If you can't be the best, be the first. Remix challenge Fic

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Title: Reach Out and Touch Someone (The 1-900-TIMESEX Remix)
Author: Turtle
Rating: R, maybe?, nothing actually explicit
Word Count: 1900 words
Pairing: Delgado!Master/The Valeyard
Summary: Two Time Lords and a long distance call. I like to think this may have been the back-story behind some of the Master’s more over-the-top and wacky plans.
Disclaimer: Nothing in Doctor Who belongs to me, and even the idea for this fic first belonged tohexiva

This fic is a remix of a drabble by Hexiva. The original post can be found here. but because there are several drabbles on that page I have copied the one I used below for easier reading. (Hexiva, please let me know if you would like it removed)

The Original: The Valeyard / The Master (Ainley )/ a mobile phone
The Valeyard, he knows, is psychopathic. The Valeyard doesn't care who he hurt so long as he gets what he wants. The Valeyard doesn't save worlds. The Valeyard has no hearts to break.
So it must be regeneration that hurts him inside and an urge to hurt his nemesis that makes him dial a number the Master hasn't used for centuries. The phone will find the Master regardless of numbers.

Because he's the Valeyard, he doesn't beg the Master. He introduces himself and says: “The Doctor is dead – ” it must be true – “and you're next.”

And the Remix: The Valeyard / The Matser (Delgado) / A Landline 

As the pain begins to fade, it becomes obvious that this regeneration isn’t progressing in the same manner as all those that had preceded it. Oh, it hurts. It hurts like only dying can, but his mind is clear, focused like it never has been this soon after. Pushing himself up off the floor, he finds his body has not fared as well as his mind, and he only staggers a few steps before leaning heavily against the wall. The Valeyard finds his new body to be weak, but he knows himself, knows who he is, who he was/will be, and who he isn’t. As the physical weakness gradually begins to recede, he feels a growing sense of euphoria, a high it takes him over an hour to diagnose as the complete absence of stabbing guilt and crushing responsibility. Being a psychopath is going to be fun!

-----

The Master has been on this particular planet a few months. Long enough to get himself firmly established, but not sufficient time to do more than set his long-term plans in motion. Right now, he is working as a top aide to a powerful government official. Someday, he will have to bend the man’s will to his own, but right now he is more of a smoke screen than anything else, and it is just easier to do the job and slip small bits of his own agenda in with all the other bureaucratic flotsam. This way he gets to come home at night, relax with a drink, watch some TV. It briefly crosses his mind to wonder if he is getting boring, but that can’t be right; he is the Master after all.

He is halfway through an episode of some reality show involving eating strange food (some things are universal, although this particular archetype is rather interesting on a planet where eating live insects is part of the normal diet) when the phone rings. He almost doesn’t answer. It is most likely some telemarketer or survey taker, especially since he hasn’t given this number out to anyone. There is, however, some quality to the sound that prods his interest, and he switches off the set. The first touch of his hand on the receiver sends hairs on the back of his neck bristling in quite a delicious fashion as something brushes at the edges of his time-sense. Someone, somewhen, is fondling his timeline, in quite an inappropriate manner. This is no ordinary phone call. The Master gives himself a second to enjoy the rush of anticipation, before he answers. Nope, he thinks smugly, not boring at all.

The voice on the other end isn’t one he recognizes. Its tone is cold, clipped, and precise, a complete contrast to the undulating wave of not-quite-heat that builds within him as the man ,who is surely of his future, subtly alters his timeline with every word. Most of his kind would find the sensation unpleasant, this gradual and deliberate warping of self, as he stands there with his senses tuned to every slight shift of who he is/was/will be. It is incredibly dangerous, doing this, and absolutely forbidden. That is, of course, why he loves it.
It has been a long time since he played these games. A long time since he had someone who both knew him well enough, and was willing to travel this far beyond the rules, just for the thrill. And with that thought comes the answer to who it must be on the other end of the line.

“Doctor.”

The vehemence in the denial that follows is a sort of answer in itself. The caller may have temporarily mislaid his most famous moniker, but there is no longer any doubt that this person was once a certain Prydonian schoolboy. The voice claims the Doctor is dead. The Master hears truth when he says this, but it is only a very specific kind of truth, hard-bound to the values of both is and dead as they relate to a particular time-line and the temporal coordinates of this being who calls himself Valeyard. It is a nostalgic reminder of how easy it is to lie in Gallifreyan without ever uttering an untruth. He doesn’t point out the juvenility of such a statement in a cross-temporal communication with a fellow Time Lord, but his voice is thick with the sentiment when he answers.

“Is that so? Well, perhaps it is. It‘s too bad really, because then you won‘t be able to appreciate this.”

As he speaks, the Master reaches back along his own history, back to the days when his life was completely wrapped up in a misfit kid called Theta. To a time that irreparably bound their timelines together, leaving the other’s always accessible. He reaches out to grasp a junction, one of the times they had played at this kind of thing before, knowing that it will be especially sensitive to the limited influence he can have on events that have passed for both of them. He strokes at the node, not exerting enough influence to alter anything, just letting the soft echoes work their way forward, letting the caller know that he could. On the other end of the line he can hear a soft intake of breath. Whatever he may be calling himself now, he likes this just as much as that kid at the Academy ever did.

Concentrating on feeling his way forward from his chosen point, he doesn’t properly hear the words that come down the line, only noting the slightly husky quality that has invaded the formerly very controlled voice. He must register the information at some level, however, because he feels a single sharp jolt as his future realigns to accommodate the knowledge. The force of it is enough to knock him breathless, the aftershocks reverberating up and down the time-stream.

For a moment it is all he can do to keep his hold on the other’s timeline. He is reminded that this is a quite different version of the game than the one they played as children. Back then, they would make small jumps using whatever TARDIS access they could purloin unnoticed. A few hours, a day at the most, just enough to put them out of phase with each other. Then they would fill the intervening time making full use of the potential to affect their future/past to complement their physical intimacy. It was deliciously dirty and taboo, but the loops passed fairly quickly, sealing themselves off in a mostly harmless fashion as they both moved forward. Here there is no physical component at all, but the time-gap must measure in the centuries. This is a truly dangerous game, for both of them, and the thrill at that thought travels through his consciousness and then down into his body leaving him aching, even as it serves to ground him. He is the Master, this is exactly the kind of game he plays to win.

With renewed determination, he tightens his grip on the not-Doctor’s timeline. In one way the mysterious caller has the advantage. It is much easier to effect change in a person’s relative future than in their past. A fact that has just been demonstrated by his adversary with a few deliberately chosen words. However, he has the reverse working in his own favor. Changes to a person’s relative past are much harder to accomplish, requiring a great deal of mental discipline and focus, but they pack a punch that can’t be matched from the other side.

He begins slowly, brushing lightly over their shared past, pausing briefly at the junctures where they meet after leaving Gallifrey. He tries to inject these with a small amount of added vehemence, a little bit of greater intensity. It is a very subtle change, but one whose teasing pulses are enough to keep his adversary off balance, only a few halting sentences managing to travel down the line to twist at his future. He enjoys the feeling, letting his body go taut and aroused at the pull and shift happening within him, but refusing to be distracted from his goal.

He works his way forward until he draws even with his own current point in their relative timelines, and feels his grip grow stronger as he moves forward into events that haven’t happened for him yet. Here is where he can really make his mark. Picking his spot, the Master begins to do what he does best; he begins to plot. Since it must, by definition, be made up on the spot, he is grateful that his intended scheme doesn’t have to work, exactly. It just needs to be something grand enough, something with the reach, scope, and drama that is sure to have a lasting effect upon the Doctor. The part that requires discipline is that he has to totally commit himself, make himself 100% certain of his intentions to carry it out at the proper time. There will be no room for backing out later.

Once he has a mental plan ready, he pauses once again to savor the anticipation. His body is still clutching the handset, even as he allows his other hand to add physical stimulation to the moment. His caller is gradually recovering from his earlier ministrations and he gets in one final stroke. The language of this one so filthy that it is obvious the other man has taken this into the realm of the physical as well. The impact on the Master’s future is electric, setting off sparks within his body and mind that dance just on the oh-so-right side of agony, and leaving him breathless and strung out.

The confrontation is rapidly drawing to its inevitable end, and he can put his final move off no longer if he wishes to emerge the victor. Drawing out all his metal reserves he takes his plan and pushes it resolutely at his chosen point in their future/past. He feels it as the scheme slots itself firmly into his future. For him it is a slow satisfying slide as things rework themselves to accommodate the dead certainty of his intentions, a supreme satisfaction as the fabric of the universe is forced to bend to the pure strength of his resolve. The reaction of his unseen opponent is far more extreme. A deep throaty scream works its way back down the intervening time-gap by means of the telephone. The Master enjoys every single note of it, and he works his way towards physical completion to the music of the little breathless whimpers that follow. His fellow Time Lord has obviously been pushed well beyond words, but an undignified grunt, followed by a stuttering sigh, indicate the caller’s fall into release, sealing his victory. He makes sure to hang up before allowing himself to follow.

-----

The Valeyard once again regains his wits lying on the floor of his TARDIS. He is considerably more disheveled both physically and mentally that he was after losing his last life, but right now he can‘t manage to care. He makes his way to the console to hang up the phone, his body pleasantly sated, his mind still swimming in a disturbingly delicious way from the realignment of his past. It didn’t go quite like he had planned, but he is having a hard time arguing with the results. He notices, however, that there is a slight pricking discomfort in his chest, a nagging feeling that won’t let him be completely content. “This is ridiculous,” he thinks, “I’m a psychopath, I can’t be lonely, and I have no hearts to break.”