He shouldn't have. He knew he was being baited when he was told about this social gathering. It's a larger one than he's attended in... Rassilon, it's been centuries now. For so long, he's kept his head down, his nose in his work, and frequently chose to stay in the lab instead of going back to his new apartment. (He supposes he can't call it "new" any more. But he can't really call it "home," either. Home doesn't exist any more.)
But he let himself be baited. He did. And he knew it was a bad idea. But...
But.
He probably shouldn't be drinking this much, either. But he won't be staying here long. He's only here long enough to... see. To see him. To see from afar... he...
Ranser regenerated. He regenerated again, and while he was off-world. Ranser regenerated, in pain and far away and alone.
Zeta had to at least come and see him for himself.]
[Fevrain expects tonight to be an easy night as far as undercover assignments go. Ranser, fortunately, wasn't very social according to CIA files, so Fevrain could spend most of the party standing quietly against a wall and engaging in shy and impersonal small talk with anyone who attempted to strike up a conversation.
It's a waste of a good party, really.
Well, not a good party. It's a Gallifrey party, after all. A waste of an adequate party. He can't even let himself have more than the one drink. He has to stay sharp and be ready to react as Ranser to whatever is thrown his way.]
[The downside of this is Zeta isn't sure which unfamiliar face is Ranser. There are enough wallflowers that it's just too difficult for him to tell.
He'd always thought he'd be able to pick Ranser out of a crowd, no matter the regeneration, no matter that the entrelacement is gone. He can't stop thinking about it. He should know. He should be able to tell. He should know.
... but. He has to refill his drink, anyway. It takes asking a couple of people before someone knows and can point him out. If it weren't for the alcohol, Zeta wouldn't be able to ask at all, so thank Pythia for that, he supposes.
When Zeta lays eyes on him, he... He falls still. Rassilon's rod, he's regenerated utterly gorgeous. And young, it's been a while since Ranser regenerated young. There's a deep pang in Zeta's chest. Ranser... is home again, back on Gallifrey after having fled the planet to get away from him, and he looks like that.
A drink and a half later, and Zeta finds himself most of the way across the room, closer to Ranser. Close enough to be almost in conversational range. He hadn't intended -- He hadn't meant to approach him, he -- He's too close. He's far too close. And Ranser may have changed faces since they last saw each other, but Zeta hasn't, so Ranser will have no problem identifying him, and he really ought to leave before he does something he regrets.
Fortunately for Zeta, someone else has cut him off. Someone else is stepping in to speak to Ranser. Someone they haven't seen since school, if Zeta remembers right, so so so long ago. Someone who had always made Ranser uncomfortable, after how they'd treated him. Zeta scowls down at his glass.]
[Fevrain plasters on an awkward smile as someone comes up and talks to him and gets altogether to close into "Ranser's" personal space. Fevrain can spot a subtle dominance display while drunk and half-blind. Being unfortunately sober right now, it's even more obvious to him. Fevrain lets it happen, leans back into the wall a little in response while keeping the strained polite smile on his face and giving brief replies during all the appropriate pauses.]
[Typical. Absolutely typical. And Zeta can't stand it. He knows he ought to stay out of it, he ought to leave, he's gotten his fill, he's seen Ranser, he's seen enough.
And he's never been good at doing what he ought to when he's sober, let alone this drunk.
(And he's never been good at leaving Ranser to struggle alone.)
It's a simple thing to insert himself into the conversation. He puts too much force into it, he knows, but he also knows he wouldn't be able to bring himself to care even if he was sober. He's very good at being loud and biting and rude, especially rude enough to make polite eyes turn or shrink away. He doesn't need an excuse, either; he's never gotten along with this one, so the idea of him coming along to seemingly try and pick a fight while drunk is entirely believable.]
Yes, go on, [he drawls as they retreat,] I'm sure you've better things to do with your time.
[.......... but now he's left alone with Ranser.
Zeta falls still and silent for a moment, his eyes on his glass. There isn't much left in it. He doesn't know what to say, and he feels keenly aware how this is the complete opposite of how he'd been acting just nanospans ago. Now that he's here, he's not sure how to back out graciously. He can't just... leave now without saying anything. But he finds he has to clear his throat to unstick his voice.]
I... [No, that failed miserably. Try again.] It's... [Good to see you. No. Zeta shakes his head at himself and looks away, out into the crowd.] Apologies. I know you could've handled it. But I... [Couldn't stay away. No, don't say that.] Couldn't resist. [There. Stiff, awkward, but serviceable. Makes it sound like he was itching for the fight simply for the sake of it.]
Why Ranser? [Zeta mutters down at his glass. If Louis hadn't selected Ranser for Fevrain's cover, then Zeta wouldn't be in this position.] Why couldn't he have picked any other face in the crowd? [... except he knows the answer to that. Ranser -- the real Ranser -- isn't on Gallifrey at the moment. And isn't due to return for... the forseeable future. And Ranser wouldn't have taken that off-world post if it weren't for the divorce.
So Zeta only has himself to blame, really, for this entire damn situation.]
Don't answer that, [he tells Fevrain with a sulking glance.
It feels bizarre, to be sitting here at Zeta's preferred pub across from... him. Not-Ranser. Agent Fevrain. Zeta hadn't thought anything of allowing him to attend the meeting where he shredded Louis to pieces, loudly, for spans. (Which had been an immensely satisfying experience, once it was all said and done.) But, now... Now, he's been roped into filling in the gaps of Louis' information, and he's staring down something he otherwise resists at all costs: baring his life to a complete and utter stranger. Which is precisely why, when Fevrain met him at headquarters for their scheduled meeting, Zeta had immediately announced, "I can't be sober for this, professionalism be damned."
He's still too sober for this to start, so he quickly downs half his glass.] I don't know what will be useful to you. I've always been in tech. I have no idea what you need, so you'll have to... [A vague gesture with a loose wrist and a displeased pull of his mouth.] Ask.
[Fevrain slouches comfortably in his seat, partly because sitting at attention would stand out in a Low Town dive, partly because he is comfortably here. This is his territory.]
If you were an undercover specialist they'd probably have you impersonating Ranser.
[Which would likely be terribly uncomfortable, to have to take on the persona of an estranged ex-spouse, but the CIA--and Time Lords in general--rarely take anyone's feelings into consideration.]
[Zeta, meanwhile, is hunching forward over the table, shoulders tight and elbows on the table. He chose this place, but the situation keeps him from being at any amount of ease. He'd rather not acknowledge anyone else in the building.]
Our parents. They'd been friends since the Academy, and made certain we were acquainted since practically the day we were loomed. So... We grew up together. [Despite being from different Houses.]
[Fevrain knows that from his research. And for the children of Academy-trained Time Lords to not themselves attend the Academy and become Time Lords is unusual.]
How many outfits are you going to go through? [Zeta gripes. He doesn't actually have as much room to complain, given he's still in his basic undercover clothes (he'd had to make a preliminary change to get on-world properly).
They're preparing for the upcoming alien party, and Zeta was a nightmare during the mission assignment, during the briefing, during the trip... and he is most certainly going to be a nightmare during the actual party. He hates field missions to begin with, but this one? With these aliens? And their culture? And the cover they have to use because of it?
At least at the moment, it's only the two of them, and he can express himself fully. He doesn't have to bother pretending to be anything else.]
[Fevrain stands in front of a full length mirror, turning left, then right, then pivoting to look over his shoulder and assess how he looks from behind.]
As many as it takes to find the right one.
[If Fevrain doesn't have all eyes lingering on him when he walks through the door to that party, he will be very disappointed.]
I don't understand what the fuss is about. It'll only matter for a few spans. Ugh.
[A few spans among aliens, pretending to be one of them, playing along with their ridiculousness...
... having to clasp the back of Fevrain's neck, having to endure Fevrain clasping his, because in order to pass as business owners, they must pretend to be married, in accordance to the Qarros culture, and married couples frequently touch the back of each others' necks in public, or else they attract attention under the assumption their marriage is falling apart...
Zeta rakes his fingers through his hair nervously. He hates this. He hates everything about this, and he doesn't understand what Rigan suddenly has against him to force him to do this. Oh, alright, his experience handling artifacts is invaluable, given they're here to retrieve a bloody temporal choke, but he can tell: Rigan singled him out for this. They've never gotten along, but they haven't directly targeted each other since basic training.]
[They're due to meet the TARDIS in only a short while, but Zeta isn't ready. They've successfully convinced all the Qarros that they're a besotted wedded couple in business together, they've successfully bought the damn temporal choke and given the (secretly CIA) location it's to be delivered to, the mission is complete, it's done, it's over, Zeta wants to go home -- But he isn't ready for the TARDIS technician to see him like this. For anyone else at HQ to see him like this, especially.
If he had it his way, Fevrain wouldn't be seeing him like this, either, but then, if he really had his way, none of it would've happened at all, so in the end, it doesn't especially matter.
Zeta staggers into the hotel room they'd begun in, still pale and trembling. He doesn't know how they managed to convince the Qarros that his reaction to the "party trick" all but being forced upon him was a positive one. The damn choke is difficult enough to be near, let alone to have it plopped on his head and switched on. Thank Rassilon it's damaged. And thank Rassilon they didn't know how to use it properly. The thought of the choke clamping down around his throat and then activated, the malfunction trapping him in a broken time bubble --
Zeta needs to stop thinking about it. It's bad enough as it is, his temporal senses still fizzing and sparking and lurching. He swears he keeps catching snippets of the wrong time -- past, future, he doesn't know, he doesn't even get a proper glimpse of it before it's gone, leaving him feeling ill and weak and wrong in its wake.
He lets out a low groan and a Gallifreyan oath as he leans heavily against the wall, presses his forehead against it, trying to will it all to stop.]
[Mission accomplished, or nearly so. Now it's just a matter of finalizing the delivery and reporting back to HQ. Despite Rigan intending it as a punishment, it was an enjoyable mission up until the moment that Zeta was tortured by ignorant aliens who didn't understand the effects a temporal choke has on a time sensitive being. Fevrain nearly threw up just being close to it once it was activated. Rassilon knows how Zeta managed to keep his cover while wearing it.]
[A fizzle and a pop, and Zeta follows where Fevrain leads, leaning heavily on him without hesitation. There's no reason to be self-conscious, not with him. His best friend, his, period, he's the only one he comes back to, who knows him, Zeta can trust him --
A crackle and a snap, and it's gone. Zeta is allowing Fevrain to hold him up and take him to the couch, and whatever he felt about it not even a nanospan ago isn't even left as a memory, only a vague impression that it had been there (and an odd sense of loss). Zeta presses a hand to his head and makes a pathetic noise.]
Yes... Yes, alright, [he manages to croak. He doesn't have the presence of mind to ask what Fevrain intends to try.]
[Fevrain settles Zeta down on the couch and then climbs up next to him. He places his fingers on either side of Zeta's temples and begins to craft a mirror-like shield over Zeta's mind, hovering just over but without touching the surface.]
Your psychic and temporal senses may feel muffled.
[Coordinator Narvin sat behind his desk and assessed the two agents before him. Ironic that it's these two that he needs. Ironic, but convenient. He doesn't trust most of his agents, but he trusts Zeta and Fevrain. For the most part. No one gets to be Chief Coordinator of the CIA without harboring a nugget of suspicion for absolutely everyone. But still, of all the agents it could have been, he's glad it's them.]
Commander Zeta, Agent Fevrain, I have an urgent mission for you. It's field work, but you won't be going off world.
[Interesting. Not unheard of, the CIA does missions everywhere, even across Gallifrey, but the fact that it's the two of them makes it... interesting. He wonders how far they'll be going. He's sure Fevrain would enjoy a couple day vacation together.]
[Real time travel on Gallifrey was dangerous and rarely approved. Time travel to events that CIA agents participated in is only marginally better. But a joint stroll into memories via psychic link and some help from the Matrix, that's simple enough.]
Do you remember your mission to Qarros? I have your reports here if you need refreshing.
That was centuries ago. [And Zeta hated it, but not nearly as much as he's hated the majority of his field missions. Fevrain had managed his tetchiness with ease, and the bulk of the mission had been like what their friendship became: communicating around the others in the room to their own pattern. But then came time for the Qarros to show off their "party trick," and...
... well. Fevrain handled the aftermath of that well, too. Has Fevrain always handled him so well?
... he probably shouldn't be reminescing so fondly right now.]
[Zeta does pick up a bottle of good, strong stuff on the way to Fevrain's, and takes his time deciding what to get in order to try and kill the span.
It doesn't take long enough, though, so he ends up spending the rest of it leaned up against the wall next to Fevrain's door, cradling the bottle in an elbow as he goes over some work on a datapad. Calculations, mostly, and reviewing his assistants' calculations, and it feels like busywork -- something he normally despises, but it isn't as though he has anything else to do.]
[Zeta's reply comes delayed, distracted, because he's still mid-equation. But after a couple of nanospans, he glances up, and the corner of his mouth quirks.]
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He shouldn't have. He knew he was being baited when he was told about this social gathering. It's a larger one than he's attended in... Rassilon, it's been centuries now. For so long, he's kept his head down, his nose in his work, and frequently chose to stay in the lab instead of going back to his new apartment. (He supposes he can't call it "new" any more. But he can't really call it "home," either. Home doesn't exist any more.)
But he let himself be baited. He did. And he knew it was a bad idea. But...
But.
He probably shouldn't be drinking this much, either. But he won't be staying here long. He's only here long enough to... see. To see him. To see from afar... he...
Ranser regenerated. He regenerated again, and while he was off-world. Ranser regenerated, in pain and far away and alone.
Zeta had to at least come and see him for himself.]
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It's a waste of a good party, really.
Well, not a good party. It's a Gallifrey party, after all. A waste of an adequate party. He can't even let himself have more than the one drink. He has to stay sharp and be ready to react as Ranser to whatever is thrown his way.]
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He'd always thought he'd be able to pick Ranser out of a crowd, no matter the regeneration, no matter that the entrelacement is gone. He can't stop thinking about it. He should know. He should be able to tell. He should know.
... but. He has to refill his drink, anyway. It takes asking a couple of people before someone knows and can point him out. If it weren't for the alcohol, Zeta wouldn't be able to ask at all, so thank Pythia for that, he supposes.
When Zeta lays eyes on him, he... He falls still. Rassilon's rod, he's regenerated utterly gorgeous. And young, it's been a while since Ranser regenerated young. There's a deep pang in Zeta's chest. Ranser... is home again, back on Gallifrey after having fled the planet to get away from him, and he looks like that.
A drink and a half later, and Zeta finds himself most of the way across the room, closer to Ranser. Close enough to be almost in conversational range. He hadn't intended -- He hadn't meant to approach him, he -- He's too close. He's far too close. And Ranser may have changed faces since they last saw each other, but Zeta hasn't, so Ranser will have no problem identifying him, and he really ought to leave before he does something he regrets.
Fortunately for Zeta, someone else has cut him off. Someone else is stepping in to speak to Ranser. Someone they haven't seen since school, if Zeta remembers right, so so so long ago. Someone who had always made Ranser uncomfortable, after how they'd treated him. Zeta scowls down at his glass.]
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And he's never been good at doing what he ought to when he's sober, let alone this drunk.
(And he's never been good at leaving Ranser to struggle alone.)
It's a simple thing to insert himself into the conversation. He puts too much force into it, he knows, but he also knows he wouldn't be able to bring himself to care even if he was sober. He's very good at being loud and biting and rude, especially rude enough to make polite eyes turn or shrink away. He doesn't need an excuse, either; he's never gotten along with this one, so the idea of him coming along to seemingly try and pick a fight while drunk is entirely believable.]
Yes, go on, [he drawls as they retreat,] I'm sure you've better things to do with your time.
[.......... but now he's left alone with Ranser.
Zeta falls still and silent for a moment, his eyes on his glass. There isn't much left in it. He doesn't know what to say, and he feels keenly aware how this is the complete opposite of how he'd been acting just nanospans ago. Now that he's here, he's not sure how to back out graciously. He can't just... leave now without saying anything. But he finds he has to clear his throat to unstick his voice.]
I... [No, that failed miserably. Try again.] It's... [Good to see you. No. Zeta shakes his head at himself and looks away, out into the crowd.] Apologies. I know you could've handled it. But I... [Couldn't stay away. No, don't say that.] Couldn't resist. [There. Stiff, awkward, but serviceable. Makes it sound like he was itching for the fight simply for the sake of it.]
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low town
So Zeta only has himself to blame, really, for this entire damn situation.]
Don't answer that, [he tells Fevrain with a sulking glance.
It feels bizarre, to be sitting here at Zeta's preferred pub across from... him. Not-Ranser. Agent Fevrain. Zeta hadn't thought anything of allowing him to attend the meeting where he shredded Louis to pieces, loudly, for spans. (Which had been an immensely satisfying experience, once it was all said and done.) But, now... Now, he's been roped into filling in the gaps of Louis' information, and he's staring down something he otherwise resists at all costs: baring his life to a complete and utter stranger. Which is precisely why, when Fevrain met him at headquarters for their scheduled meeting, Zeta had immediately announced, "I can't be sober for this, professionalism be damned."
He's still too sober for this to start, so he quickly downs half his glass.] I don't know what will be useful to you. I've always been in tech. I have no idea what you need, so you'll have to... [A vague gesture with a loose wrist and a displeased pull of his mouth.] Ask.
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If you were an undercover specialist they'd probably have you impersonating Ranser.
[Which would likely be terribly uncomfortable, to have to take on the persona of an estranged ex-spouse, but the CIA--and Time Lords in general--rarely take anyone's feelings into consideration.]
Everything is useful. How did you meet?
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Our parents. They'd been friends since the Academy, and made certain we were acquainted since practically the day we were loomed. So... We grew up together. [Despite being from different Houses.]
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[Fevrain knows that from his research. And for the children of Academy-trained Time Lords to not themselves attend the Academy and become Time Lords is unusual.]
Why?
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They're preparing for the upcoming alien party, and Zeta was a nightmare during the mission assignment, during the briefing, during the trip... and he is most certainly going to be a nightmare during the actual party. He hates field missions to begin with, but this one? With these aliens? And their culture? And the cover they have to use because of it?
At least at the moment, it's only the two of them, and he can express himself fully. He doesn't have to bother pretending to be anything else.]
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As many as it takes to find the right one.
[If Fevrain doesn't have all eyes lingering on him when he walks through the door to that party, he will be very disappointed.]
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[A few spans among aliens, pretending to be one of them, playing along with their ridiculousness...
... having to clasp the back of Fevrain's neck, having to endure Fevrain clasping his, because in order to pass as business owners, they must pretend to be married, in accordance to the Qarros culture, and married couples frequently touch the back of each others' necks in public, or else they attract attention under the assumption their marriage is falling apart...
Zeta rakes his fingers through his hair nervously. He hates this. He hates everything about this, and he doesn't understand what Rigan suddenly has against him to force him to do this. Oh, alright, his experience handling artifacts is invaluable, given they're here to retrieve a bloody temporal choke, but he can tell: Rigan singled him out for this. They've never gotten along, but they haven't directly targeted each other since basic training.]
... besides which, I still need mine.
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[And if Fevrain is going to a party of Qarros business and social elites, he's going to make sure that he's the best-dressed (fake) elite in the room.
The sash is interrupting the line of his body. He removes it, tosses it aside, and looks in the mirror again. Better.]
I'm not stopping you from dressing.
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If he had it his way, Fevrain wouldn't be seeing him like this, either, but then, if he really had his way, none of it would've happened at all, so in the end, it doesn't especially matter.
Zeta staggers into the hotel room they'd begun in, still pale and trembling. He doesn't know how they managed to convince the Qarros that his reaction to the "party trick" all but being forced upon him was a positive one. The damn choke is difficult enough to be near, let alone to have it plopped on his head and switched on. Thank Rassilon it's damaged. And thank Rassilon they didn't know how to use it properly. The thought of the choke clamping down around his throat and then activated, the malfunction trapping him in a broken time bubble --
Zeta needs to stop thinking about it. It's bad enough as it is, his temporal senses still fizzing and sparking and lurching. He swears he keeps catching snippets of the wrong time -- past, future, he doesn't know, he doesn't even get a proper glimpse of it before it's gone, leaving him feeling ill and weak and wrong in its wake.
He lets out a low groan and a Gallifreyan oath as he leans heavily against the wall, presses his forehead against it, trying to will it all to stop.]
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Here, sit down. I might be able to help.
[He tries to guide Zeta to the couch.]
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A crackle and a snap, and it's gone. Zeta is allowing Fevrain to hold him up and take him to the couch, and whatever he felt about it not even a nanospan ago isn't even left as a memory, only a vague impression that it had been there (and an odd sense of loss). Zeta presses a hand to his head and makes a pathetic noise.]
Yes... Yes, alright, [he manages to croak. He doesn't have the presence of mind to ask what Fevrain intends to try.]
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Your psychic and temporal senses may feel muffled.
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Centuries Later...
Commander Zeta, Agent Fevrain, I have an urgent mission for you. It's field work, but you won't be going off world.
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Where are we off to?
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[Real time travel on Gallifrey was dangerous and rarely approved. Time travel to events that CIA agents participated in is only marginally better. But a joint stroll into memories via psychic link and some help from the Matrix, that's simple enough.]
Do you remember your mission to Qarros? I have your reports here if you need refreshing.
Been enjoying some light reading, sir?
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... well. Fevrain handled the aftermath of that well, too. Has Fevrain always handled him so well?
... he probably shouldn't be reminescing so fondly right now.]
What makes it so important now?
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It doesn't take long enough, though, so he ends up spending the rest of it leaned up against the wall next to Fevrain's door, cradling the bottle in an elbow as he goes over some work on a datapad. Calculations, mostly, and reviewing his assistants' calculations, and it feels like busywork -- something he normally despises, but it isn't as though he has anything else to do.]
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Waiting on the curbside for me?
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[Zeta's reply comes delayed, distracted, because he's still mid-equation. But after a couple of nanospans, he glances up, and the corner of his mouth quirks.]
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[Fevrain approaches the door and pauses a nanospan while the sensors read his artron energy signature and confirm a match. The door slides open.]
I'd say make yourself at home, but I'm trying to keep the place tidy.
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