet, heavy snow as a buttery soft, fuzzy, warm weight drops over his shoulders. He's slipping. He's weak. He didn't even hear her coming. Didn't realize that she'd left her bedroom, let alone the apartment. How long has he been out here? Unconsciously one hand reaches upwards, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders even as he replies shortly, "I will not freeze to death." Because that would be too easy. Damn his Time Lord biology.

"Stop being an ass," she mutters. "I can feel how cold you are. It's an ache in the back of my head that won't go away."

He winces. He did that. He connected her to his pain. To his madness. To his…

"Don't," she adds, more softly, reaching out to touch him but stopping, her hand just inches from his head. It would be so easily to lean into it, to let those fingers run through his hair and drag against his scalp. He wants to. The newly bonded male is screaming out for touch, for contact. If he didn't have centuries of practice trying to drown out the drums the noise would have been deafening. It would have overwhelmed him completely and drove him to madness.

Lucky for him, he's already there.

Still, it's something that he wants, wants it so bad that it hurts. He resists it, grinding his teeth to keep his head still, his neck ramrod straight, his eyes focusing on the multi-color twinkle of lights in a window across the courtyard.

"Idiot," she murmurs under her breath. "It's a fucking miracle the neighbors haven't called the police with you out here acting like a crazy person." Neighbors. He forgot about the neighbors. Maybe they should be calling the police. He is a crazy person, after all. The worst type of crazy person. They'd take him away. They'd do what he can't and they'd take him from her. Maybe they should call the police. Of course, they'd just be apes and getting away from apes would be easy. Messy, probably, but easy. "I'm sorry," she adds after a moment.

Sorry. She is sorry. Why is she sorry? What could she possibly have to be sorry for? It should be him apologizing, begging on his knees. He's even halfway there already. All he has to do is open out his mouth and let the sorrow and guilt pour out.

But she says she is sorry.

The swearing. Is she apologizing for the swearing again? He should really mention that he doesn't mind. Except then she'll stop saying sorry, and that's one less word she'll speak. But he hates that she feels the need to apologize. She has nothing to apologize for. He's the monster.

"Why?" he croaks, staring at the snow.

"Because I hurt you," he looks up in time to see her finger twitch, crooking towards his scalp. Instead of touching him, though, her hand drops and curls into a fist at her side, clenching around the excess fabric of purple pants decorated with the image of dancing frogs.

He blinks. Something is not right. Not right at all.

She is apologizing for hurting him? That is…he shakes his head and digs his fingers into the snow. It feels warm against his skin. Warm. Snow shouldn't feel warm, should it? "You didn't."

She arches an eyebrow, rubbing her free hand up and down her sweatshirt clad arm. "Yes, I did," she repeats quietly, shuffling her feet and staring at her toes. "I could see it. I could feel it." She sighs. "Just like I can feel it now. Feel how confused you are. The hate. The sadness. The snow feels warm to you but you don't worry because you think you deserve it. Because you think you've committed some unpardonable sin."

"I have. I've bonded you without your consent. It was a serious crime on Gallifrey."

"Serious, huh?" she repeats, lip twitching ever so slightly. Entertained? No. Happy? No. Amused…is she amused? Maybe. It feels like amusement. "Lock you up and throw away the key?"

"Death," he corrects solemnly.

Her eyebrows shoot to her hairline. "Seems a bit overkill."

"Not for this. Not for eternal rape."

She snorts, nose wrinkling. "Trust me," she mutters, soft but sure, "whatever happened between us last night there was no rape involved. He can feel her staring but he ignores her, staring steadfastly into the air before him. She doesn't understand. She can't understand. She's just a human. She's just…

He both flinches away and leans into her as her fingers hesitantly touch the back of his head, a snort of disbelief rumbling in the back of his throat. It feels so good he could weep and he nearly does, several beads of liquid traveling down the frozen expanse of his skin before he can muster enough control to stop them.

"Did you mean it?" she asks quietly, fingers curling around the short spikes of his hair. "When you said I was the only thing that made the drumming go away?"

He shuts his eyes. Of course he meant it. He's never been so truthful about anything in his life. He's terrified that she knows, knows his weakness and that it is her. Because she'll send him away. Of course she will. She's human. The bond won't mean quite the same thing to her. She's strong. She'll move past it eventually, provided he fails to kill himself – again, and move on with her life. And he'll be stuck, wherever he is, with all the pain he deserves.

Still, right now, he can deny her nothing.

"Yes," he answers dully, waiting. "Your voice - most beautiful sound I've ever heard," he whispers. "It dulls it." She'll send him away now. Oh, she'll apologize first because that's the type of being she is, but she'll still ask him to go. And he'll go, because what other choice does he have?

She's nodding her head, as if he just said something expected. "Come back in," she tells him and it's not a request. "You're freezing and I'm in nothing but pajamas. We need to talk and that'll be easier when we're warm."

With a gentle tug on his hair she releases his hair and holds her hand out to him. He stares, blinking, for an embarrassingly long period of time – two minutes, eleven seconds – before it occurs that she's offering him a hand up. Then her words sink in. He stares at her, disbelieving, for another embarrassingly long period of time – one minute, forty-three seconds – but she doesn't waver.

Why?

Why? Why? Why? Why?

He doesn't understand. It makes no sense. It…

He takes her hand and staggers to his feet. She's right, he realizes, he's cold. And his knees hurt. And he can't feel his feet.

"Come on," she urges with a gentle tug on his hand. He goes. Of course he goes, because he's weak.

So fucking weak.

He's losing a staring contest with a cat. Over a piece of bacon. He's a Time Lord, damn it, albeit a failed one. He's above this. And even if he's not, he's from some of the most evolved stock in existence, he should be winning. It's his bacon. His. This shouldn't even be a matter of contention.

But it is and he's pretty sure he's losing.

Figures.

Spartacus, green eyes unblinking, eases a velvet paw up on to the table and rests it inches from the solitary slice of bacon.

This is ridiculous. He should just pick up the bacon. He's got hands – with thumbs – and is at least fifteen times the feline's size. He just needs to pick it up and pop it in his mouth. Game over. He wins.

But that's now how this game works.

So he meets the innocent green gaze and doesn't blink.

"Oh for the love of God," Sam mutters and both Time Lord and feline make noises of protest as she plucks the bacon from the plate between them and drops it in his hands. "Spartacus, get down. Don't give me that look. You've been fed. Get." The cat's ears twitch and he blinks: long and slow and innocent before he hops down from the chair, bushy tail held high as he marches away the victor. At his shoulder Sam stifles a chuckle. "Silly little snot," it takes him a moment to realize that she's talking about the cat and not about him, "You can't get sucked in to his games. He's a cat. They don't lose. Beasts." She sinks back into her chair and pushes the steaming mug towards him; its dark brown surface swirled with cream. He takes it gratefully, wrapping his long fingers around the shiny white ceramic. "You've stopped shivering, that's good."

He had stopped shivering. The blankets she'd wrapped him in, after making him strip off his wet trousers, had done a lot to help. The hot food and multiple cups of the peppermint hot chocolate that she stocked had done the rest. Her tea collection is abysmal, but the hot cocoa isn't awful so he's not complaining. "I suppose," he acknowledges, unwilling to leave her hanging.

"Course it is," she says, sipping at her drink. "Get you a hot shower and into fresh from the dryer clothes and you'll be ready to brave the elements again." Ah. There it is. Of course she wouldn't just send him away. Not cold and hungry and… whatever. "We'll need to head to the mall and go shopping. God, that's going to be a nightmare. Can't be helped, though, because I doubt you have a wardrobe full of clothes wherever you're staying?" She's looking at him expectantly. Oh. She's still talking. To him. Not just talking… asking. Shit, what did she ask?

Her lips twitch. "I asked you if you had any clothes besides the suit you were wearing yesterday."

He blinks again. She's asking about his… clothes. Why is she asking about his clothes? "No," he responds slowly. "Just the things I was wearing when I left last week."

She sighs. "Definitely the mall then, and on Christmas Eve. That's going to be fun."

He's staring. Staring. Staring. Staring. Staring. He can't help it. He doesn't… he doesn't understand what's happening here. "You're going to need clothes. Hence, shopping. Think of it as my Christmas present to you."

"Why?"

Sam settles back into her chair and brushes the wayward strands of hair from her face. "Can you not feel what's going through my head?" she asks, tipping her head to stare at him, brow furrowed. "Is that not how the link between us works? Because I can feel you: your thoughts, your emotions; I can tell if you're cold or hungry or hurt. Hell, if I focus hard enough I can even hear the train of your thoughts."

"No…" he finally manages to say. "That's exactly how it works." He just didn't think it would work that way for her, after all. She is…

"Not as advanced?" she broke in, clearly putting her new found skills to use. She shrugs. "Scientists are always saying that we only use like… ten percent of our brains. Maybe the link has activated more of it…?" she shrugs. "Either way, this thing," she motions between them, "what you did with your name and the whole married bit, that's for forever, right? Or at least until one of us dies?" she corrects, reading the shadow of a thought that flit across his face. He nods slowly. "What happens if we ignore it?"

Ignore it.

Oh, if things were that easy he wouldn't hate himself quite so much.

"It… it'll always be there," he explains, clearing his throat. "I… I won't hold you to it. I'll just…"

"What happens?" she repeats, iron in her voice.

He sighs and swallows. She's going to hate him. Hate him. Hate him. Hate him. Hate him. "Like you have discovered it… connects us. It also binds us. It will… it will…" he shuts his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath, respiratory bypass kicking in. "It will be painful, physically painful for you if I… interact… with someone else. If I am unfaithful to the bond." He can't look at her. Can't.

"And if I were to be with someone else? It would be the same thing, wouldn't it? It would hurt you." It's not a question but he nods anyway. Through the bond he can feel her mirror his motion, though hers is more reflective than jerking. "So that's where we are then. Whether you meant to or not you've bound me into this… marriage. But… and I'm guessing here… that I reciprocated somehow. Because I don't think just hearing your name would entwine me so deeply into this. If I hated you, or thought you were a jerk, I'd toss you out in the snow and let you suffer but I don't and you're not."

He snorts and looks at her, caught by the ridiculous untruth of her statement, and freezes the moment those calm gray eyes lock onto his. She's giving him that look again, the look that can see right through him. Except now he doesn't just think that she can sift through and study all of his secrets, he knows that she can and he remains perfectly still, waiting for the greater brush of her consciousness against his own. It doesn't come. Instead, she simply sits and stares at him.

"Matt."

His name but not his name. The way she says it breaks something in his chest. Everyone should have someone to say their name like that. Like it's important – perhaps the most important name in the world, like the body that belongs to that name is precious. He doesn't think he's ever had someone say his name that way. And it's not even his name.

What?! He cries out silently, unable to make his lips move.

"I… I don't think you trust easily, or at all, but you married me – or at least whatever it is about me that that helps you. If your name is as dangerous as you say it is…"

It is.

She nods. "… Then I do not think that is something you would do recklessly."

You know so little about me. I've done a lot of reckless things. It should frighten him how easy it is to speak to her like this, mind to mind, but it doesn't. All he feels is relief that he doesn't have to open his mouth and somehow get the words to work their way from his brain and out across his tongue. My lives have been spent doing reckless, meaningless things.

"I believe you," she agrees, sliding a hand across the table to touch the fingers clutching at the mug. He doesn't flinch this time, lost between his own thoughts and the sound of her voice "But I don't think this was one of them. There was too much at stake, even for you." She presses her fingers into his, squeezing them gently. "I'm not explaining myself very well. Probably because this is so damn awkward." He can't help but smile, just a little, at that. At the way she says it. Like it's no big deal. Like he's accidentally left his fly undone during an important presentation. "And this… relationships aren't really my thing. I suck at them. I… people are too confusing. Look," she announces more firmly, nodding her head in reinforcement, "what I'm trying to get at here is I think this bond thing deserves for us to give it a chance."

It is said in a rush, all the words jumbling together. Even with his superior hearing he still would have had issues understanding her statement were it not repeated mentally and followed up by a vehement: Jesus, I just said that out loud. Couldn't do it all smooth like you practiced. Nope. You had to bumble in there like an idiot and make it make as little sense as possible. Smooth moves, Sam. Smooth fucking moves, he likely would have been forced to ask her to repeat it. Instead he feels his mouth drop open because she can't be serious. Surely.

She can't want him to stay.

No one in their right mind would want him. That's it, isn't it? The madness has spread already. He's simply overwhelmed her consciousness and destroyed her. She's gone already. She's…

"Stop being ridiculous," she snaps without venom. "You're not nearly as mad as you think you are. I've been inside your head and what's there… it's terrible, awful, and… god, I keep coming back to broken but it's true. It's broken. You're broken, but not past repair."

He laughs, harsh and broken like shattered glass. "You think you can fix me?" he bites out between barks of laughter. Fix him? That… there is nothing left to fix. He is nothing. There is nothing left of him. Nothing to glue back together, no puzzle pieces to shove back into place. He's a shell of a body with a heartbeat and a broken mind. Nothing more.

She strokes his hand: soft soothing draws of her fingertips across his shaking flesh as the laughter inevitably devolved into gasping, broken, tearless sobs. "No," she says softly as she reaches across with her other hand and draws it through his hair and down the line of his face, cradling his jaw in the curve of her palm. "I don't think I can fix you. But I do think that I can help you. There's no therapist, that I know of anyway, that would be able to handle hearing about your problems, let alone helping you resolve them. And I'm not a therapist, I have no illusions on that point, but if I give you peace. If I make it quiet…" she shrugs. "Maybe all you need to start out is quiet and someone to hold your hand."

"Why?" he begs, turning his face into the curve of hand so that he can stare at her, well aware that all the crazy is looking too, looking at this woman that is talking of giving him a chance. "I have done nothing but cause damage and you have done nothing but try to make it better… why would you do such a thing?" For me, goes unsaid, but he knows that he has thought it loud enough for her to hear it as surely as if he had spoken it.

"Because you deserve it," she answers readily. "For however long people have been doing things to you and using you and you've done nothing but wander. You deserve some quiet. It's time for you to rest, I think."

Time for him to… Rest. Rest. Rest. Rest.

It's not something he's ever considered before. It's not something that has ever been possible. There's never been any escape. If he takes her up on her offer, though, if he stays – and he really, truly shouldn't – there would be quiet. He would have peace. He would be able to rest. "But what about you?" he asks quietly, scrambling, because it's too tempting. He wants to grab it, hold it, clutch it to him body, mind, and soul and never let go. "What about your life?"

Dismissively, she shrugs. "What life? Five days a week I go from home to work and then back home again. On weekends I do some shopping, my laundry, and usually eat a disturbing amount of cookie dough while snuggling with my cat. I talk to my mom once a week, my dad about twice a month. My only sister is dead. I go out occasionally with Mary. When I'm really bored I treat myself and go see a play or a movie. That's it. There's nothing you'll be interrupting," she tells him firmly, finally letting her hand fall from his face as she continues to stroke his hand, calming him. "Besides," she adds around the mug she's lifted to her lips, "it would give me a lovely excuse to stop dating. I hate dating. I'm absolute shit at it. And my mom will throw a fit that I'm 'living in sin' even though she'll secretly be thrilled that I have a boyfriend and that I'm not in a polyamorous relationship with Mary and Andrew."

"Only if you want, though," she adds quickly, a flash of… warm and terrifying and… what is that? Embarrassment? Yes. She's… embarrassed. Why is she…? He tips his head and studies her, watches the faint tint of color highlight the line of her cheekbones as she continues in a rush. "I mean, just because last night… it doesn't mean we have to keep…I don't want to overwhelm you. We can get a bigger apartment and just be roommates. Between the two of us we could afford it. And I'd keep my clothes on. Promise."

Oh. Oh.

She thinks… still thinks, apparently… that she is to blame for last night. That she forced him into something he didn't want. "That would be… tragic," he replies quietly, even as she states, "Just… whatever it is you want."

He smiles, grabbing on to the slightly different change of conversation course and gripping it for all he is worth. It gives him a modicum of control again, something solid to hold to in the midst of everything else he is feeling. Purposefully he dwells on his state of mind last night: on the disbelief that she would let him do this to her, on the thrill that rushed through him at being allowed to touch her, on the pure, unadulterated want that had consumed him, and watches the curve of her cheeks turn scarlet with emotion.

"Well then," she manages to murmur, ducking her head so that she's staring at the tabletop as she bites at her own lip. "I guess that answers that. We'll swing by the hotel and get your stuff while we're out shopping, alright?"

"Alright," he rumbles, because what else is he going to say?

Whatever it is you want.

Well, he's a selfish bastard. He might pretend at chivalry, at doing the right thing, but deep down he knows that whatever the cost, whatever the price it's something he'll pay. He wants quiet. He wants rest. He wants her.

And she wants him. He feels it, bubbling beneath the restraint she has slapped over it so that it doesn't bleed over into his head. It's a decent attempt, but she's human and new to this – it's a miracle that she is even aware of the link, let alone able to use it or manipulate what travels through. So despite the fact that she's trying to hide it he can feel that she wants him to stay, that she missed him when he was gone.

He's never been missed before.

So he picks up her hand, ghosts a kiss over her knuckles, and gives in.

"I have a theory about the… drumming… in your head," Samantha announces several hours later, the soft sound of her voice – like bells and the gentle fall of running water – startles him from the near catatonic state he has retreated into. A nightmare, she had called the idea of shopping today, and she had been right. Christmas Eve, she'd explained as they braved the first store, when the entire world panics and rushes out to do all the present buying that they've been putting off.

Not worth it, he'd muttered, clutching at the hand she'd slipped into his own.

You've got sweats and a suit, she'd pointed out dryly. You need more clothes. Don't worry. Everyone is mostly here for toys, jewelry, and electronics. It'll be less crowded in the clothing sections. And it had been, but when the main shop was half a step away from a full on stampede less was all very relative. It'd been a madhouse in there. Still, he'd managed to hold it together long enough to pick up more business appropriate attire and some things that were more casual. Casual had never been his cup of tea but after watching Sam's pupils dilate as he transferred a particular pair of dark washed denim trousers and soft deep blue sweater into the keep pile it's an idea that he's certainly more open to.

They'd even stopped to cash his first week's pay, the check thankfully kept safe over the course of the last eighteen hours by virtue of its location in the pocket of his suit jacket. Sam wouldn't let him pay for any of the clothes so he bought himself an assortment of teas and insisted on paying for the bag of Chinese take-out currently sitting on the floor between his feet.

Save for the unfortunate Little Drummer Boy incident inside the second shop that had sent him into a minor panic attack the afternoon had been immensely satisfying. The overwhelming of his physical senses combined with Sam's presence, her fingers laced through his, had dulled the beating of his heart to manageable levels and let him forget, just for a moment, who and what he was.

Now, though… "What is it?" he asks hoarsely when she doesn't continue, instead choosing to stare out the windshield at the busy streets, fingers tapping the steering wheel nervously. At the next stop light she spares him a glance, grey eyes worried, a sudden reluctance weighing on her mind. "Samantha?"

"Sorry," she mutters. "It's a bad idea. I don't want to make it worse. I don't… I don't want to just say something and, even meaning well, make you hurt more."

It baffles him that she cares. She has no reason to care. He's just a random, crazy stranger she pulled in out of the cold. But she does care. She's always shown care for him, even before he was conscious of her existence. So he smiles at her, ever so slightly, "I'm fairly certain that things can't get worse for me," he says, knowing it's a poor attempt at reassurance, but that it's all he's got. The look she gives him lets him know that she didn't find his words encouraging in the slightest. He sighs. "Besides," he adds gently, still watching her, "It will leak over eventually. Probably as soon as you go to sleep tonight and relax."

She scowls.

"Damn it. You're going to have to teach me how to stop my brain from doing that. If it's possible, that is. And…" she winces and shoots another glance at him. "If it's not offensive or painful or…"

"I can teach you," he interjects, "Or try to. I don't know how well it will work with you being human."

She nods and the car falls silent.

He shifts slightly in his seat, stretching his legs out on either side of the take-out containers, and leans against the window. It's nearly dark now and brightly colored lights are popping into existence all around them, splashing the snow with a rainbow of shadows and turning the dirty brown mush and frozen gray heaps into a white crystal-kissed landscape.

There he goes. Getting all poetic again.

"When you were talking this morning, telling me about what was done to you, I… saw it. Felt it. I could hear it. It was like living it with you in bits and pieces." He winces at that. Even though he knew it was happening, was aware that between his distress and the newness of their bond that his memories and emotions were bleeding over into her head in an avalanche of sensations. He's not sure he could have stopped it even if he'd had the presence of mind to try. "When you were there, with… Rassilon? And the Doctor?" she looks to him and he nods assurance that she got the names right. "I felt the link break. Between you and…" She motions vaguely at the sky.

"Gallifrey."

"…Gallifrey. Like a great weight suddenly shorn off your chest. No. Like being held taunt at the end of a line and suddenly being cut free," she corrects with a nod, pleased that she's managed to describe the feeling. "It was destroyed and theoretically the drums in your head were destroyed along with it. Except you can still hear them. But they're different, now, aren't they?"

She waits; waits until he nods. She isn't looking at him but he knows that she can feel the nod through the bond. She nods too, like he has confirmed something important. "I think it's your heart," she finally states.

Nervous.

Nervous. Nervous. Nervous. Nervous.

She smells nervous: a stale, musty smell edging past the cinnamon and iron and salt to tickle at his nostrils. He doesn't like it.

She doesn't turn the car off after pulling into the parking spot near her apartment building. Instead she removes her seatbelt and turns to face him, tucking one leg beneath the other. She wants to be able to watch him closely, to give him her full attention. She doesn't want to provoke a reaction like this morning. She doesn't want to watch him walk away. His eyes widen at that and unconsciously he reaches out, blindly grabbing for one of the hands cradled loosely in her lap. "You've already mentioned that," he says lightly, trying to drive away some of the tension. He doesn't like it. Doesn't like what it does to her. Doesn't like what seeing her nervous, or tense, or afraid does to him.

"No," she shakes her head, "I mean just your heart. Your heart. Nothing else. No beacon. No amplification. No… nothing. I think," Sam continues more hesitantly, stroking his hand between her own. "I think that you've lived with it, with that sound, for so long – that it is such a part of who you are, of your mental and physical being - that it has given you a keen awareness of it. That it has, quite literally, given you the ability to hear your own heartbeat. Hell, I wonder if we stuck you in a room with… the Doctor?" he nods, a smile tugging at her lips at the small flush of pleasure that runs through her at being correct. "I wonder if you would be able to hear his heartbeat as well."

Oh, Rassilon.

She could be right. She probably is right. It makes a twisted sort of sense. Like Stockholm Syndrome.

Except, if she's right, then it's all him. Just him.

Him. Him. Him. Him.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, squeezing his hand. He can feel the regret, her regret, thick and heavy like oil upon the surface of the water. Flowing and staining and leaking into everything.

"Don't be," he murmurs back. "You're probably right." There's a bright flash of pleasure, a bright twinkling star amidst the blackness that is quickly drowned in another wave of guilt. "Don't," he repeats. "If it's true. Well. Then at least it's only me doing this to myself. At least I'm finally alone in my head." He looks down at the length of her fingers wrapped around his hand. "Present company excluded, of course."

That makes her smile, just a little bit, and he… he likes that. He likes that he made her smile.

"Okay," she agrees with a bob of her head and he can feel her pushing down the guilt she feels for bringing the subject up. It is a relief to feel the oily sensation go. "Let's go home then. Don't want to let the food get cold."

"Home?" he tips his head quizzically. He has never had a home. Not really. Not even Gallifrey, which is likely clearly evident by the way he has treated it over the years. He's always been homeless. Wandering. Talking. Conning his way in and out of thousands of lives, planets, and governments. Aimless. His entire life has been aimless and he is nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

"Yes," she repeats firmly, the lyrical, cascading fall of her voice wiping the inside of his skull clean as she releases his hand to turn off the car. "It's your home too."

Home.

Right.

Because he married her.

Married her; bound her; linked her to him for forever

Married her because her voice is like rain, washing his own heartbeat right out of his head. Married her because she means safe and warm and peace. Because she cares for him. Because, even before the bond, she could read what he was thinking. She doesn't press him. Doesn't change him. Doesn't expect anything of him. She just lets him exist. As him.

Just him.

He doesn't know how to be just him.

He's never been just him.

Or had a home.

And she has given him both.

Both. What is he going to do with both?

Matt. The soft sound of her voice echoing over the drumbeat turns his head to where she's standing, arms full of bags, waiting for him to follow. So he does the only thing he can do. He grabs the bag of take out and the rest of the stuff from the backseat and follows her into their home.

"What am I doing?"

He's alone. Well, mostly alone. Spartacus is sitting on the couch next to him, purring madly as he kneads the crimson and green fleece blanket that Sam had pulled from the large plastic tote marked Christmas Decorations. His only real experience with Christmas was what Lucy had done while they were together. It had all been very formal and artfully arranged: ribbons and gold and bright white lights. He'd ignored it except for when they'd had to pose for photos.

This is different though. It's just a few strings of lights hung around the large living room window. It's a three foot tree wrapped with multi colored lights and hung with small plastic or fabric ornaments – because apparently Spartacus has a vendetta against the shiny glass balls and would line them up and shatter them against the wall. It's the exchange of the blankets flung across the couch for a set of red throws stamped with the green of holly and mistletoe. It's the small nativity set up in front of the tv and the stockings hung from thumb tacks poked carefully into the bookcase. It's the quiet rendition of carols still playing in the background, even though Sam has long since gone to bed, with only the glow from the lights to illuminate the room.

They had eaten, decorated, and put away his new belongings in the space Sam had cleared for him in the closet and dresser without much talking, at least on his part. With the realization of how important her voice was to him Sam had kept up a careful steady chatter, sharing memories, telling him about work, about her family, her favorite books and movies. He didn't remember most of it, but he could still feel the vibrations of her voice moving through his head, keeping it clear.

And after a while she had changed into flannel pants and a too big shirt and gone to bed. "Are you coming?" she'd asked and he'd shaken his head.

"Not tired."

But he'd understood, understood that the question was really to let him know that he was welcome there. That the bed was as much his as drawer in the dresser or the left side of the closet.

He wants to go. Wants to stand up, change his clothes, and crawl into bed with her even though he knows that he won't sleep and that scares him. He's never wanted anything like this before. Never. And it's worse because he knows that he can have it.

"What am I doing?" he repeats, directing the soft comment to his feline companion. Spartacus opens one eye and chirps dismissively before returning to his orgasmic enjoyment of the fleece.

The Master sighs and scrubs his hands through his hair, whirling around to stare at the line of the closed blinds.

He has linked himself to an ape and, whether she wants him or not, his Time Lord mind will eventually overwhelm her human one and drive her as into a madness she can't hope to survive.

She's the first being in all of time and space to want – to care – for just him and he'll destroy her. He knows he will.

But he's here. He's moved in. Bought clothes. Bought tea. Cried in her lap, eaten her food, taken and pleasured her body. He's held her, carried her, tucked her in. He talks to her cat, does her dishes, and hangs Christmas lights so that she doesn't have to climb on top of the kitchen table in order to reach.

He's… he doesn't know what he is.

If he was good. If he was like the Doctor he would go. He would leave now.

But he's not good. He's never been good. He's selfish and mad and he's only ever been alone.

Alone. Alone. Alone. Alone.

And he's not alone, not here.

I can't be anything else.

Sure you can. All you have to do is try. Think of what you want, of who you want to be, and just try. Just try, Matt. Just try.

"What am doing?" he whispers again, staring at the handful of packages placed under the tree. There's one there with his name – the one that's his but not his – on it. What does he want? Who does he want to be?

He stares down the short length of hallway to the cracked bedroom door. He can hear her breathing, soft and even.

Who do I want to be?

He turns off the music and goes to the bedroom where he sheds his clothes, pulls on the flannel trousers, and slides beneath the heavy layer of duvet and quilt and several other blankets. It's warm, the heat of her body collected in a little pocket around her. Before he even touches her he can smell it: iron and salt – the things that mark her humanity as well as the things that are simply just her: cinnamon and flowers and a hint of vanilla from where she had spilled it, laughing as it sloshed across her hand as she added it to the sugar cookie dough. They'll cut it out and bake it in the morning. It sounds silly but he finds himself looking forward to it because he knows that it will make her smile.

He likes it when she smiles.

Slowly he takes a breath and lets it out, respiratory bypass kicking in as he listens in the silence.

One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four. One. Two. Three. Four.

It's quieter: subdued and at ease, as if simply being in her presence means that his hearts have to work less. But that's not what he's after. Not right now. He slides closer, pulling her to him with an arm slung around her hips. She stirs, head tilting up towards his, eyes flickering weakly open to reveal a brief slice of that beautiful ice gray.

"I'm glad you came," she mumbles, nearly intelligible with the thickness of sleep as she ghosts her lips across his before slumping into his arms, tucking her head against his shoulder.

He stares.

"Me too," he finally whispers, dropping his head down to rest against hers.

One. Two. One. Two. One. Two. One. Two.

There. There it is. Calm and steady and simple, it balances the tighter beat in his head, drawing it out and changing it. Making it bearable.

The Master shuts his eyes and hums under his breath, letting himself slip away.

Silent night, Holy night.

All is calm, all is bright.

Author's Note: So now that we're nearing the end of this fic (two chapters and an epilogue after this) I thought I'd see if there is any interest in the other stories from this 'verse. I've got a handful of ideas - mostly half written at this point - that span the rest of Samantha's life, told almost entirely from the Master's point of view. One's angsty, one's just plain sad, and the rest are kind of amusing/cute/fluffy/mildly angsty (because it is the Master) shots of domesticate situations that he's in no way prepared for. They'll either be longer one-shots or shorter (2-4 chapters?). Thoughts?