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i.
It is so easy to be a monster; it rolls around, making waves and disasters inside of Turlough’s mind. Turlough’s mind a tsunami, water destroying cities - the city of the Doctor crumbling underneath his force, each person he has known flooding out from their homes, everything in the Doctor’s past flooding out from its mind, Turlough as the ground of the Doctor quaking into separate parts—
It is so easy to be a monster.
Turlough reaches for his pocketknife.
v.
He is always afraid of himself when Tegan is asleep; he is alone with himself and his weaponry and the wretched, sick state of his being. He can feel the Guardian in his mind if he focuses hard enough - lingering there, nested, waiting. He’ll have to do it eventually; blood forcing its way onto his hands, an ectoplasmic stain on him, ruining him, forever, forever---
He wants to go home, craves it; every moment Turlough is near the Doctor he asks himself the impossible question, tries to figure out the words on the edge of his soul: is it worth it? Is it really worth it? He’s not on Earth anymore, his sufferings unstuffed themselves & unraveled into binding murder-contracts against his wrists - he’ll have to do it eventually. Eventually.
For now he turns over in his own bed, still in his day clothes; he stopped unwinding and undressing, afraid of the vulnerability that comes with openness. Vulnerability around the guardian (lingering nested, the evil making a home inside of him) is just - too - dangerous. He cannot allow vulnerability - one slipped thought and he’s gone, freckled particles of Turlough littered in the stars.
x.
“I want you to know,” the Doctor says, and he’s standing too close; he’s standing too close; he’s standing too close and Turlough thinks that he should be able to feel the Doctor’s breath warm against him but, but, “that I invited you to travel with me of my own free will. You aren’t required to “earn” your time here.”
He wonders about what it would be like to feel the Doctor’s warmth, and then he wonders if the Guardian can feel it—
I know your every innermost thought —
I invade every particle of your being, you will never be free of me until our bond is honoured —
but he cannot help himself; his wanting is a downfall and his downfalls turn into wanting. The Doctor looks - kind. He looks kind.
“I know that, Doctor.” He stares up into the Doctor’s eyes, surveys his face. Turlough breathes in. “Is that all? This seems unprompted.”
There is, momentarily, a look of sadness on the Doctor’s face—Turlough recognizes it instantly; it says wanting, it says everything that Turlough has ever felt and maybe—
“No, that’s all, I just wanted to make sure—ah, it doesn’t matter. Goodnight, Turlough.”
“Goodnight,” Turlough responds, falsifying a yawn, and as the Doctor walks away he starts wondering again: does the Doctor ever sleep? How does the Doctor sleep, knowing what he knows, having seen what he has seen, having felt what he has felt?
ii.
The blade is small and dull and Turlough wonders how much it will hurt, considers slicing himself too, a self-punishment for a wicked act. He will never be the same, but he has to do this eventually. He is so good at getting over things - he just needs to get this over with.
He makes his way to the Doctor’s bedroom and tries to ignore the fact that he’s never seen it before, the fact that he has always wanted to see it— only to help him understand, he thinks, only to the understand the Doctor and nothing more —and with every step the knife grows heavier in his hand. He needs to get this over with. This is what he was intended for: violence.
When he opens the door, the room is empty.
xi.
He makes tea for the Doctor and Tegan when he is asked to. It is supposed to make him feel useful.
Early in the “morning” Turlough wakes up, rises from his bed into the world with red in his eyes and his red eyes dart to his bathroom, move up to his sink and straight predator to the cleaning supplies piled against his sink.
Today, of course, is the only day that the Doctor does not drink his tea, even when Turlough urges him to. He takes the cup from him, puts it up to his own lips—
vi.
He dreams of mistakes.
YOU HAVE FAILED ME, says the Guardian in his mind, and every part of his body begins to sear. Turlough fails always—can’t the Guardian see this? Fact: Turlough is a failure, fact: he should not exist.
I’m sorry. I’m — I’m trying.
You aren’t trying hard enough. Do better.
When Turlough wakes up, he cannot move his body.
iii.
“Doctor?” he calls, and the softness in his voice is rotten, rotten, rotten. “I can’t—sleep. Where are you?”
He is about to end it all, and he has cut off all emotion. He feels nothing. He can do it, he can kill the Doctor.
Turlough walks, and walks, knife open in his pocket, fingers curled against the handle. The corridors in the TARDIS are endless. He could walk forever, the Doctor could hide forever - the two of them rolling endless.
Oh.
Oh—he reaches the console room and—and—and—and the Doctor is leaning against the wall, reading a thick book and—and—and he is relaxed; he’s not in his normal clothing, instead wearing a simple white shirt and pants—and—and he looks warm, looks kind, the kind of warmth that Turlough could lose himself in, the warmth of kindness that Turlough would touch—
“Turlough, is that you?” the Doctor asks, voice in a slight panic.
“Yes, it’s me.”
His book falls to the ground; thud. “I’m sorry.” As Turlough approaches, the Doctor begins to curl into himself, as if he is fully exposed. Maybe —maybe to him, he is. “I didn’t know you were up.”
His fingers tighten around the handle.
“Sorry if I scared you.”
“You didn’t,” replies the Doctor, moving closer, he always moves closer. “Are you alright?”
“I just couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh. Is there something I can do to help?”
Turlough hates him, suddenly; he’s always doing this, helping. He’s always doing the incomphrensible, hardtoparse act of being selfless. Turlough wants it visceral, wants to wear the Doctor’s skin as his own or get inside of him so he can be good, too—so he can be free, so he can begin to comprehend life.
“No,” he says, and falters - he lets his fingers uncurl. He lets go of the knife. Closes it. Eventually, but not tonight.
The Doctor doesn’t stop getting closer. He can feel the Doctor’s breath now; he’s alive, they both are, and oh, the Guardian doesn’t matter—he wants like explosions like torture like rescue.
“What are you doing, Doctor?” he asks, forbidden, and the Doctor pulls back instantly.
“I’m sorry. I just—it’s very late.”
Turlough moves fast, eliminates the space between them. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he says, and the Doctor—the Doctor reaches up to his cheek, touches his face like he is something breakable and fragile instead of something already broken and Turlough—
he can feel all of his duties pile up heavy and heavy but this—this will make things easier. He kisses the Doctor, the final end of the story, the new beginning of the story, the sequel, and the Doctor presses back (oh) (he was right) (the Doctor does want) and Turlough is going to kill him, he’s going to kill the only man who has ever treated him with love and he’s going to do it unattached. Later, that is. Eventually.
Eventually.
c.
Take me to my home planet, he says, and the Doctor rests his hand on Turlough’s hand, makes everything okay and simple again.
Why not, replies the Doctor. Why not?