Fic: Mercy

[bagheera-san.livejournal.com]

You can all be grateful that I did not call this story "Amok Time" or "Blood Fever" or "Traken Mating Season". I was tempted, but then I went for the boring option.

Title: Mercy
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Five/Master
Length: 3125 words
Genre: very serious crackfic porn
Notes: deborah_judge did a wonderful job betaing this, and her suggestions made me add/rewrite tons of stuff. This fic is much better story thanks to her! And some credit also goes to x_los for discussing the idea with me!
Summary: The Doctor saves the Master's life. Through sexual healing.



The doors seal shut with a muted sigh, leaving them in a space without sound and colour. As soon as they got to the zero room and the Doctor let go of him, the Master stumbled away from him. Now he's leaning against the wall with the grateful tenderness of a seasick man kissing the solid ground under his feet, cheek and palms pressed against the featureless white. He's a study of contrasts, a two-dimensional black and white papercutting of man. The Doctor hasn't seen him this unguarded and openly emotional since back when the Master was still living out his own regenerations. Strangely enough, the Master's loss of control doesn't worry the Doctor. Instead, he feels safer and more confident like this, glad that for once he's not the passive player in their game.

The Doctor glances down at his wrists, reassuring himself that the bruises and scratches are only minor. Getting the Master to calm down from this latest fit of his was like bathing a cat. Aggression isn't a natural symptom of the Traken bonding fever according to Nyssa. It must be the stress of not finding release for so long. Knowing the Master, he has probably already endured the condition far longer than anyone else could without going insane, presumably in the vain hope that he'd find a cure or be able to suppress the needs of his alien body.

Once the Doctor had pried the embarrassing truth about the Master's condition from her, Nyssa had called it justice, and there certainly was an element of irony in the Master's predicament. Tremas had been an old man when the Master had killed him and stolen his body, long past his bonding seasons, but the Master had forcibly reversed the aging process and unknowingly triggered this time bomb. But not just that, the Master had then gone on to kill all Traken but Tremas' blood kin, thus making sure that there would be no suitable bonding partners for him anywhere in the galaxy. "Too bad you don't read the manual before snatching bodies," Tegan had smirked. The Doctor has never seen his companions quite that vicious and vengeful, but their hatred is justified, and he cannot say the same for his own conflicted feelings. He doubts his pity makes him the better person.

When he looks up from his abused wrists, the Master has turned, now leaning with his back against the wall. He stares at the Doctor, low-lidded and seemingly impassive despite his laboured breathing. The quiet and isolation of the zero room have returned him to a semblance of sanity on the surface.

"Better?" the Doctor asks with the compassion of a medical man.

That is what he is at the moment. A doctor, indefinite article, helping a patient in desperate need. Doctors help, no questions asked, no matter who their patient is or whether he deserves their care. He's glad that for once things between them are this simple.

The zero room is only a temporary solution, a way to ease the pain as he told Nyssa and Tegan. But what neither of his companions know is that the last words on the Master's fate haven't yet been spoken. It's usually so easy to forget that he's not just another regeneration of the man the Doctor used to know. But right know he's close to falling apart, and the Doctor sees him for what he really is: the perverted union of a dead man's body and a dead man's soul, held together by fear and willpower alone. For the short time he knew Tremas, the Doctor came to like him a lot. There was a sort of natural affinity between them, so alike what he had once felt for the Master, as if somehow the Master's future presence had echoed backwards into the past. Maybe the Master had chosen Tremas because felt the same affinity, or worse, he had chosen Tremas because the Doctor liked the man. Whatever the strange, three-sided bond of attraction between them was, it suffices to make the Doctor a suitable mate. He has the power to cure the Master or condemn him.

The Master's fingers scrape across the walls as he balls his hands to fists. Above the high collar of his jacket, his Adam's apple moves as he swallows. "Get out," he rasps

Sighing, the Doctor shakes his head. He'd like to believe that the Master is showing concern for his well-being, but he knows that the man is just clinging to his last sliver of dignity and control.

"You heard what Nyssa told me," he reminds him. "Leaving you in this state would be akin to signing your death warrant."

The Master regains a little more of his composure, straightening. "You never before gave the impression that my death would bother you very much, Doctor. The Traken girl said I deserved my fate." He takes a shuddering breath, closing his eyes for a moment, then opens them again, startlingly intense. "Don't you think so, too?"

"Maybe." The Doctor looks down, smiling ruefully. The good answer, the just answer, is a resounding yes, but that would be a lie. "But not like this."

The Master's expression of simmering rage lasts only a few moments, before he bursts into low, quietly deranged chuckles. He reaches inside his jacket. The Doctor tenses, then startles when the Master throws a small but deadly looking knife at him, missing him by several feet. It clatters against the wall and falls to the ground, its blade shining clean and sharp. The Doctor blinks at it, its vicious, primitive reality. This isn't a weapon for a Time Lord. It's a weapon for the jungle, for blood and sweat and survival. When they took his TCE from the Master, he foolishly didn't think to search him for other weapons.

"There you go," the Master smiles, all teeth and little sanity, "a just and merciful death. You'll hardly get your hands dirty."

The Doctor frowns angrily at him, but soon realizes that his disapproval is pointless, as the Master's shallow breathing has quickened again and his eyes have nearly slid shut. Except for his obvious arousal, he looks like a dying man. And without the Doctor's assistance, he will die. The Master is immensely lucky that his body accepts the Doctor as a partner, or else even the Doctor could only stand by and watch while raging lust turned the Master into little more than an animal before it killed him slowly and painfully. There are just punishments and there is vengeance, and to be honest, the Doctor was never terribly in favor of either.

Cautiously, he crosses the room and the distance between them. "I'm sorry, Master," he says gently. "I really am. But I can save you today and I will."

So much sympathy. So much infinite patience. So much love for a memory. The Doctor hates his weakness some days. But not today. This isn't him shying away from what's necessary. This is him doing it. "Just let me - "

His breath is laboured, his eyes near blind with hunger, but the Master's voice manages to be scathing. "If you think for a moment that I prefer being taken advantage of by you to an undignified death - "

"I'm not!" The Doctor stares at the mere suggestion with wide eyes.

"Aren't you? I can tell how much you enjoy being the one in control for once, and if you wait just a few minutes longer, I won't be able to say no." His tone implies that if he had the composure for it, the Master would be studying his nails.

He knows it's not very mature that the Master's obstinacy frustrates him to the point where he wants to turn on his heels and tell him to see how he likes it. But why can't the Master, for once in his life, make this easy on both of them? It must be some twisted form of revenge for the times the Doctor has complicated their friendship with morals, which the Master perceives as pointless cruelty and injustice. But now is not the time for power struggles.

"All you need to do is say no," the Doctor finds himself saying. His own ultimatum shocks him, because it feels like standing at a precipice and not knowing which way the abyss lies. Does he want the Master to choose his own death? It would absolve him of so much responsibility. It would lend the Master's death a dignity that the Doctor could respect. It would allow him to mourn, and that might be far less painful than having the Master wander the world of the living, stealing and murdering, neither dead nor alive. But what if he only rejects the Doctor's help out of spite, out of stupid pride and sheer contrariness? The Doctor suspects that that is what he would do in the Master's place. If you let an irrational person kill themselves, you still carry responsibility. Maybe he has spent to much time around people who are like children, but he doesn't trust the Master's ability to make informed choices any longer.

But the Master doesn't say anything. Perhaps he can't at this point, caught between fear and desire as he is. Perhaps he simply wants the Doctor to make a decision. And since the Doctor is the sane, rational one of the two of them, he supposes that is his duty. "Alright. I know you don't want to die, but you also don't want me to cure you because of some frankly ridiculous notion that I would be taking advantage of you. So what do you want?"

That's the Doctor's decision. I'm here to help you, and I'm willing to compromise.

Bright eyes glitter at him and the Master grows perfectly still. He smiles. "Do exactly as I say, Doctor. No more, no less."

The Doctor's breath hitches a little at that tone, even though the condition was less than surprising. He tries to calm down, reminding himself that this is just the Master's need for control speaking, that he's soothing the other man's fears and not willingly submitting to some wicked game. "I will," he promises. Calmly, reassuringly. Very much like a proper Doctor.

"Take off your shoes," the Master says, fully at home in his new position of power, and seemingly choosing a command at random. Bemused, the Doctor obeys, slipping off his shoes and putting them neatly aside.

"Your belt," the Master purrs. The Doctor laughs softly, because the Master has to be going crazy with lust, but he's still drawing this out as long as he possibly can. Before he drops the belt where his shoes lie, another order stops him dead.

"Give it to me."

"Master," the Doctor says, half warning, half protest, but the weight of the soft, warm leather in his hands and the idea of it slapping on bare skin makes his heartbeats quicken and his skin flush with heat. He tries to clear his mind of desire. This isn't about him. He looks up to meet the Master's gaze and tell him no, but freezes at the challenge he sees there. The Master is testing the strength of the promise the Doctor made.

Shaking, he hands the belt over. Their finger's brush and the Master hisses, shudders, then grabs him by the collar of his shirt and kisses him hungrily. Biting, sucking, he swings them around, and the Doctor gasps when he hits the wall and the Master's weight pins him against it. Blunt fingers rake over his collarbone and neck, his cheeks, his hair. "Your hands," the Master breathes, "give me your hands."

Together they fumble, blind and clumsy with their hands wedged between their bodies, until the Doctor's are tied before him with the belt cutting into his skin. It hurts where the Master bruised him before and the Doctor likes it more than he should. But when the Master grabs his hair and slams his head back against the wall he yelps from true pain, his eyes swimming. Hot breath and a tongue against his neck. "You little idiot," the Master murmurs. "Letting me tie you up, in here, where no one will hear you scream. One might almost think you're the one who's in heat."

He bites, hard, and the Doctor's eyes fly open in a voiceless yell, silenced by the hand the Master has pushed into his trousers doing things to him that make protests impossible.

"You have no idea what it's like," the Master goes on, rambling, twisting the Doctor's hair. "Little Miss Prim and Proper didn't go into details, didn't she? I don't just want you. I could fuck you for hours. I will."

The Doctor has time to be scared and aroused and to think that in what passes for the Master's sane state he would never be this simple and direct, and isn't that a pity, before the Master pulls him away from the wall with a force that sends him stumbling through the zero room. He stalks after him, looking dangerous with his dishevelled hair and clothing in a way that makes the Doctor's survival instincts kick in. He's acutely aware of just how he'd need to twist and roll and kick to defend himself, but he doesn't. It's the Master whose life is at stake, and the Doctor is the sane one, the one who's here to help. He just stands with his hands bound before him and locks his gaze on the Master, forcing himself to relax and smile in a way that he hopes will ease the tension a little.

It doesn't work. A second later he finds himself knocked flat onto his back, his tied hands above his head, the Master straddling him and tearing open his shirt without finesse. The Master struggles out of his own clothing, throwing aside layers of black while the Doctor still struggles to regain his breath. There's no pause now, no words, no orders, no awareness in the Master's eyes but alien, animal lust. Still reeling from the sudden attack, the Doctor finds it impossible to do anything but arch helplessly into every touch. He still wears his torn white shirt and his trousers pulled down to his knees when the blind frenzy of the Master's hand around both their cocks makes them come. They both collapse in momentary surprise, but the Doctor feels the Master against his left thigh, still hard.

He wishes for a hazy instant that he could touch the Master, get a feel for those broad shoulders and tense muscles that he has never before seen naked, the flesh that the Master has stolen and that rules him now. But he doesn't wriggle out of the belt's tight clasp, because he can sense the Master trembling a little above him. So instead the Doctor nudges the Master off him with a push of his hip and sits up, kicking off his trousers. At least now he doesn't look completely ridiculous. The Master is trying to sit up as well, licking his lips unselfconsciously, reaching for the Doctor, but the Doctor evades his grasp easily. "Let me," he says.

The Master looks wary, like a wild, starving animal offered food looks wary, but he groans when the Doctor settles in an awkward crouch between his legs and takes him into his mouth. He's determined not to let himself think, because if he examines his own feelings too closely, he might shy away from what he is doing, and at this point betraying the Master is as unforgivable as helping him. The heavy weight on his tongue and the hands fisting in his hair aid and abet him in his search for oblivion. He sucks until his hands are numb and his jaw aches and his lips are swollen, until he needs to use his respiratory bypass system and even so, his eyes water. He doesn't want to stop, but the Master comes, cursing him and praising him with the same breath. The Doctor just smiles with his aching mouth and rolls onto his back.

Bliss, and the white silence of the room and his head, and not a bit of guilt. This is mercy, this is right, this isn't selfish. His pleasure is mercy too, because it makes this more than pity. His pain is salvation from lingering doubt.

The pain grows worse, because the Master keeps true to his word and hardly needs time to recover before he takes him, and then again. At one point a hand almost gently cards through the Doctor's damp hair, and the Master kisses his forehead. Almost apologetically he mutters, "I'm not done with you yet." The Doctor nods blindly and receives a kiss on the lips. It hurts, and it is good.

The belt comes off somewhere, but the Doctor hardly notices. He can't keep his eyes open by the time he finds himself in the Master's lap, with the Master still in him but finally softening. The Doctor whimpers every time one of them moves, whimpers at the Master's fingers lazily stroking up and down his lower back. The Master is sitting with his back against the wall, tired now but himself again. The Doctor is simply slumped over him in a boneless heap.

"I think I like your new brand of martyrdom," the Master says against the Doctor's shoulder. His voice is raw, but at least he can still speak. All the Doctor can do is moan softly in a way that approximates the Master's name. He doesn't have the energy or the will to separate them, to crawl into his own corner of the room, to dress and guard himself, to assess the success of the cure before he falls asleep. And that is a kind of mercy, too.

Later, the Master's voice slips between the cracks of his dreamless, merciful sleep like a poisoned dagger. "Good Doctor," the Master says, patting his cheek. "You positively saved me today."

The Doctor almost doesn't notice him leaving, and when he blearily lifts his head from the floor, the zero room is empty and silent. With a start, he wakes fully, realizing what the Master meant with his indulgent, patronizing words. Not that he needed the reminder to see the unavoidable truth. The Master just wanted to let him know that he knows it too, and that he knows that the Doctor knows it. He can save the Master's parody of a life, but he cannot save him. Doctors shouldn't treat their own family for a reason. Perhaps he could have saved him, once upon a time, but now all the relief he can offer is that of a dying man's lover, prolonging a tragedy because he cannot let go. Faced with death, love betrays itself. There's no mercy in it.