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【 1 】
It confuses him more than anything at first. The rest of it, the questions and the emotions of the encounter - as do all of his reactions to happenings in this chaos of a life of his - can come later.
London has lost its mind. He and Donna tentatively step through the square, taken aback by, well, just about everything. By some miracle (and clever thinking by the TARDIS) Wilf is the first face they meet; summarily they decidedly make it their mission to roll him out as he bewails the fall of the world. The second is a red-faced-bordering-on-firecracker-faced man who demands from them education on human taxes as if the Doctor understood them. Then he promptly charges out to force the Doctor to defend him from an errant car plowing through the streetway, gone the wrong way down the road, rudely. The Doctor’s mind is reeling as he tries to scuttle back to the humans he knows. But he is obstructed by the third, a gallantly dancing gentleman who greets him with a handsome smile and a laugh, and all too much familiarity.
“Excusez-moi monsieur – oh, je suis terrible,” and in an instant he has stolen the Doctor’s hands in his. The Doctor barely has any time to react before he is pulled in, the stranger wrapping his arm around him to spread his hand across the small of his back as the two of them are guided into a strange, clumsy, half dance: “but per’aps you will dance avec moi!” He laughs, and they are off, twirling to the music of fury and shouts and laughter, their feet tapping much too close for comfort to a pile of burning trash. The Doctor’s eyes widen as their gazes meet.
Chaos spins with them, around them, as they move and motion is everywhere in the whole street, the whole world; but the Doctor feels fixed in place. Those pale blue eyes shine into his like a sword. No accent or smile could change it. They are piercing into his soul.
It only takes a few seconds for him to regain his senses and clumsily break the hold they had on each other. “Yeah – sorry,” he manages pushing away, “no… no thanks.” He stumbles a few ways back to Donna and Wilf, shakes the sensation out of his head. Still laughing, the man does not pursue. He only stands there, continuing to giggle and spin.
Helicopters and soldiers are easy distractors from odd dances, as UNIT lands to whisk them off away. The Doctor is grateful for that; Donna is suspicious, and Wilf is as relieved as he would be for the Second Coming. So when the stranger calls after him one last time, “Ze game has begun, monsieur, the formidable game!” the Doctor almost dismisses it to the noise of the background. Almost. Their eyes meet and his hands still feel warm.
It should have been those words to make him realize, but he doesn’t – no, it's not the words, but instead it's the eyes. When they sit together in the theater, the Doctor gets a chance to study him up close, and finds something in his eyes that catches his attention. They’re a certain shade, and he can’t quite tell what it is he is seeing in them until they are running. Of course it had been him. But – why? Foolishly, he almost takes a moment to think about it – why had it been dancing? Why had he met him there? Why –
The hallways shatter; he shakes it from his mind, and keeps running.
【 2 】
Neither wind nor distance muffles the way the Toymaker’s voice stands out to him on the top of the UNIT Tower. Beyond the mathematical dynamical conventions of sound traveling through a fluid suspended in space, he is loud and clear, just as much as he has made his intentions: he hopes to be heard.
The Doctor stares him down, sober and serious. His question still stands in the air – infinite games. He holds out his hand like a lighthouse.
What comes next, he honestly takes at first for an attack. Because in the blink of an eye – in less than the blink of an eye, in fact – the Doctor perceives the Toymaker far too close to him, having gotten down from the Galvanic Beam and rushed forward, on the trajectory course for collision. The UNIT soldiers raise their weapons because of course they do; the Toymaker is still a threat, even as he tips like a swan backwards and freefalls, with direct intention, into the Doctor’s arms.
With the sound of the air being knocked out of his lungs, he catches him – and yet the Toymaker continues to drop as a deadweight against him. He scrambles, staggers back – and by some miracle, manages to get a grip without himself falling down, holding his assailant up by burying his fingers into the leather pilot’s jacket he is still wearing.
Speaking of – the Toymaker’s face is dangerously close to his own, and he is entirely unfazed.
“Oh why Doctor,” he shouts gleefully, “of course I’ll accept your proposal!”
“Ah-ha,” the Doctor says, not having fully thought this through, and then he goes properly speechless.
The wind is still playing around them. A hundred stories below, a truck honks as it cheerfully rams itself into a building, backs up with a polite beep, beep, beep, and hits the gas pedal again.
Kate Lethbridge-Stewart is the one to break the silence of voices. “Hold on. Are you kidding me?”
Aghast, the Doctor whips his head around, guiltily untangles his hands from their places at the Toymaker’s lapel and turns halfway. The eyes of just about every person in UNIT are staring at him. Donna, particularly, is incredulous. She has one hand turned palm up, held out to the side, in the universal signal of, Come on, what?
He looks back at the Toymaker, who is gazing at him dotingly.
“Er,” he gawks. He wonders if he will regret this. He thinks he already might.
【 3 】
“I don’t get why UNIT wants it to be this way.”
He is talking, of course, of how the facility had asked that he not use his powers recreationally – a request that has gotten him to grumble and complain, albeit with acquiescence. “I’m only doing it to humor you,” he objected.
Like the Vlinx, he now served the role of a disconcertingly powerful, decidedly alien consultant of the United Nations, for reasons not to be thought about for too long without provoking a headache. Particularly, he had in the moment been assigned to be “taught” how to manage UNIT HQ’s grand sand table, now rendered as a terrain model of London: for the cause of safety being that of all things, he would never willingly harm such a gameboard-like piece of technology. It was true, that fact – but as equal in the lie that he ever needed help to begin with. Of course he didn’t, and that was obvious. But, perhaps in retribution, Kate had sent the Doctor along to put up with him. He hardly knew how to use it himself.
“It’s because they find it frightening,” the Doctor explains with a little too much honesty. “They’re humans. They’re mortal. You can do so much beyond them.”
“Jealous, then. And if you’re talking about Stooky Bill – remember I did fix it,” he points out defensively. “Why keep me from fun when I can clean up everything in the end?”
“Because that’s not how the human sense of justice works,” the Doctor grits out, “and they are right that you’re –” then he freezes, and bites his tongue. For a moment he prays that the Toymaker did not hear it, tries to push his attention down to the board again. But his gaze perks up, and he does not let it go.
He smiles widely. “I’m what?”
“Nevermind,” the Doctor says.
“No, no, I want to hear it. What am I?”
“I said nevermind,” the Doctor repeats, feeling his heartrate grow as the Toymaker slinks forward. He watches how he has turned from his station at the table, how he is approaching slowly, carefully. “I misspoke.”
“Say it,” his smile hides how a growl is creeping in, “come on, Doctor, say it.”
The Doctor’s voice wavers, but quickens. “You’re currently working with UNIT regardless. You have to play by their rules.” He concludes hastily in one breath.
Whatever the Toymaker was looking for – he is disappointed. He straightens out, and the gleam in his eyes dissipates. “Yes,” he says, “I suppose I am.” He reclines his hands on the edge of the table again, looks again down at the miniature course of the River Thames. The Doctor feels his chest fall in relief. If he can just focus on this model demonstration, it will soon all be over. He swipes at the screen, zooming in on Fleet Street and selecting Gough Square off to the north to place the trial alien invasion. The Toymaker taps Charing Cross, to place UNIT’s representative forces.
But then he turns. “Yet I don’t see why you don’t do it, Doctor,” he says, gesturing. “You’ve got your little machine. You could avoid everything – what’s a petty human drama to keep you from running off? You have the power to elude that. Nobody would know.”
At that the Doctor is indignant. “Of course not!” he says loudly, loud enough to cause a few people to glance concernedly over before shrugging away, Oh, just one of his moral speeches. “It’s not about my reputation; it’s about them, and it is my obligation to do what is right.” The Toymaker rolls his eyes as he continues. “It wouldn’t be fair – it’s not fair, not to even mention the risk of losing the spot and the narrative. Humanity needs help. It doesn’t need a cop-out! I wouldn’t leave early just so that I could take the easy route.” Looking determined, he finishes forcefully. “No – that is beneath me.”
It almost escapes his notice, when the Toymaker mutters in response, “Oh, I wouldn’t be so opposed to being there,” just low enough that the Doctor alone can hear it, but no one else around. It causes him to furrow his brow for a second, before the meaning of it strikes him like a bolt of lightning, frying his brain. He couldn’t – he couldn’t possibly – what?
The Toymaker looks back at him, casting one eye over to catch a glimpse of the flush that has overtaken him, and he laughs – not the arpeggio but a singular, barked laugh that cuts through the air. Then, turning back, he continues the process, though the Doctor’s hands remain frozen in place.
【 4 】
Some forces in life arrive to bring unexpected delights. Some forces arrive with dire consequences. And some arrive simply as bizarre, unpredictable happenstances.
Sometimes, the Toymaker counts as all three of them, at the same time.
The Doctor is doing maintenance on the TARDIS. Fortunately, it’s for no major issue: just a linkage error between two currents that has caused an uncomfortable mechanical twee, twee, twee! to buzz with the lights, and the Doctor just has to keep it up in proper shape. But it is just the wires - no orthopositronium or reticulated decussators required. Unfortunately, this easy fix is also a lengthy one, kudos to the way how the wires interlock behind a set of tubing, and criss-cross behind another set of cords. Concentrating on the way two of them are joining up, he reaches behind a few others to make the link, but the mess surrounding prevents him from finishing the connection. Yet as uncomfortable as it would seem, he is not. The TARDIS, at least, is never a burden.
It’s the sensation of being watched that is actually absent, at first: instead, the Doctor catches a glimpse of him from out of the corner of his eye, and then turns briefly to get a better look. His hands leave their posts. Leaning against the doorway, he's a shape of dark fabric and a starched white bowtie, very similar to the outfit he wore in the midst of his crowd, the day they met again. There is makeup, too – across his lips sits a dark shade of purple, a color that accentuates the thin smirk he is wearing.
His eyes follow the way the Doctor hastily turns away. Damnit. “Why, mes apologies,” he professes, “It was not l’intention of moi to take your focus.”
“You didn't,” the Doctor supplies, doubling his efforts to stare at the wires. “Just doing some maintenance here.”
The Toymaker tuts, and the Doctor falls silent. “Ah, you mustn't lie avec moi!” His voice comes far closer than it had been before, maybe a meter away – it sends a shiver down his back, the teleportation and the proximity both. Turning, the Doctor catches his gaze to prevent him from coming any closer. “Tell me, vraiment. Am I a distraction?”
“Nope,” he lies with a smile.
The accent drops. “Well, that’s good to hear,” and the Toymaker in one fluid motion closes the gap between them, grabs him by the collar, tugs him closer, and kisses him.
Instinctively the hands that he had raised go slack, then fall at his sides, and in spite of everything, despite his greater judgement and despite his hopeful ability to stay vigilant even in times of dire emotion, the Doctor’s perception narrows to only a few very select things.
- The Toymaker's lips are very soft;
- He tastes vaguely of candy floss, and;
- Right, it is the Toymaker that is kissing him.
At that the Doctor makes a sort of crumpled, ‘mmph!’ noise as even those thoughts slide away for his mind to go completely blank.
After an eternity of a few seconds, at long last he pulls back, and the Doctor’s eyes snap open to find that he is being studied. In it, the Toymaker appears to be satisfied. His lipstick is smudged and his eyes brighter than ever; his gaze, dragging heavily across him, is more devouring than his kiss, intent on watching every wavering of expression as the Doctor searches, in vain, for a comeback of something, anything to say. It’s a fruitless endeavor.
“That color, it looks good on you,” the Toymaker murmurs, and the Doctor cannot tell if he means the shade of crimson he surely is blushing or what has to be from the feel of it the lipstick he’s left behind, and oh god, the fact that both are there, a fact that makes his breath stutter all over again. Blue eyes glitter and study every reaction. He is hopeless right now.
And without so much as a flash of light or burst of magician’s smoke the Toymaker is gone, teleported away to who knows where, leaving the Doctor standing alone in the hallway wearing an expression of shock that is quickly developing into wonder. Half a minute passes - perhaps a full one as he stands there frozen in space and maybe time. It takes great effort to even his breathing. In search of answers he lifts one trembling hand to his mouth, and touches his lips. They are warm, and on the pad of his pointer finger a purple pigment comes away. He exhales shakily; with a glance to his reflection he confirms how, yes, the Toymaker has left his mark.
Rose Noble’s voice snaps him out of the reverie, and causes him to clap his hand over his mouth. “Everything alright, spaceman? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She seems to reconsider her choice of language. “Wait, are there any ghosts around here?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” he defends, a bit more strongly than he had gone for as he turns away, “But thank you, I appreciate it.” He shakes his head. “Just a… wire that made me think of something.”
Rose nods solemnly. “The wires, yeah.”
And then he is alone again, in the room of the TARDIS that now seems too wide, despite his familiarity of it. Something in the very air around him seems to burn. The Toymaker just kissed him. The Celestial Toymaker, a being from beneath the universe and just as powerful as it all, just grabbed him by the face, pulled him close, and – oh, god, only thinking about it was enough to get his heartbeats to spike again. He shoves the thoughts out of his mind. The wires – the wires, he has to get this done.
He finishes the maintenance process, though focusing on any intelligible thought seems a Herculean task. He seals up the metal panel back with a slam. Afterwards, he allows himself to collapse and sprawl into a seat. Mainly, he has one question in his mind: what?
So they've kissed, then. Did that mean the Toymaker was trying to romance him? It sure looked like it, the Doctor thinks – he puzzles through more memories, snapshots of how the Toymaker has acted and flounced about him, and tries to find more evidence. The tone of voice was certainly one. What he had said in the assembly room, that comment on – well, better to think less than more of that, if he wanted to keep his composure, but that certainly seemed… romantic. The deep-seated interest he has had in his lives – could that be one? Or has the Toymaker just been driven for revenge? But the way he's been looking at him, the glimmering in his eyes – was it really all flirting? Could that be it?
His heart sinks when he realizes it: the Toymaker was constantly playing new roles. Flirtation, romance – it was and has always been a character archetype after all, and surely served just as another behavior for him to commandeer. The German accent didn’t mean he was actually German, so why would – and was it right to even think of him this way? The Toymaker was practically a concept, a manifestation – romance should hardly have a meaning to him. And that all aside: they were, after all, enemies. The Toymaker would do what he could to irritate him; it was his specialty, after all. What he did was what annoyed, what burrowed under people’s skin. And for the Doctor to think it something genuine for him to – oh, he was a fool, and one clouded by these desires too. It was hardly appropriate.
This storm of thoughts, it all pales in comparison with one more thought that has struck him, one that has crawled its way into his chest and will not let go after it has seized his hearts.
He really, really wants to kiss the Toymaker again.
【 5 】
It is a confrontation that does not go well.
For the next few days the Doctor feels as if he cannot think. His attention is shot, and normal tasks and happenings blur as if he is merely rushing from one thing to the other. At the most inconvenient times the memory comes back to him, but he can ignore it, he swears he can – something which seems all the more plausible with the fact that he simply cannot find the Toymaker. Anywhere.
No, the entity does not take up space in the command room, nor is he present in the TARDIS. He doesn’t encounter the Doctor in the streets, though it’s by an unfortunate mistaking of identity that the Doctor confronts quite jarringly a puppet salesman in the ancient Corinthian market who just looks too similar to him, at least from the side, only to be met with an apprehensive glance and questioning in a concerned Doric. No, the Toymaker is not there: however much the god had constantly and consistently made his very presence a distraction, it is in the same exaggeration that he now leaves the Doctor’s life.
Except when he does appear. They are briefly in the same room together and the Toymaker smirks at him in the way that is just so him and the Doctor feels that hot flush creep down his neck again, and he decides, no, this is a matter that needs to be addressed. But they are unanswered, his demands to the ceiling, even though the Toymaker would surely have heard him no matter to the distance. Chance, now, dictates their meetings. And what poor chance it is: the next time they see each other, it is less than a minute before the Doctor makes the mistake of for a moment looking away, and by then the Toymaker has vanished. The next time, he blows a kiss and disappears when a chariot rolls between them.
And by that it becomes a pattern: they find each other, the Toymaker is overcome by smiles and grins, and then he goes away within a single minute. So, the Doctor does the entirely reasonable, logical thing. The next time he sees him, he corners the Toymaker in the hallway.
“We need to talk.”
The Toymaker turns and watches him striding up on approach, and bursts into a lovely beaming expression of joy. “Oh! Talking! Wunderbar! Ich can do zhat; Ich can do it very well; Ich ge-love a game of talking!”
The Doctor pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, please not the accents,” he groans, “at least, not now.” The Toymaker frowns comically, but obliges.
“Then what do you want to talk about, Doctor?”
“I think you know,” he answers curtly. He crosses his arms, and then uncrosses them. Neither position feels correct.
“Oh, do I?” He giggles. “Well, Doctor, if I know so well what you want me to say, then why haven’t I said it already? You know I just love having you hear me.”
“You–” the Doctor manages. “I know you're avoiding me, but can we please be honest about this? I think it’d do us both good.”
“Well, but disappearing acts are so fun, Doctor,” he baits, and suddenly his expression has gone all demonstrative, “can't you see?”
Five seconds are all the Doctor gets to realize.
It's the change in color palette that gives it away. Since it relocated to its new building, UNIT had been one of those institutions that sticks with an aesthetic by iron laws – the headquarters is all whites and blues and greys. Sleek, stylish. Yet neither the choices of color palette nor the modernism are not important in that moment, because in spite of all of it, it's a wooden door that the Toymaker is beside. Yes, the Toymaker is reaching for a wooden door, dark-lacquered and adorned. The Doctor knows those doors. He's run through quite a many few of them, in the hallways of the Toymaker’s domain. His hand almost rests on the spiralized brass handle.
His eyes widen. “No,” he quickly says, “I don’t want you going anywhere,” and steps forward in a lunge.
Who grabs who first, that is unsure. It is probably the Doctor, reaching for the Toymaker’s wrist to keep him from retreating further, but the fact is irrelevant when it quickly becomes a game of push and pull: there is a shoving of each other’s arms away, and a tugging of the opposing person closer; they wrestle in a tangling of hands against each other. The Toymaker is all about this – challenges, games, struggles of one being over another – and the Doctor uses that as justification for when he slams him up against the wall, pinning him there with his hands on either shoulder.
I have something to say, the Doctor remembers, but finds that he cannot when the Toymaker is already speaking.
“Well then,” he marvels, “now this is up-close and personal. Do you know this has never happened to me before? Doctor, I didn’t know if you had it in you, but I think,” he pauses, and lets the accent slip back in, “du hast ge-corrected –”
“Oh, will you ever shut up –”
“You know what you could do?” With a pivot the Toymaker seizes the moment like snatching a bird in flight, leaves not a single moment for the words to leave the Doctor’s lips before he pipes up, “to get me to shut up?”
So stretches between them a dangerous silence. The Doctor’s eyes find his and he glares, yet still the Toymaker is as smug as a cat and proud of it, pursing his lips and gloating. They’re very close, now: the air between them grows warm and shivers with tension. The barrier wears thin.
Resolve – the Doctor tries to remember his resolve – but as does collapse a string of dominoes he folds too as he breathes in heavily, curses himself, and then grabs ahold of either side of the Toymaker’s face to pull him in for a kiss, and then another, and then another. Their lips drag against each other’s and it is messy, it is haphazard, while the Toymaker begins to position his arms around the Doctor’s torso and lead them backwards. He is laughing – the bastard is laughing, and the Doctor tilts his chin to try and swallow the noise while the doorway they just walked through vanishes into thin air, and the Doctor whirls around one last time to push him down onto the bed.
As it turns out, the Toymaker had not been lying about being beneath him.
【 +1 】
He wakes up the following morning to an empty bed.
It’s the ceiling of the house he purchased that he's staring at, not the one of the TARDIS. He turns slightly to either side to take a look, but then settles back down with his hands folded, and breathes out a sigh. Everything is quiet.
He’s used to being alone here. Well, when the Nobles are not visiting in the guest room, and he doesn't have any old friends traveling by to stop in. But that's only sometimes, and he hasn't taken on another companion since returning back to earth – no, since Donna quite practically ordered him to stop, he's been spending more and more time on earth. It's a break that however involuntary, however unplanned, he's been finding more and more that he has needed. So just as with the rest of his life before, he's used to being alone; here, it’s quite soothing, actually. But still, something pinches in his hearts.
Perhaps the game of chase and runaway will continue.
He turns – and the Toymaker is suddenly there, lounging beside him to fill the space on the bed that had previously been empty. The Doctor blinks.
“Where did you come in from?” he deadpans.
The Toymaker raises an eyebrow. “Last I remember, you invited me in.” He gestures broadly, perhaps to signify his existence. “Very enthusiastically.”
He shakes his head. “No, I meant –” He sighs. “Nevermind that.”
It had been his plan to follow that up with something else to say, but in that moment exactly the Doctor finds that all powers of speech have deserted him. “Good morning, by the way” the Toymaker says, and then makes a humored noise, “is that not what the humans say, here? It is so hopeful of them.”
The Doctor doesn't respond. Instead, he only feels the desire to sink deeper down, ignore what there was to say. Does he not know what to do? It surprises him, in all honesty. He was the Doctor – he knew how to deal with things! And here he was, nervous and wordless over what had to be done with a silly tryst.
Well, if it was going to be that way, then better lean into it. Always impulsive, he breathes in, feels the fear wash over him, and asks, very honestly, “What are your intentions?”
Whatever he was anticipating, it was not that. The Toymaker laughs unexpectedly in a way that not too long ago it would have caused the Doctor to retreat – but if anything, now, it causes the dam welling within him to break, and his words come tumbling out like he can’t stop them.
“It’s just –” he pauses. “I know where we are right now, and I know there’s no going back from here – but I want to know if you’re serious about this. Because I honestly don’t know how to take this, and I need to know if you want... this.” He swallows, trying to prevent his voice from breaking further. “Because I want this.”
“Doctor,” the Toymaker says.
He continues. “It’s just, if this is only a game, or if you’re being serious,” he goes on, beginning to ramble a bit, “I’m so used to putting things down and running away again, and I just can’t keep it up – I mean, Donna told me herself –”
“Doctor,” the Toymaker repeats, sounding strangely scandalized.
“So – is this –?” he concludes anticlimatically, looking up at last.
“Doctor,” the Toymaker says abruptly a third time, and the Doctor is almost taken aback to find the expression painted on his face not to be derision, or easy ridicule. Instead it is something softer – it could even be called consoling. But most tellingly, it is he who is now blushing, and it takes him a few moments to gather his words and actually speak. “Tell me, am I ever serious?
A moment is suspended in space between them. The Toymaker waits for a response, but doesn't find one. Instead, gently, reaches down and takes his hand in his.
“Oh, everything is a game. Did I not tell you this?” And the Doctor feels lost. “It’s checkers and talking and knowing how much space to give when walking down the street and eye contact. And dating, and love. Different moves and prizes, of course, but,” he pauses, “It is still a game.” He looks into his eyes then, with a gaze so piercing, so familiar, yet different now. “Yes, Doctor. I can be serious. With you, I will always be willing to. Of course what I’m doing is a game, and I have never, ever wanted to win something more than I do right now. ”
The Doctor looks down at their joined hands, and feels something fluttering in his chest. He swallows, and begins again. “So – this was not a one-time thing?”
“Hm,” the Toymaker muses, “Maybe two?”
A soft laugh escapes the Doctor’s breath. “I don’t think that’s a much better hand to pull,” he observes.
He gasps as if remembering. “Right! Then… how about seven?”
“Seven?” the Doctor says bizarrely.
“It’s a good number. Most common roll of two dice,” he defends with no further explanation.
Drawing himself up the Doctor shakes his head, pretends to ignore the Toymaker’s pout. There is sunlight creeping in through the curtains, and he thinks of opening them to let the shine of morning in. The two of them are, after all, in much more of a manageable state than they had been last night; so he does.
When he kisses the Toymaker next, he can feel the smile on his lips. Pulling away, he cannot help smiling back, looking into the blue eyes that are still glittering like glass.
And then he kisses him again.