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There were three things he learned in his long life:
- Just because blowing a race to bits worked once, does not mean it will succeed a second time.
- When in a decisive position of power, either let others know of your lengthy, troublesome past or get a grip on despair before you plummet your world into eternal darkness.
- Have a damn clue the next time you regenerate.
He'd have saved himself a lot of trouble, that way. Sure, maintaining the same face for two, ten, however many thousand years was an impressive feat and yes, he'd turned a race of scholars into militaristic brutes; victory came with a price, didn't it?
No one with that track record would predict such violent failure. Crushed by his own ship, like some gaudy outdated space opera. He'd been lucky a portal opened up (well not lucky so much as fortunate.) Broken, bruised and bleeding in the worst of places, he half-dragged, half-willed himself through. The lesser of two treacherous options. At least upon Midgard, he'd avoid exposing the truth.
Extent of the truth.
Enough his so-called kind would surely turn their backs. He'd already driven through the knife.
Having sense enough to scan his surroundings (some kind of...junkyard, or abandoned portion of the city) Malekith crawled under a heap of overturned scrap metal. The world shut off shortly after, his last sight a vibrant amber-gold.
He awakened to an orange hue: whether dusk or dawn, he could not say. Nor see properly beyond his hiding place (how the Hel did he get under there, to begin with?)
The dark elf blinked, muddled confusion sinking deep into his brow. Where he was, more specifically. (What on Earth happened?)
With a tight breath, the Accursed emerged from his hiding place, collapsing with a grunt onto his back.
Oh.
The sky. Far lovelier in full view...although time of day remained a mystery.
How long has he been out? And why..?
It struck him like a, well, like that wretched vessel to his head. Torso. Entire being, really. A dizzying spiral spattered in death. Upturned pavement, buildings crumbling like snowfall, prey to the Aether whipping around his body. He'd been so close, so damned close, and then--
He drew in a breath.
One arm dared to venture up his chest.
Regeneration.
The word yanked Malekith upright.
The reason you ran.
The reason he lived, now.
With patience he did not think himself capable, the Dark Elf surveyed his surroundings; different when fully conscious (mostly conscious.) Reminded him of home.
Drifting back to his makeshift shelter, he noted reflective surface, perfect.
Hesitation. He peered into the metal sheet.
His blood froze.
My face. It’s so… different. Void of ashen skin, pointed ears and an angled jaw. Of ghostly blond hair, or beady ice-blue eyes. A shaking hand touched his likeness.
A Time Lord. He looked just like a Time Lord.
Or midgardian, as he'd come to appreciate, although the word itself could point towards a cover. The hardest part was learning to relax. Smooth his edge enough to bypass any cautious eyes. Hostility did little good without a means to back it. (Sword, army, mystical energy, really any would suffice.) He still possessed inhuman strength (new body was good for something) but that alone did not amount to much. A rare skirmish here and there, perhaps; to succeed, he'd have to blend. Observe. Draw on centuries worth of conditioning and commit to this...lifestyle.
Ah, London ...once a home away from home, still a beacon for otherworldly strife. Some things never changed.
He never quite warmed to his new face. Though admittedly handsome for a Time Lord (human, you're feigning human, here) each morning met with a stranger in the mirror. Short hair and stubbly chin, burnt brown eyes in place of haunting blue on black...this man did not appear as though he'd conquered all nine Realms.
Was not a soldier, scout, always prepared for war.
Isn't he? You didn't learn to fight on Svartalfheim.
No...no, he'd...simply learned to stand his ground. Charge into the fray, embrace each blow and look ahead for more to come. Malekith did not turn away from battle. Did not run when challenged with his wrongs. (Unless survival were at stake of course.)
Of course.
Nonetheless, this body aligned more with a gentleman's persona. What place was there for one in war?
In hindsight, he should have seen this coming. The breeding ground for extraterrestrial threat, of course England would host the Convergence. May as well hand him the planet on a silver platter: few places in this sodding realm he knew better than the U.K. A perfect fit for a one Jack Tyler, as he'd begun calling himself. (Malekith's got a catchy ring but just would not do in public.) Brilliant, calculating and an expert in all things alien. Devise some tragic sob story ('Just trying to live my life those ghastly creatures destroyed my family')
Cap it off with a hollow look of vengeance, who would question him?
"...you're here, why, again?" Inquired a greasy-haired human. Older by their years, garbed in a rumpled blazer. Had UNIT always been so...tired?
Malekith- Jack, your name is Jack - leaned forward. He curled a deliberate fist atop the desk. Unusual color, somewhere halfway between mahogany red and deep umber. Curious things, trees. He'd nearly forgotten.
"Need I reiterate?" Temper, keep your temper. "You lot handle the unexplainable. I've got a lot of -" What's the midgardian term "- shite I want explained."
The blond, for the other's hair was blond (sandy, more like, and so thick it bordered on clumpy) glanced at his tablet.
"And...your name...Jack?"
"Tyler, Jack Tyler, that's right."
The mortal man frowned. "I'm afraid you're not in the system."
System, system...oh, yes, humans kept record of everything, didn't they. Big brother and the like.
A brief pause, muscle pulsing by his jaw. "What can I say?" The Accursed smiled, forcing an echo in his eyes. "Upstanding citizen, right here."
Another pause. His stomach tightened. Give me the bloody job you insufferable fool--
"Any relation to Rose?"
...What?
"...sorry, what..what was that?"
The mortal raised his head. "We used to have a girl with us, went by Rose. Same last name, thought maybe it ran in the family." He sat back, laying his tablet flat. "You look a touch familiar, too..."
Malekith had stopped listening.
Rose.
Rose Tyler.
No. No no. There must be some mistake.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Composure fractured. Breathe. "I'm not...I've never met anyone by that name." Not here. Not this world, this time, this universe he'd wiped clean and corrupted. No Doctor, no TARDIS, no Rose Tyler.
Are you sure about that? UNIT's here.
That was not the same thing!
"Why-" he choked, swallowed, and tried again. "What happened to her?" Why did she leave? Or join the United...whatever the abbreviation stood for, was the least of his concerns right now.
This world knew no Doctor.
Rose should not know him.
Maybe she doesn't.
What then pushed her towards this line of work..?
Aliens still congregate here. You can't change everything.
He scrubbed his chin, listening to the haphazard answer. Priorities, marriage, end of the world...made sense enough. (Except that middle bit; never could picture her, married.)
For the best, though...don't you agree?
He wouldn't contradict it.
Settling down meant out of the way...and that- that was in her best interest. Yours as well.
He's offered a position sometime thereafter. Desk job in a cramped space, but accompanied by a month's prepaid salary- just to help him on his feet. Rebuild his stolen life and all that. Shite, humans were gullible. It's a wonder they survived so long. His immediate...deskmates, for example. They worked near enough to earn the title. New additions, like himself, and always- always - going on about some nonsensical grievance as though Ragnerok itself had come about.
He'd have loved to see their files: what were they going to do come the next invasion? 'Unfriend' the enemy, as the term were?
Good luck.
Didn't help he had an eon's age over them. Thank Svartalfheim popular culture hadn't changed. Kept the long days somewhat bearable. And his cover in check, more importantly. Although really, that didn't take much with this crew. Half the time they only listened with one ear. If he thought about it, he could probably conquer Midgard right now: no one noticed a damn thing when their pocket-sized screens came out. Certainly none of his...side projects.
In so many words.
He remembered a triad of voices, specifically because they'd stood out amidst a sea of British accents.
An older male, darting in between the fray.
A boisterous brunette who, quite frankly, had no business whatsoever in a war zone.
The third...the third previously housed his Aether.
Three voices. Three faces. Three persistent Americans in London.
Why?
The answer rose from Oblivion like Mary Shelly's Frankenstein...if the scientist had access to electronics and the World Wide Web. Flitting about the air, rattling on about (surprise surprise) the end of the world. Only way to save the Earth's to soak it in blood.
Sound like anyone you know?
He'd have been perfectly content to leave them all as miserable as he. Shame intruders never sat well with the locals.
Now you’re just being bitter.
Indeed he was. Nearly a year spent confined to a moral box, playing nice and making chit chat with whichever idiot couldn't get out of his way. ('Oh I'm sorry, I didn't know where you were going.' The hallways weren't all that narrow; move.)
What had he to show for his endurance? Speculating articles, mobile photographs, useless goings-on about which 'Avenger' was most attractive...the name itself was something.
The Avengers.
SHIELD.
An organization unique in its specialty towards unusual happenings.
It's like a bloody American UNIT.
UNIT never decidedly tried to play God. Never sought alliance with a doddle-headed bleeding heart wielding a hammer.
No, they let you in, unnoticed. Yes, well, he was clever that way: not everyone desired a fuss.
Malekith scowled at the tele. He tapped his takeout carton. What did a machine know of divinity, anyway? The most powerful ones he'd seen possessed some kind of organic core. That which never had could not fathom loss without experience. Could not feel it sinking into their bones, poison their innards like - what's an off-the-hand one around here - arsenic. Cyanide. Something of that nature. Bolts and circuitry only parroted their resources. The cause remained above their heads. Its head. Ultron.
He paid close attention, the following few weeks. New York, Sokovia...as the death toll increased so too did mistrust in these 'mighty heroes.' Their fanbase fractured: some called for responsibility. Others demanded cold removal.
It's reason enough to request assignment.
His first assignment, complete with red tape wrapped around a daunting pile of paperwork.
"We don't usually involve ourselves this way." He's told - by his superiors, coworkers, really everyone who's gotten wind.
"SHIELD'S dissolved." His go-to counter. "Someone's got to offer a hand." Same went for Sokovia, but he'd not yet been graced with trust of that extent. Just as well. What he's after lay in the States.
Allegedly.
Three days of damage assessment provided little reward. Insight. Names. These Avengers were supposed to be his not-so-metaphorical launchpad. Get inside, gain access, crush the hand that stripped him of success.
Malekith glared hard at the looming tower. He hadn't expected such progressed repair.
That wasn't entirely true: a mortal of Stark's wealth needn't wait to start rebuilding. However, it was precisely that mortality that should have kept him from the place at least another...week? (How quickly did midgardian injuries heal, again?)
Either way, another obstacle. Might happen, you can't foresee the future.
Not anymore...but the odds remained against him. No way in, no access, no answers.
Fuck.
"Fuck!" Closer to a growl than reiteration. His choice in tongue didn't help. Harder to channel rage through foreign language. His own turned too many heads. Shoving his hands in his pockets, the Accursed stormed away. Reassess, evaluate, don't write this off, just yet. It's not like he'd been waiting a thousand years. Or fled to enemy territory because whoops he'd led the eldest race in the universe to total corruption and his stupid Time Lord face proved it.
Universe two, Malekith zero.
It's his last thought before the lights go out.
"Rise and shine, asshole."
Something (or someone) yanked him by the collar. Malekith startled into consciousness, sputtering ancient profanities. So much for cover. His cover may be blown, already. No one used that kind of force without intent.
Rather, intent to knock out someone of excessive strength.
Brown eyes blinked, once, twice, impatiently awaiting focus. Gray, pulsed around his mind, mingling with the sharp throb begin his head. Gray walls, gray ceiling...gray table, too. He'd hazard a guess there's a gray chair beneath him. He certainly wasn't on his feet. The Accursed winced, and shut his eyes again. Had to be the new body (old form?) Not yet on par with Svartalfheim. You had the Aether, your last visit. Even so.
Abrupt agony burst through his shoulder. He whirled around, grabbing for the source (and there was a source: he'd been through this sort of thing before. Not this specifically but along similar lines.) Right arm tugged the left, bound together by rattling metal. Definitely the new body.
"You've got to be kidding-"
"Shut the hell up." He's struck again and this time braced himself against the table. That's enough.
His tormentor huffed, at last stepping into view. A wild-eyed spitfire of a woman with inky black hair. Her hands clenched at either side of her lithe frame. She couldn't have stood taller than his sorely wounded shoulders.
Incredulity scribbled across Malekith's face.
"...I'm supposed to believe you're the one who hit me?"
She didn't blink. "Don't play games, Kilgrave. How the hell are you still alive?"
The surprises just kept coming.
"...sorry, Kilgrave?" Please don't tell me that's a nickname. He'd like to think he'd left a greater impression than death.
The young woman lunged forward. Palms slammed against the table. "I know what you're doing. The amnesia stint is old news, no one's going to offer sympathy after the shit you pulled, last fall." One arm shot up, bunching his collar. There it was again, that strength. A bold move tore his gaze away. He glanced at her other palm. Beside it, a noticeable indent. Who is this woman? An otherworldly creature? Some sub-Avenger he'd disregarded in research? As if.
Then who..?
She leaned in, hissing her conclusion. "I should kill you right now."
Instinct drilled against his brain. Malekith bit his tongue. She could try. Might come close to it, too. Alas, Midgard's strongest were still mortal: ultimately, the scales tipped in his hand. That said...he'd have to proceed with caution. Murder poorly served his alias.
"My...my name is Jack Tyler." The Dark Elf stammered. Intimidated, to an untrained eye, (to himself, restraint.) "I work for UNIT, London branch. Call them up if you don't believe me."
Silence.
Do as I say, stupid girl.
"...fine."
She shoved him against the metal backing. He cried out, deliberate, wearing his best pitiable expression oh, had he only a dagger or knife, something to be of use -
Patience.
He's waited long enough.
A little longer won't kill you.
It might. He was older than time itself. (Close to it, anyway.)
So Malekith shut up, glowering at the door from which she left. Waiting.
And waiting.
Patience be damned.
The Accursed Time Lord shot to his feet, testing his handcuffs once, twice. They whined and strained against his flesh, threatening to cut the harder he pulled. Get on with it.
Teeth ground together. A sharp breath.
In one swift motion, he wrenched his arms apart. The chain popped, clattering to the floor in pieces. They came to rest by a pair of black boots...and the horrified woman wearing them.
"What the hell is this?" Her coal-black stare burned, stalking towards him. "You stealing powers, now? Is that how you survived?"
He opened his mouth, cut short by a fist barreling towards his head.
Not this time.
Outstretched hand met her halfway. The loose-link cuff spun around his wrist.
"My name is not Kilgrave." Hissed Malekith.
The raven-haired harpy gawked.
"How are you doing this?" Features collapsed in a snarl. Oh right, listening was a selective trait in this realm.
She tried his grip. He didn't let go. "Are you - you harvesting DNA? Did you harvest mine?"
His hold began to give. If only he could blame another for this misfortune but no, it was all on that bloody regeneration.
I'm an elf, I've been an elf since the dawn of Svartalfheim, I will not succumb to some misguided mortal! Malekith threw her arm aside, free hand connecting to her jaw. A violent curse escaped his opponent; she stumbled back, catching herself on the wall.
"Listen to me, child." He straightened, slow, almost mechanical. Human or not, that hurt. "I am not the man you seek." (Wasn't man at all, on the genus level.) She needn't know that.
The young woman said nothing in the way of acknowledgement...or denial, the latter of which proved more troubling.
"Bullshit."
For fuck's sake.
"I followed up, like you said." She spat. A leather-clad sleeve rubbed her lip. "There's no trace of a Jack Tyler before 2013."
Malekith scowled. "I stay out of trouble. It's not a crime."
"Is if you're lying, shitstain."
A very small, very peeved portion of his curiosity wondered exactly who this Kilgrave was. Fatal contempt didn't surface without reason.
The louder, more pressing part sought a way out.
"Do you make a habit of kidnapping strangers?" He tried, adjusting stance. Hands up, knees bent, ready to swing if she dare try again.
Those dark eyes narrowed. "Only soulless scum like you." The petite female lunged again. Or- tried to. Rapid-fire knocking stopped, midway.
"Jess?" A new voice, also female and teetering towards frantic.
"Get away from here, Trish!"
A beat.
"No, Jess, you...really need to see this."
They'd found footage of the Doctor. Archived footage, some ten years back (apparently amidst a cybermen crisis?)
It was evidence enough for his release.
'Two hearts,' he'd managed with a flimsy smile. 'Couldn't risk exposure.' A deliberate nod to Jess (Jessica) upon conclusion; you're not the only one with secrets.
Out of sight, the Accursed Malekith crumpled to his knees. The Doctor. A Doctor. With his face, his...TARDIS...in a world that should not know him. How? His stomach churned. Bile stained his tongue. Time had been rewritten. In Galifrey's place sat a realm bathed in darkness. In place of Time Lords, a nightmarish warrior race. And the Doctor?
A shaky sigh slipped free. This isn't possible. Yet he'd seen it for himself. If he hadn't known better, Malekith might surmise that fate, the cosmos or whatever one might call it knew this world still needed a gallivanting looney on their side.
(Sounds like a paradox.)
Bitterness curled his lips at the corner. A paradox. Of course. Because that's always the logical conclusion.
Rose is here. What about her?
The Dark...Time Lord...Elf, whatever the Hel he was sobered. Rose Tyler...she'd surfaced in the footage, too. Playing dodge with the Tin Cans, same as he. The Doctor.
Right...
Something cold snaked through his belly. His gaze tipped towards the sky. I thought her gone... here she'd been awarded someone else. A better Doctor from a better time with a far higher morale...
Head bowed, pinching his brow.
What will you do, now?
Return to UNIT, probably. Hope they've kept him on staff.
And then?
He'll do as he's always done.
Survive.
A week passed. Chaos ensued. Expected, warranted, wearing his tolerance thin. Once or twice he nearly threatened murder (Midgard and its incessant obsession with the worlds beyond, if he heard that wretched title one more time he would follow through with decapitation.) I am not the Doctor.
Better than the truth.
So he's tried to tell himself. So he wished to believe. Two hearts, human face...a far easier jump than the ghostly, pointy-eared Accursed Malekith.
"At least I could scare them off." He grumbled, rounding a corner. What use were companions if they didn't obey every fucking order? Useless, frustration followed up. He hadn't conquered nine realms by holding hands and making flower crowns. The image earned a snort, pushing open his office door. (Still not his, per say, but he'd grown comfortable with the space.)
Excessive attention or no.
"Oi, Martha, you in?" He called, peeling off his overcoat. Bright for her kind, he'd found, once she bothered to set down her phone. Asked too many question for his taste but it was a step up from melodramatic babble. As no response followed his inquiry, he assumed she'd yet to come in. (Or left early on.) Either way, no loss on his end. Meant he'd hear himself think for a change. Hanging up his jacket up, Malekith turned towards his station and...froze.
Wavy blond hair rolled off the shoulders of the average-sized woman. She'd perched on the edge of his desk, hands folded in her lap. Age lined her soft features, but he knew, he knew without a second thought.
"They told me t'wait here, said you'd be by." Rose smiled. She sounded older, too. Mature, grounded...
Malekith swallowed.
"...I..." He croaked, then closed his mouth. 'I think you need a Doctor.'
Concern sank into Rose's features. She stood, stepping towards him.
"Hey...." Gentler this time. "It's alright, Doctor." Instinct drew the Dark Elf back. He looked away.
Alright. No. No it wasn't. Rose Tyler. In his office...Fuck. Fuck and every other curse word in his language.
"I'm not mad at you fer leavin' me." She went on, as if she understood, as if she had any idea what it meant-what she meant- in this moment right now.
Rose Tyler remembered the Doctor. Spoke to him like an old friend, held a ... fondness or something, in her gaze. (You saw their archives, shouldn't come as a surprise.)
Theory and practice were two grossly different categories.
She called again, beckoning away from his internal storm. Ha. Storm. The one bloody constant.
Grinding his teeth, Malekith raised his head. What has she been saying? Something about..leaving. She'd been...abandoned? By her Time Lord? (Just as you did.) It wasn't my fault!
"Why h-have you come?" He tripped over a tight breath. Blood pumped through his ears, spurned by the beating beneath his ribs. Don't you dare betray yourself. Easier said than done.
A prominent frown outlined Rose's lips.
"What's 'appened to you?" Still soft, bypassing his inquiry. Another step back.
Fists curled on either of Malekith's sides.
"I'm not gonna hurt you, Doctor." She went on. As though to prove it (or perhaps emphasis) she held up her hands. "I'm just...worried. They said you've been workin' for a year under alias." A pause. Something else chased her words. Something personal...almost wounded. "You coulda come t'me. I wouldn't 'old judgment."
He might have laughed. Would have, if he weren't on the losing end of a battle against anxiety. Panic. Both.
"...Doctor?"
"Stop." It slipped out unintentionally. Shock teetered the blond woman's expression. His own burned. A strangled noise followed. "Stop...calling me that. I don't..." Gaze faltered. Shaking hands raked through his hair. "...I don't deserve it." I'm not the Doctor anymore.
Shuffling followed. He stiffened, otherwise still. A curtain of blond hair dipped below his sightline. Quizzical amber searched his face.
"You're older." She noted, in that delicate tone. His stomach tightened. Older hardly scratched the surface. "It's been longer for you, 'asn't it." Continued Rose. Sadness brushed her observation. Head tipped to the side. "Than it 'as for me, I mean."
Silence. Slave to his pounding hearts, dusty memories reminding that yes, she'd always been observant, always read the space between his declarations.
His former...companion stood up, raising his eyes along with her.
Tell her.
No.
You waited for her, once.
Before he'd sacrificed his hope for blood.
Before he'd given up.
"...yes." Croaked Malekith, unnaturally meek for Svartalfheim's leader. Focus shifted to the camera overhead. (Security precaution, just in case.) Lot of good that did, in the end.
"...you wanna go somewhere?" He blinked, puzzled til he caught her peering at the camera. Always observant...
Malekith sucked in a breath. Tell her.
"...yes."
All things considered, it was a nice flat. Modest-sized, windows facing out, with evident signs of a lived in home. Well-lived in, given closer inspection: crayons, paper, strewn about the floor, rumpled pillows scattered atop the sofa, tiny shoes tipped over by the entryway.
Malekith gaped at the back of her head. Unaware or unaffected, Rose approached the mess.
"Ricky!" She called, looking past the living area. "Ricky, what 'ave I said 'bout leavin' your things?"
Quiet. Gradually, a pitter-pattering crescendo. Ricky, a little boy between four or five, appeared around the corner. Shite, he had to be her son. Perfect likeness, save for the hair. Dustier than his mother's, hanging somewhere between light brown and dirty blond. The jawline, too, didn't match; more pronounced and angled.
The child stopped short by his mother, biting his knuckles.
"Mmh...not to." Came the mumbled reply. Kneeling to his level, Rose touched her son's shoulder.
"That's right. Get to it, yeah? Mummy's got company." Ricky bobbed his head, then toddled over, presumably to follow through.
They met in a brief, mutual stare. You knew she'd gotten married. Motherhood breached a drastically different level. You aren't the only one who's gotten old.
Careful not to disrupt the child, Malekith rejoined the blond woman's side.
"He's a might shy." She murmured, as though that explained everything. Beckoning forward, he followed her down a brief hallway. She stopped by a pair of sliding glass doors. Unlocking, opening, Rose smiled again. "After you."
He nodded, stepping out onto the modest balcony. The sun hung lower in the sky, streaking the concrete structure in long shadows. A warm breeze rustled through his hair. The picture perfect setting for a heartfelt confession.
I'm going to be sick.
"Comes in handy, havin' somethin' like this." Spoke Rose, good humor tempering into something more fragile. "'specially during the warmer months..." She trailed off, sliding a hand along the railing.
"You wanna tell me what's going on?"
Ice circled his brain like barbed wire. Don't. You can't trust her.
Not true. (It wasn't, right?) She might be the only one in the entire bloody universe he could confide in.
You're not the man she thinks you are.
Nor was she his pink and yellow girl. A child, husband...others to protect, than he.
The Doctor.
Obviously.
Now he tapped the metal bar.
"...who is he?" Asked the Elf abruptly. "The man you married, who...?"
Recognition dawned. Sadness (?) followed. Both yielded to confusion.
"Who d'you think? Didn't leave me with a human copy of yourself to play checkers, did ya?"
What?
Sideways glance became proper disbelief. What the Hel kind of Time Lord was this other Doctor? "I see...don't tell me he got a day job, too."
This time, melancholy lingered.
"No, 'e died, couple of years back."
Oh.
Don't do humor, Malekith.
"...I'm sorry."
"Don't be..." She waved her hand, as though clearing the air. "Was a good man..lived a good life. Would've made you proud."
(Yeah... Definitely going to be sick.)
In attempts to sidestep the feeling, he sought further distraction.
"How...how did he go?" Always death with you, isn't it.
Rose went quiet. A glimpse of teeth against her bottom lip. Finally, she sighed. "There was this invasion...creatures we never seen before. I stayed behind with Ricky. He went to investigate, see if 'e could help...met 'is end under a fallin' building...Doctor?" Her voice jumped an octave, responding to the Accursed's sudden shift in action. Form bent in two, grasping tightly to the metal railing. Other hand balanced on his thigh.
I did this.
Death. Destruction. The Oncoming Storm.
"Hey -- hey-" rang above his head. Something firm clasped his shoulder. "Breathe, Doctor. You gotta breathe, okay?"
For the last time it was not okay! Hope crumbled around him; Malekith shut his eyes. Acid stained the back of his throat.
(What did she say? Breathe?)
Sharp, erratic, mingling with pending vomit. He coughed; once, twice, ending in with a gag.
Breathe.
Attempt two found a slower pace. By the third, he'd begun to quell his nausea. Come the fourth and final go, he'd climbed upright again.
"Better?"
Eyelids fluttered open. His vision swam.
No.
Silence met with no reply. Wariness seized her being; finally, she hastened to the double doors. He could have cried. (What a spectacle that would be; he, the most vicious creature in the universe, brought to tears by a mortal woman.) She's more than that. Always was.
Example: reappearing with alarming prominence, toting a stool behind her. Never one to run away...another constant.
"Sit." It didn't seem a suggestion. Malekith slumped onto the wooden seat, cradling his head. "Tell me what happened." Rose pleaded. "You don't...you don't have to suffer, alone." Disheveled mop of hair tipped up. He sagged.
"...yes. I do." What remained of his mask peeled away; weariness, loneliness, spilling forth. "This ... universe was not supposed to exist." Hands retreated to his lap.
Tell her.
He did. From Satellite Five til their present conversation, Malekith told her everything. How the TARDIS had exploded upon impact. How hard he'd strived to find his way back, tried to lead Galifrey to glory...
How he'd at last succumbed to bitter doubt.
Conquering the Nine realms. Bor. The Aether. By the end, he cried openly. So did she.
"I'm sorry." Managed Rose. She reached for him. This time, he didn't pull away. "I'm so...sorry, Malekith."
"Don't- don't do that." Choked the Accursed. "I'm the one who..." He sniffed, wiping his eyes. "I'm the only one responsible." I'm the reason you're alone.
She didn't argue, instead squeezing his arm.
Some messages required no words to receive. This one lay in between the gesture, his silence. Under the guise of moving forward, he'd been running from the start. From the world he'd warped and twisted, the ones he'd near wiped clean. From a friendly touch and mutual mourning.
From the Doctor.
"You remember what 'appened to the Game Station?" Rose ventured, piercing the fragile air between them. "You took out the, what was it...Jagrafrass? Thought you set the Earth back on track, remember that?"
He did.
"You made a mess, Doc--Malekith." Apology curled her lips. "But you owned up to it." You can own up to it.
He didn't miss the silent implication.
Time apart didn't sooth all restless spirits. Staring at the rickety blue time machine felt straight out of Dickens; ghosts of present, past and future corralled into one.
"Left us a core." Rose explained. She scanned him like the damned device itself, folded arms a warning to unruly action. ('I'm not showin' you so's you can go 'round killin' again.')
Message loud and clear.
"Haven't used it since 'e passed." Nor had she need, came the elaboration, occupied with motherhood and all it entailed. Stance slackened, unearthing a key (the key) from her pocket. "You're still in there." Palm turned over. A fire from his memory glistened in those amber hues. Vibrant, brilliant, all-encompassing.
'You are tiny.'
(Don't screw up.)
He closed his hand around the metal trinket. Heartbeats quickened. Complexion paled. "...the last time I set foot in this it exploded." You swallowed its heart.
That aside.
"You afraid?" Teasing, perhaps; light as it genuine.
Inhale, exhale. Self-deprecation earned a smile. "...I am."
Hesitation. Rose excused herself from the closet space. Moments later she returned, carrying a piece of torn paper.
"Take it." He did. A written number cut through the center. "Anythin' comes up you're not sure about- anythin' at all, you call me, yeah?"
A warmth he'd all but forgotten calmed pounding apprehension. (You're gonna do it, aren't you.)
'Just this once, everyone lives.'
"Yeah."
A grinding whiiiiir bounced around the linoleum walls. Malekith tumbled from the TARDIS, muttering ancient curses. Just when he'd gotten used to his body, a temperamental ship filled the spot for new acquaintances. Better than the first few tries. True enough.
Smoothing down his coat, his hair, the Accursed Time Lord turned attention forward. Somewhere in this building lay unfinished business. Allons-y.
He found it several floors above, where the walls grew white and tile paved the ground below. Halting midway down the hall, he tried the door. Locked.
Well, when in Rome...
He knocked.
Shuffling occurred from the other side. Then a click; the entryway swung open.
"Erik Selvig? You and I need to talk."