A/N: The general backstory for this is that the Doctor is traveling with the Master, who is trying to change his conniving ways. This can be interpreted either as slash or simply as friendship. It can also be either the 10th or the 11th Doctor. Personally, in my head I picture it being the 11th, but I think that's due to those promotional pictures for Christopher and His Kind, the ones that have Matt Smith lounging on a dock with some guy.
Summary: Amid the chaos of the drums, snapshots of an afternoon of peace.
This False Heaven
Twin suns, red grass, burnt orange sky. A blue box. Two men, one brunette and one blonde, both tall and lanky. The brunette leaning out of the door of the blue box, one hand resting on the door frame, a quizzical expression on his face. Gallifrey? No, but close enough. The scruffy blonde peering out from behind, eyes flashing. The drumbeat has softened. Still there- always there- but not overwhelming, now. Hands linked together as they ignore their caution and venture outside. Freedom, almost.
The Doctor and the Master. No. Not here. They are others, selves from a past life, as they abandon all sorrow and dignity, and they fly through the ruby grass. The thin blades whip against their knees, wave after them as they tear across the field. Gnarled trees with silver leaves flutter ineffectually at the runners, but they take no notice. No drums can catch them here. No Doctor and no Master, only Theta Sigma and Koschei, revived from the memories in which they have been preserved for so long. Scream at the sky. Scream out in joy at seeing something like home again, scream out rage at so many years lost in battles and hatred. No war here; only the flat expanse of sky, the faint outline of mountains on the horizon, the rippling flora. Peace.
A sluggish river, mirroring the fiery sky yet cool to the touch. Shoes and socks gone; two pairs of bony feet dangling the lazy flow. They lie on their backs, hands behind their heads, sleeves and trousers rolled up. The earth lukewarm against their skin. We could stay here. A hopeful suggestion, one that can never become reality. No answer; the rejection does not need to be spoken. The brunette looks away, gazing at the jagged mountains so many miles away, his feet wiggling in the water. The blonde stares at his silent companion then turns his face to the sky. Too good to last.
The suns slump towards the horizons. Almost evening. They are hesitant to leave but know they must. The dream is over. All the time in the universe, but only a short time set aside for this. Meandering paths lead back to the blue box, footprints showing that the maker wavered right then left, paused here to investigate a flowering bush, swerved there to the meet the other walking beside him. Bare feet; shoes dangle from their hands as they wander. For they are wanderers- they have no home. Not even this false approximation of a glorious planet long since burnt to ash can change that. They replace their shoes and jackets and masks, become the Doctor and the Master once more. The blue box leaves an empty silence behind it, and the planet sleeps peacefully. It waits, undisturbed, for others to find it, to run through its fields and swim in its waters. The ghosts of Theta and Koschei linger. Echoing laughter that fades with the wind, lost in cluttered childhood memories, buried in the grey rubble of time.