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Rain

Change. There were good things to be said for it, certainly. Not for him the structured, banal sameness of Gallifrey. He had adventure! Excitement! Though sometimes it did get to be all too much. Four regenerations in the blink of an eye. Of course, they were accidents, for the most part. And the body he had now was young and strong. With the Master out of the way it should last him for centuries.

And companions... it seemed that just when he'd get used to them, they'd leave. And he so hated being alone. Still, it would be nice to be able to choose one himself for once, rather than having them forced on him. This new one, Peri, he wasn't sure how she would work out. She seemed awfully young, but she had spunk. After all, Turlough was rather unreliable at first, and now look at him: returning home triumphantly, a hero, his long-lost brother at his side. He might not be a counselling service, but his companions had always left as better people than when they joined him.

Katarina? Sara? Adric? He shook his head angrily. Best not to think of them.

Tegan

The name sprang unbidden to his mind, and he found himself wandering towards the rain room... Tegan's favourite room. It took longer to find than before -- the TARDIS had moved it again. Still, that was good. He didn't want anyone else blundering in and disturbing the place. One was enough.

The room looked the same in the dim light, though maybe a little colder. He walked over and pulled the draperies open, stepping over an abandoned sketchbook he was just able to pretend wasn't there. He opened the French doors, stared out at the muted landscape, the sky more grey than silver now, the rain less like mist than before, and sank down.

'Not bunched up with your arms around your knees,' she had said the last time they were here together. 'Relax.'

He smiled, closed his eyes, and leaned back against the door, let the memories flood over him....

"Look to the light."

Obediently, he tilted his head, let her move him, mold him like putty beneath her hands. They were warm. She sat near him, sketching, and he could still feel her fingers against his skin, her breath against his hair. He shivered. Watching her watching him. The rhythmic sound of the rain, the scratching of the charcoal against the paper, the soft sounds of her heartbeat, her breath, his hearts, his breath.... Oh. He inhaled deeply, let it out slowly. That was better.

She made a sound, and he looked up, startled. She was looking at him again, with a smile on her face. "Breathing is allowed, you know."

He smiled back, embarrassed, then glanced away again. It was very strange, sitting here with her looking at him. Not staring exactly, but looking at him, through him... admiring him. He tried looking around the room, at the dark panelled walls absorbing the silvery light, at the paintings, anywhere but at her. But his eyes kept being drawn back. It became harder and harder to look away. Part of him wondered at the affect she was having on him, but then he shrugged it off. It was just art, after all. Nothing wrong with that. He'd been studying it for centuries, hadn't he? He'd watched people with live models before. There was nothing exceptional about it.

He forced himself to focus; to remain perfectly still so she could concentrate. She really was quite good, and he supposed he owed her something for dragging her all over the universe, almost getting her killed. His breathing slowed, become steady and deep. He could feel her eyes on him again, at his throat, his jaw, her gaze followed by ghost fingers, light against his skin. The scratching charcoal stuttered to a stop, then started up again, stronger, covering the sound of her breathing, yet muted by the rain which fell just as steadily, occasionally splashing his hand. A light breeze came through the open door, stirring his hair, chilling his wet skin. He started to shiver.

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there; everything was blurring together, the sounds and scent of the rain, the feel as it splashed against him, her eyes on him, looking through his clothes, raising a heat which was cooled by the breeze. He'd heard of people who believed that capturing an image was like capturing the soul. He'd always thought that was amusing, but now.... Did Tegan hold his soul? Could she want his soul?

His heartsrate sped up, and his breath quickened. Did she know what she was doing to him? What *was* she doing to him? He didn't know. He didn't care. Whatever this was, it was too strong to resist. He was trapped, like a fly in amber. Frozen, but for a delicious heat that was spreading through his body, fanned by the breeze, like her breath against his skin. He felt almost hollow. He couldn't seem to think coherently. He could just watch her. Hear her breathe. Feel her look at him. In the room he made, remaking the maker.

His cheek still burned where she'd touched him.

"Doctor." He blinked. "Doctor?" Blinked again. Tegan. He hadn't noticed her finish. "What do you think?" she asked, holding up the sketch, a hopeful smile on her face.

It was hard to look at objectively. It was... him. This body. Long legs stretched out, leaning back on his arms, head tilted where she'd placed it. Was his neck that long? He'd never noticed before.

"That bad?"

He started; she was talking to him again, her voice rueful. "No." He swallowed, tried again. "No, it's quite good, actually."

A smile lit up her face. "Do you think so?" She shifted over to lean companionably against him, holding the sketchbook on her lap so they could both see it. The heat of her body seemed to be drawing all the moisture out of his. His throat was dry, his hearts pounded in his chest. "I had some problems here," she continued, lightly running her fingers over the paper. He shivered again, feeling gooseflesh raise on his leg, echoing the path she traced. "But I suppose it didn't turn out too badly. Good practice, anyway." She looked up at him, a soft smile on her face, in her eyes. He froze as her breath tickled his skin. "Thank you," she whispered.

She was so close. He said her name, reached out for her, but his hands closed on empty air.

He opened his eyes, looked around the room. An abandoned sketchbook lay near the divan, mocking him. It was darker now, the rain coming down harder. He could even feel it running down his face.