A/N: Abruptly short drabble, written eons ago.

Title: Now the pale morning sings of forgotten things
Summary: "Pardon?" said the Sam-who-was-not-Sam, politician's smile tugging at his lips.
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Gene, The Master
Life on Mars/Doctor Who
I own nothing.

"Sam" Gene says, low and wretched.

He's wearing a sharp black suit, fitted and tailored and looking like it cost more than Gene had ever earned in his life, and his eyes, his eyes aren't the same, even if the face they're gazing out from could never belong to anyone else.

"Pardon?" the Sam-who-isn't-Sam asks, thin mouth stretched into a sharp smile, and scuffling a few inches back from the dirt in his shiny black shoes. They probably cost more than his bloody Quattro, Gene thinks, not without a note of bitterness, a deep ache he cannot forget.

"Wrong man" Gene grumbles, low, and gruff. He pushes past the politician without apology; still illogically angry, still hurt- and refuses to turn back, to look, to make sure.

Because if he does, he'll beg.

Somewhere in his head, Gene will beg. And Gene doesn't beg, not for anybody.

Not for Sam. (only; he would. Godamn it, he would.)