Fic: First Time

[saint-chimes.livejournal.com]

Title: First Time
Author: saint_chimes
Rating: PG
Spoilers: EOT and Series Fnarg, if you don't know who the companion is or what they wear.
Summary: The first time Eleven meets the Master, he doesn't recognise him.
Characters: Eleven, new Master
Pairing: Doctor/Master very lightly implied.
Warnings: None, other than very minor swearing.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I am not the BBC and I'm getting no money from this (more's the pity).
Word Count: 900ish
Author Notes: I am de-lurking with speculative fic. Hurrah.





First Time

“Doctor!”

Someone was calling him. The Doctor spun around, taking in a three-sixty degree view of the tiny, crowded cafe he was standing in. He didn’t recognise anyone. And certainly, no one should recognise him yet, unless it was someone he wasn’t supposed to meet until later. In which case, they were definitely to be avoided; bad for the timelines all this mixing and jumbling. But then...

The Doctor doubled his searching efforts.

“Here, Doctor.”
This time he could clearly see where the lazy drawl had come from - a young man lounging easily in the corner, the one with brown hair falling into his eyes, shirt and jeans a bit the worse for the wear.

Right then.

The Doctor bounded towards him, almost knocking over a waitress’s tray in the process, and stuck out a hand to the stranger.

“Hello, I’m the Doctor. How do we know each other?”

The stranger just looked at him, amusement clear. His eyes flicked up and down appraisingly.
“Well,” he sighed. “It could be worse. I suppose.”

The Doctor promptly retracted his hand.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Really, Doctor?” said the stranger, a bite in his voice now. “I suppose you don’t recognise this face, but really?”
And then it hit.

The sight, the smell, the understanding, the implicit knowledge that he was standing near another Time Lord all came crashing in on him at once. It was so overwhelmingly obvious the Doctor wondered how he’d ever not noticed. Perhaps the regeneration was still affecting him.

“Master,” he breathed, both confused and delighted.

“Well done,” the Master replied sardonically. “Are you actually as young as you look? Do you somehow lose brain cells every time you shave a few years off your face?”

The Doctor didn’t think there was any need for that.

“But, you...” He tried to rationalise events. “You and them... the time lock... I saw you.”

“You saw me stop them,” the Master snapped. “You did not stick around to see what happened to me. You never did like to witness the consequences of your actions. Just fix things for the short term and then run away, no harm done. No need to make sure your interference hasn’t crippled the people you’re trying to save, oh no, you run right back into the stars as soon as you can, back to your ceaseless wandering and insistent do-gooding.”

The Master’s new face had twisted into something bitter and vicious. The Doctor took a step back.

“You saved me,” he said quietly, deciding to comment on only the pertinent parts of the speech. “Thanky-”

“And a great deal of good that did too,” the Master continued over the top of him. “Did you get yourself killed immediately after I did, or did you get a few more hours use out of the old body before throwing it away? Ungrateful sod.”

Again, the Doctor chose to ignore the Master‘s baiting. He was obviously being unreasonable. Perhaps regeneration was affecting him too. After all, considering the circumstances (something the Doctor had been studiously avoiding since the event) it must have been rather rough.

“You died,” the Doctor said softly with a nod towards the Master’s latest incarnation. “You died but you didn’t get thrown into the time lock.”

The full weight of the sentence hit him.

“I stranded you here. I’m so so-”

“Oh, for Rassilon’s sake, don’t,” the Master snapped. “Don’t you ever stop? Is this what you do, travel through time and space apologis-” he trailed off, looking suddenly enlightened.

“Oh God.” The Master sounded pained. “Is this it? Is this what you take with you every time you regenerate? Sweet Rassilon, it is. Some people keep an ideology, some of us even kept our dignity, but you! Every life you’ve ever lived, every man you’ve ever been and you’re always the same sanctimonious, unbearable, condescending hypocrite!”

The Master laughed, just shy of insanely.

The Doctor reached out, unsure of what he was going to do, but wanting to prove that this was not his defining trait. Or at least, not his only one.

“Master,” he said calmly, in what he hoped was a commanding and self-sure tone. The Master just batted his hand away.

“Oh, don’t start getting sentimental, I’m only here to see what you look like so I can avoid you in the future. I strongly suggest you do the same, you’re bad for my health.”
The Doctor opened and shut his mouth as the Master stood, pushed his chair in neatly and paused for a moment, staring intently now that they were at eye level. Then he laughed again -quietly, almost normally.

“Well, it’s been fun,” he said, starting towards the door. “No doubt I’ll see you again - you’re utterly incapable of minding your own business."

He was at the door now, but stopped to look the Doctor in the eyes again.

“Give me regards to Amy!” he called cheerfully, after a moment’s consideration. “Tell her I love the skirt.”

Then, with a delicate tinkle of door chimes, he was gone.

“What?” the Doctor cried towards at the empty space. “Who?”

He froze a moment, thinking.

“What have you done?!”