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“-we could be… celestial.” The Doctor stands on the unit helipad, hand outstretched, hearts more bared than he would like.
He’s not just offering for offering’s sake, he actually wants the Toymaker to say yes. No more death, no more fighting. This has to end here, before he is forced to destroy this fascinating creature.
Perhaps the universe had answered his prayers, because miraculously, the Toymaker shrugs, nods, gets off the galvanic beam. Walking over to discuss the deal, completely ignoring the shocked stares of half a dozen UNIT soldiers.
"Infinite games?" he asks, completely ignoring the Doctor’s offered handshake. "Okay!"
He's smiling brilliantly, making way too much eye contact. Very awkwardly, the doctor retracts his hand.
Is it a joke, an insult? The implication of “your offer is interesting enough for me to accept it, but we are not friends?"
It isn't important, at least for now. The Toymaker has accepted his offered truce, and all is well in the world.
Time spent near the entity makes him doubt this original assumption of deliberate, senseless rudeness.
For one, the Toymaker seems perfectly happy to spend time with him, and rarely needs to be bribed with a game to make it happen. In fact, he seems strangely unconcerned with the Doctor keeping up his side of the deal at all. It’s a bit worrying, because if it isn’t games, what is he after?
But the Toymaker’s reasons for doing anything ever are infinitely mysterious, and his peaceful behaviour definitely falls under the category of “gift horse”, so the Doctor tries not to think about it.
He doesn’t dare challenge the chaos creature’s willingness to listen to his lectures, hides his bafflement when, despite pouting and complaining lots and lots, he follows the rules that UNIT had come up with.
The Toymaker not insisting on games does not mean he doesn’t embrace them with boundless enthusiasm. His giddy, almost childlike excitement has lost absolutely none of his usual energy. But he does not demand them, which is strange enough. Being considerate, pleasant, selfless – none of these qualities fit him even a little.
Amidst all this uncertainty, one fact remains: for some reason, the Toymaker seems to like the simple act of coexisting.
Sometimes they talk about things that interest them both, the Toymaker constantly trying to coax the Doctor into losing his cool. Sometimes, they don’t talk, each busy with their own thing. The Toymaker working on his (non-cursed, non-sentient, as he had assured) toymaking projects, while the Doctor fiddles around with a piece of tech from the tardis.
In fact, when having the opportunity to choose between spending time in the Doctor's vicinity or alone, he seemed to prefer the previous more often than not.
The Doctor had taken notes on the matter, had analyzed the statistical significance of his findings. With a being so inherently inauthentic in presentation, he was most comfortable using hard data as a means of understanding the situation. Smiles could be fake, words could be lies, but if the Toymaker decided to conduct his affairs near him, that was a choice he had made consciously.
It had to mean something.
The Toymaker liked to spend his time in the same room as him, but always made meticulously sure to otherwise keep his distance. If he had to get closer, his movements turned careful, measured. Avoiding contact at any cost. When handing him something, he liked to delicately drop the object before their hands could touch.
When trying to get his attention, he did so verbally, instead of grabbing or tapping his shoulder. If that did not work, due to the Doctor being especially lost in thought, he would snap his fingers in front of his eyes in an annoying manner until he got a reaction.
This leads the Doctor to the following conclusion:
The Toymaker must be averse to touch. Some of his previous bodies had been too, so he knows what that feels like. Unwanted but well-meaning hugs, filling him with guilty terror. People invading his personal space, making his skin itch and his muscles tense. Anxious nausea, shame, the urge to flee.
He's no stranger to the feeling, and he certainly does not want to inflict it upon anyone. He vows to respect the Toymaker's distance, and prays never to forget.
And so their strange little coexistence goes on. There's fights, yes, but the worst the Toymaker has done so far is storm off in anger after calling him "the universe's most moronic hypocrite." He hadn't unleashed chaos onto the world, and he hadn't murdered anyone.
All in all, the Doctor is incredibly pleased.
Their routine continues, unmentioned. The Toymaker seeking closeness, but never too much of it, while the Doctor makies very sure to never overstep any boundaries.
It's respect, sure, but it's calculation as well. An ancient god with questionable morals having a panic attack is the last thing they need right now. Who knows what the fallout of that might look like?
On a grey day in November, he would come closer than ever before to finding out.
It happens like this:
An angry customer, returning to the Toymaker's shop, to complain. She had bought a toy and didn't quite know how lucky she was to have done so only after the Doctor had forcibly implemented various rules.
Since the lady did not know how closely she had come to a terrible fate, she apparently felt it appropriate to test her luck further.
"I simply did not think the train would be such ridiculously low quality," she complains, glaring at the Toymaker.
The Toymaker nods sagely, hiding his fury impressively well. "That first part ist true, you did not zhink."
Ah. There it is, the verbal equivalent of pouring gasoline in the flames.
The woman blows up completely. "How dare you!" She shouts, jabbing a finger at the Toymaker. Deducing that she looks about ready to resort to physical violence, the Doctor carefully positions himself between the two. He doubts the entity would throw the first metaphorical punch, but he's not so sure he'd be above retaliation.
"Are you calling me stupid? When your toy barely lasted one day before it broke-"
"You see," the Toymaker interrupts, voice sharper now. "Ein wooden train toy isn't really made to withstand being put in zhe fireplace."
Sometimes, the Doctor wonders how anyone can work a customer service job without turning evil.
"Excuse me??" The lady exclaims, voice getting uncomfortably shrill. "You never said-"
She steps forward in obvious anger, unhappy that the Doctor matches her step.
"You," she hisses, "this isn't about you. I'm trying to talk to this fraud of a shopkeeper, so if you could get out of my way."
"Sorry," the Doctor lies, "can't do that."
"Maniacs like you are the exact reason I need a bodyguard in the first place," the Toymaker chimes in snarkily from behind him, extremely unhelpful as always.
The Doctor turns around to glare at him, noticing too late that the lady has decided to escalate the situation after all. She shoves him roughly, destroying his balance, before swiveling around to angrily storm off.
The Doctor stares at her departing form, stunned into silence by her overblown reaction to a wooden toy being flammable.
Only then does he notice the absolute stillness behind him, as well as the fact that his fall had been broken by something solid.
...Oh no.
He scrambles away immediately, turning to observe the damage this caused to their carefully curated status quo.
The Toymaker stands frozen, still looking at the spot where the customer had stood before they left. (Unbothered, alive, without further snarky comment from the entity. Only now does the Doctor realize how uncharacteristic this is.)
He’s staring blankly, neither breathing nor blinking, just like a pillar of salt.
"I'm so sorry," he immediately utters. "I didn't..." didn't what? It hadn't been his fault, but he's not going to redirect any potential anger onto a civilian. Luckily, the Toymaker doesn't look angry. He just looks... blank, which is perhaps more worrying.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, unsure what to say to remedy the situation.
Finally, the Toymaker seems to wake from his daze, wide eyes snapping towards him. It's like watching him remember how to be human in real time. Only, he’s doing a considerably worse job than usual. He's immensely off-putting in this moment, and the Doctor suspects it isn't on purpose for once.
"Sorry?" He asks, forgetting to move his mouth along to the words, which makes him seem like a ventriloquist. He hasn't blinked yet, and his movements are too jerky.
"Sorry for what?"
Awkward.
"I thought- I mean... don't you dislike touch?"
The Toymaker cocks his head, movement becoming more fluid. He's recovering. Good.
"Nein, I don't. What makes you think so?"
Even if he hadn't thought so before, his reaction just now would have definitely made him suspect it. "I... well, you always keep your distance. You seem to make sure that we never touch. I thought..."
The Doctor feels ridiculous, saying it out loud. Had he really misjudged the situation so badly?
The Toymaker has gone quiet, contemplating his words. "That ist true, but..." he stops again, perhaps debating how much to share. "Ich assumed that was what you would be ge-wanting."
Now it's the Doctor's turn to be confused. "…Me? Why?"
"I am off. Wrong. My existence is a stain upon the fabric of the universe, and people do not like it."
The Doctor almost chokes on the implication of it. The Toymaker, meticulously keeping his distance, for his sake. "Oh," he breathes out, softly. "Oh, no, that's not..."
He steps closer, reaching out - but the Toymaker's expression stops him. "You're not human. But you know what? Neither am I. It could never bother me."
At that, the Toymaker barks a laugh, short and bitter. "Don't fool yourself. You haven't seen anything yet."
That's probably true. He can only imagine what fascinating horrors lurk beneath that perfect skin. "I would like to."
There it is again, that sweet shock, a brief flash of wonder and uncertainty. Gone is the bitterness, replaced by something very breakable.
"I'll keep that in mind," he says, voice shaking slightly.
"Alright," says the Doctor, turning to leave the Toymaker to his emotions. "See you later then."
"Wait."
The Toymaker's voice halts him in his tracks.
"Don't feel obligated to keep your distance."
He turns around, surprised to find the Toymaker staring at him quite intently. Urging him on, to... to do what?
Experimentally, he takes a step closer. Joy flickers in those strange eyes, supporting his hypothesis.
The Toymaker seems like predator and prey at the same time, his intense focus never wavering, tense body language speaking of terrified yet hopeful expectation.
Close enough now to touch, the Doctor experimentally brushes the Toymaker's arm with his hand, only the lightest of touches.
The Toymaker gasps, flinching as if he had been zapped with electricity.
"Is that okay?" The Doctor asks, once again concerned. "Yes," the Toymaker quickly assures, "yes, that's- it's..."
It's strange, how strongly affected he is by something so innocent, so normal. Then again, perhaps it isn't normal to him. After all, he probably only ever had antagonistic relations before. Perhaps this really is his first time, letting someone get so close.
It breaks the Doctor's hearts.
The Toymaker seems lost, oddly childlike. Tense and awkward, wanting, but unsure what he craves, or how to ask for it.
He should leave. This isn't right, is too vulnerable for what they are. They shouldn't be doing this.
The Doctor turns to leave.
He isn't quick enough to miss the Toymaker's face falling, the expression of utter grief and resignation.
It’s heartbreaking.
God, he is so weak. And such an idiot too.
"Would you like a hug?" He offers, not yet turning around. He is not sure what he fears more - the Toymaker laughing at him, or the Toymaker accepting his offer.
"Yes."
No accent, no ridicule, no sassy comment. One single word, whispered quietly.
"Okay," he says, turning back around. "Okay." His mouth feels too dry.
He steps closer towards the entity that is watching him in wide-eyed terror, looking by all rights as if he is about to bolt. His arms are rigid by his side, fingers balled into fists.
Very carefully, as if he were working with a spooked animal, the Doctor steps into his space. Waiting for a this is too much, for the Toymaker to laugh it off and bolt. Neither happens. They just stand there awkwardly, too close, and the Doctor notices for the first time ever that the Toymaker smells like wood, glue and stardust.
Moving slowly, he raises his arms, wraps them around the creature he had fought so many times before.
It feels very wrong. Too cold, both the texture and density all wrong. It doesn't feel like he's holding living flesh, doesn't feel like he is holding flesh at all. It’s more like holding a lifeless mannequin, a comparison that makes him want to shudder. Worst of all, the cold burns him to the core.
Every fiber in his body wants to flinch away, his instincts screaming at him to flee. Remembering the Toymaker's worry, the vulnerability and shame in his eyes, he grits his teeth and holds on.
It doesn't take long for the Toymaker to adjust. He is, after all, a formidable mimic. His temperature turns from biting cold to an almost normal warmth. He sags a little, letting himself be held. His firmness changes, sudden breath and the sound of heartbeats taking him away from his state of unnatural stillness.
With a strange ache in his chest, the Doctor realizes that the Toymaker is copying him, replicating what it feels like to hold him, down to the smallest of details. Had the Toymaker truly never been hugged before, in his billions of years existing? That sounds lonely.
After a bit, breathing shaky gasps into his shoulder, the Toymaker manages to bring his trembling hands up as well, wrapping them around the Doctor in return. So very careful and gentle, a touch that is barely there at all.
"It's alright," The Doctor murmurs. "You can hug me back."
At his encouragement, the touch turns more tangible, even a little frantic. "So this is what it's like," the Toymaker comments, trying and failing to sound detached. "I never imagined it would be so..."
He pulls the Doctor closer still, pressing his face into his shoulder. "...so warm..."
He's trembling, the Doctor realizes.
They shouldn't be doing this, but he's glad that they are. He readjusts his hold, lets himself enjoy the closeness. He's been wanting this - he hadn't wanted to admit it before, thinking the desire selfish in the most horrible of ways, but it's true. He had wanted this just as much as the Toymaker apparently had.
What now? How would they handle the fallout? No way a creature so unwilling to show weakness would just manage to move on from this. Would he freak out? Would he do something stupid, just to prove to them both that this didn't matter at all?
He doesn't want that to be the case. Despite everything, he really wants this to work. And the Toymaker clearly wants it too. It’s obvious in hindsight, how hard he had been trying.
The Doctor curls around the trembling creature in his arms protectively, daring to hope. Maybe, just maybe, they would be okay.