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Aug. 22nd, 2010 09:09 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
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Title: He Bangs The Drums (1/2)
Author: Kuroshokora
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 10123
Pairing: Doctor/Master
Warnings: It's... really long? This chapter alone is probably the longest thing I've ever written. Also, slash, yadda yadda, and an unhinged Doctor, although there isn't much of that in this part.
Summary: Post-EoT (but still Ten), the Doctor persuades the Master to stay in the TARDIS to recover, and takes desperate measures to help him stay safe.
**
The temporary base of Torchwood Three certainly wasn't as flashy as the white minimalist environment of Torchwood One. But then, the Doctor didn't have much to compare it with, as he had never been inside the original Torchwood Three. He considered this with a small hint of regret, descending a small, metal spiral staircase leading to a lower floor. He'd never really had... the time? No, it wasn't that. But there hadn't been any reason for him to visit Torchwood Cardiff. Until now, that is.
The room he had come out in was large and spacious. A number of packing crates were stacked against one wall, and several were half-open, and leaking straw across the floor, apparently in the process of being unpacked. A heavily pregnant woman caught his eye from her position reclining on a small sofa against the wall, and he made a beeline for her. In her current state, it was a moment before he recognised her as one of the Torchwood staff he'd seen once before, on a video link. Gwyneth's relative. He wasn't entirely sure of her name, though; he wasn't even sure if he'd ever been told it.
"I thought I heard your..." she said, all bubbles and bright gappy smile, like a social worker or a primary school teacher "Ship?"
"I parked outside." he confirmed.
"This is him, is it?" a man's voice demanded in a rich Welsh accent from behind him.
The Doctor twisted his head in surprise. He hadn't realised there was anybody else in the room with them, but a burly, rugby-player-esque man was stepping out from behind a tower of crates, dusting off his hands. The woman, not-Gwyneth, smiled over at him, and lugged a laptop up off the floor and onto her knees, resting it just below the colossal bulge of her stomach.
"This is my husband. Rhys." she introduced for the Doctor's benefit with a regal wave of her hand.
Rhys sat on the arm of the couch, stroking one large but surprisingly gentle and steady hand through not-Gwyneth's hair and giving the Doctor a small, not unfriendly nod.
"You shouldn't be doin' that, love." he told not-Gwyneth, gesturing at the laptop "You should be restin'..."
His accent, more pronounced with the slight agitation in his voice, was soft and welcoming. The Doctor loved the Welsh accent; loved the ups and downs and lilting sway to it, the sing song quality and even, flowing rhythm. It conjured up images of rolling hills, green green grass and deep vales with fields of daffodils, even though most Welsh citizens these days lived in cities and considered a trek to the valleys far too extensive when even walking to Tesco took so much effort. The humans of the 21st Century suddenly seemed extraordinarily disillusioned in the Doctor's mind, or was it he who was disillusioned with humanity? He did his best to remember that this wasn't, actually, the case. What about his companions, often humans, and full of life and excitement and creativity? A small minority on a planet of mindless, hopeless, futureblind drones?
What about the people in front of him? Not-Gwyneth and Rhys? A happy couple with a baby on the way, despite the destruction that surrounded them. They had managed, they had made it. There was hope, after all, there was always hope. That was what the Doctor told people, and he ought to believe that himself. He was living proof. Every time he saved the universe against huge odds and kept on going, that was proof that it wasn't all misery.
"Yeah, well there's nobody else, is there?" Not-Gwyneth hissed, glancing quickly at the Doctor.
"There's Jack; it's his bloody job!"
There was silence. Rhys opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, as though he was aware that he'd crossed some line but wasn't sure how to backpedal, and not-Gwyneth gazed blankly at the screen of the laptop, her fingernails falling against the keyboard with a messy staccarto clatter. The seemingly idyllic picture of family life was abruptly shattered. It was clear that, no, they weren't okay, and they hadn't recovered as people or as an organisation. Torchwood, once the strong frontier against alien threat, was in ruins. The Doctor shifted slightly to rest his weight on one leg, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
It wasn't just pain, and grief, and loss that he saw. Maybe he was imagining it, or maybe he was reading too much into it. But he felt as though there was something else there as well, in the way that she hadn't looked properly at the Doctor since he'd come in. She probably didn't realise she was doing it; it wasn't her fault. But there was something there, resentment, an accusatory glint in the way she kept darting looks at him. As though it was his fault for letting this happen to them. For not coming and saving the day. Time Lord Victorious? 'What good are you?' not-Gwyneth's eyes seemed to be saying. And that was a good question. One that he didn't know the answer to. Was he really expected to pick the world up every time it came under threat? Was that really his responsibility? Well, what else was he there for? And if he couldn't even do that, what good was he?
"Jack's downstairs." not-Gwyneth said stoically, voicing what the Doctor had been wondering, but still not looking at him.
"... thank you." he said, hesitating and rocking forwards on the balls of his feet, wondering if he ought to say something.
Like 'sorry for your loss' or 'sorry that they blew up Torchwood'. Or 'sorry I didn't help'. Although it wasn't like he had stood aside and refused to do anything. He'd missed it, not ignored it. He hadn't purposefully stood aside while Torchwood fell. And there was nothing he could do about it now that it was fixed in time. He couldn't go back and fix it. Time Lord Victorious...
He didn't say anything in the end, and probably had never intended to. Another situation where he couldn't help from running away. Those were becoming increasingly... frequent in occurrence, and severe in consequence. And it was spiralling down, down to something inevitable and infinitely terrifying. Not just his own death. He knew that he was going to die, and soon. He hadn't accepted that, exactly. Nor was he ready. He didn't want to die, but he knew that it was going to happen. Sooner or later, it would happen. But he didn't know where, or when, or why. It felt like the end. Not of time, but of the universe... to him. He wouldn't see it anymore, with these eyes. Wouldn't see the beauty of the cosmos any longer.
It didn't occur to him that he hadn't truly appreciated that in a long time.
The basement of the Torchwood complex was dark. He couldn't see Jack there. But his attention wasn't on Jack. It was on the small hospital gurney in the centre of the room, or more specifically, on the man lying motionless upon it. The Doctor walked over, resting his palms on the cold metal and gazing down at the suddenly very small and frail looking figure, swaddled in restraints so heavily that he resembled a fly wrapped in spider's web. A multitude of belts and straps snaked around his chest, pinning his arms to his side and forcing his legs together, anchoring him to the trolley. His skin was white, almost ashen grey, ghostly pale even compared to the shock of bright blonde hair sticking up in every direction from his scalp. His eyes were tightly shut and his mouth twisted to the side, as though in pain.
Most of his expression was obscured by the oxygen mask secured over his face, and the Doctor tilted his head to one side, trying to ascertain whether the Master was actually breathing. It wasn't one of the temporary masks with the plastic bag that inflated and deflated with each inhalation; the mask was attached to a blue ribbed tube that led to a machine to supply him with air. The Doctor couldn't see any sign of life, no rise and fall of his chest, although probably that was due to the massive amount of restraints securing him to the metal trolley. He was hooked up to an IV, a thin plastic tube leading into the web of straps and apparently into a vein, feeding him fluids from a huge transparent barrel atop a pump to help the fluid move along the tube, giving the bizarre impression that the Master was attached to an office water cooler.
It was only when the Doctor took a closer look that he realised exactly why Torchwood was using a large drum of liquid rather than IV bags; the level of fluid was falling rapidly, ridiculously fast, being sucked into the Master's body as though into a vacuum. The Doctor watched, in fascination, as a small air bubble travelled at high speed down the clear plastic tube.
"Found him face down in the middle of the Plass. Figured the Rift picked him up and spat him back out."
The Doctor turned, quickly. He hadn't realised Jack was behind him. The Captain was standing, half cloaked in shadow, holding his back straight and his head up like he was back in the army, arms folded over his chest. He was gazing not-quite at the Doctor, but not at the Master either, staring instead into space. There was something wrong with his voice, as well. The words made sense. They sounded like something Jack would say. The levels of emotion worked as well, with just the right hint of animosity befitting his hatred for the Master, and the American accent was right, with each vowel enunciated expertly. But it sounded as though Jack was on stage, playing himself and not quite connecting with the character. As though he'd learned to act from watching the Disney Channel. He wasn't wearing his greatcoat, clad instead in a crumpled and creased pale blue shirt with short sleeves and braces that stretched over his shoulders. The Doctor was suddenly hit with the odd mental image that if anybody sliced the elastic of those braces, Jack would collapse into a heap on the floor with nothing to hold him together.
The vortex manipulator was still secured to his left wrist, but his right forearm was wrapped in a red silk tie, wound like a bandage from elbow to wrist, with a small triangle of material protruding over the back of his hand. His hair was combed to one side, neatly enough, but it was longer than when the Doctor had known him, and his cheekbones were even more pronounced, perhaps accentuated with the dark growth of stubble over his jaw.
"Coffee?" he offered.
The Doctor looked at the coffee machine to his left, then at the plethora of mugs and cups of different sizes and colours scattered around it of nearly clean and perilously filthy ceramic. Jack saw the direction of his gaze, bending stiffly to pick up one of the less disgusting mugs and tilting it this way and that in the half-light.
"No thank you." the Doctor replied politely, and Jack nodded with a shrug, moving to the coffee machine to pour out some for himself.
It made sense, the Doctor supposed. It wasn't as though Jack could die from bacterical infection. But he did wonder when the last time Jack had been out of this basement was. When the last time he slept was. Jack looked like the Doctor felt. But he couldn't do anything to help; what could he do? It might be in his power to go back and erase the wrongs in Jack's life, but he couldn't. Did Jack blame him for it? He of all people must understand the responsibilities of time.
"I wanted to shoot him in the head." Jack mumbled, and it took a moment for the Doctor to realise who he was referring to "But Gwen wouldn't let me, and I thought... knew that you would want to deal with it."
Gwen. That was not-Gwyneth's name. Close enough to Gwyneth though, and not hard to make the jump in his mind. He was grateful that Jack had kept the Master safe. Of all the people who would want to harm him, Jack was one of those with most reason for it.
"Thanks, Jack." he said sincerely.
"He doesn't deserve it."
"It isn't his fault." the Doctor said, trying to find a way to explain "They changed him, the Time Lords, made him what he is.... he saved me; I wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for him. I have to help him. He needs me."
He was silent for a moment in the memory. The Time Lords disappearing, and taking the Master with them, as he forced Rassilon back with a bolt of pure energy. Leaving the Doctor behind. And it put a new perspective on things, for both of them, he supposed. He'd never been ready to give up on the Master, but now he knew that he couldn't. This was more than being the last two Time Lords; they needed each other. The Doctor felt lost, and out of control, and this could be what he needed, just what he needed. He had to try.
Jack stepped in front of him, and the sudden movement took the Doctor by surprise. His shoulders were seized in a vice-like grip, and he gazed into Jack's blue, bloodshot eyes. Jack gave him a little shake, staring straight at him, his expression desperate and suddenly filled with so much emotion that it hurt the Doctor to look at him.
"You can't save everyone. You can't. He'll drag you down with him. Doctor, please, it's not worth it. You can't let him destroy you..."
"He needs healing. I have to. I can't save anybody if I can't save him."
They stared at each other for a moment. The funny thing was, the Doctor felt as though they were both saying the exact same thing, but somehow still making it into an argument. He knew that Jack would have saved Ianto Jones if he could. Given anything for it. Ianto helped Jack to stay good after centuries of trying to keep to what was right, and kept him out of the darkness. He couldn't argue that for the Master and him, but he still needed it. The Master could see him, as he was, the only one who could. That was why Jack hadn't killed the Master when the opportunity presented itself. He knew, somehow. He understood. And, thankfully, didn't ask for more. The Doctor didn't know what he would have done if Jack insisted he put his efforts into healing him. But Jack wasn't broken, and he would heal in time. The Master was broken, and the Doctor could fix him, and therefore had to. That was the truth of the matter, when it came down to it.
"Take him, then." Jack said, letting go of the Doctor's shoulders "But you don't have to. Remember. You don't have to give up anything for his sake."
"That's exactly it." the Doctor said softly "I'm too selfish for that, Jack. I need him too."
Jack gazed sadly at him, cupping his cheek in one hand and brushing the tip of his thumb under the Doctor's eye socket. His hands were trembling, and the Doctor stayed still, feeling helpless. He wasn't deserting Torchwood to look after themselves because he wanted to. But he was as useless as any of them. What was he supposed to do? Sit with Jack in the dark and drink coffee from mouldy cups? Jack was on the verge of giving up, and the Doctor felt worryingly close himself. If he didn't do this, then he probably would, and he wasn't ready to resign himself to his fate.
There was so little holding them together; they were so far apart from each other that there was no chance of ever being able to put each other back together. Jack needed his team, and they would fix each other. And the Doctor had nobody but the Master, and that was why he was determined to focus on him, only him, until he'd braved out the storm and could walk in the sun again, as he used to.
"You asked me if I wanted to die." Jack said quietly "I think I do."
"I'm going to die." the Doctor stated "I don't think I want to."
They laughed, and the Doctor suddenly felt close to crying. He closed his eyes, feeling the tears leak out from between his eyelashes unbidden, and Jack leant forward to gently kiss them away, and then pressed another, firmer kiss to the Doctor's lips before pulling away.
"Do you need any help?" he inquired, back to his cheerful tone and not-quite-there expression.
The Doctor didn't have the heart to tell him that his acting wasn't fooling anybody, and nodded to him. Giving Jack something to do might help. Make him feel useful. And... make the Doctor feel as though he'd done at least a little to aid that. Jack flashed him a small smile and nodded, making a start on undoing the cocoon of straps that secured the Master in place. The Doctor moved over to help, gazing down at the Master's face. He looked like he'd been dead for hours, and when he brushed his knuckles over the pallid skin, it was cold to the touch. But he found a pulse, if erratic, and Time Lord physiology was erratic at the best of times. Besides. He was the Doctor. He made people better.
Jack marched through the Torchwood headquarters with the Master in his arms and the Doctor at his heels. He ignored Gwen as she called his name from the couch, staring stonily ahead. The TARDIS was just outside the covertly hidden entrance, and the Doctor clicked his fingers to open it for Jack. He didn't ask Jack to come with him, and Jack didn't ask either, pausing only to run his palm a little sadly over the humming console, and placing the Master a little less than gently down on the captain's chair. He stood to attention, snapping his hand to his forehead in a rigid salute that the Doctor mimicked, and turned to leave without another word. The Doctor watched him sadly; another of his friends, scarred from the universe. What would Jack have been without him? A coward, a con-man, but happy? And which was better, really? Living forever and trying to do what was right, or living for a short time and making it worth it?
Maybe it was better to be selfish. To live in the universe. Not to rule it, or control it, or save it... just to live. Was there something so very wrong with that? Why couldn't he? Why did he have to be the hero?
The Master's head lolled to one side, and the Doctor moved to kneel beside him, supporting the dead weight of his skull in both hands. The Master's mouth opened ever so slightly, lips moving wordlessly, and his eyelids fluttered faintly.
"I've got you." the Doctor murmured softly "Come on, it's okay. I've got you."
"Uggghhh. Doctor?"
He opened his eyes, blinking in confusion and slowly taking in his surroundings, pupils dilating and then contracting as he focused on the Doctor's face and then the TARDIS. Seemingly deciding that he must be seeing things, he closed his eyes tightly again, and then reopened them warily. Brow furrowed, he struggled to sit up, grabbing the Doctor's shoulders to aid him, groaning loudly.
"I thought..."
"You're safe now." the Doctor hushed him, feeling a swell of protection for the man that he had earlier been prepared to shoot.
The change in feeling apparently hadn't passed the Master by, as his eyes flicked to the door, and then to the Doctor again, narrowing suspiciously. He tilted his head slightly to the side, shifting on the chair, straightening his back and then propping himself up on his elbows, hissing between his teeth and pursing his lips, barging his shoulder into the Doctor to get him to move. The Doctor obediently sat back to give him room, and the Master sat up, twisting his torso with a series of satisfying sounding clicks from his spine before settling in more comfort on the chair.
"What is this?"
"We're going to travel the stars, you and me-- like I said."
The Master laughed scornfully, closing his eyes and resting his head against the back of the chair, stretching out again. The Doctor grinned slightly, reaching behind him on the console and holding a flat pizza box in both hands; fresh from Cardiff's finest takeaway. The Master inhaled the air, frowning, and his eyes snapped open again. The Doctor opened the box, tilting it down to show him the still-warm Meat Feast, and the Master licked his lips automatically, his eyes widening, and reached to snatch it from the Doctor's hands. The Doctor let him take it, watching in mingled fascination and disgust while the Master cradled the box protectively to him, folding the slices of pizza up to force them into his mouth, chewing and swallowing, his eyes watering as he stuffed yet more food in, cramming it in, his cheeks resembling those of a hamster, and his face somehow displaying an expression of utmost bliss. The Doctor took the opportunity to talk, while the Master's mouth was too engaged to argue.
"You're sick, and you can stay here until you get better. After that, you don't have to stay. I won't force you. But that's why you needed my TARDIS, isn't it? Not just to travel; you need the Vortex to heal."
Closing the empty box, the Master looked up, sucking his fingers and seeming to at least be considering it. The Doctor folded his arms, knowing that he was right. The Master needed independence, needed dominance, but right now, he needed help or he was going to die, slowly and painfully, and the Doctor doubted he would be able to regenerate when his body couldn't even keep itself in stasis. If the Master wanted to live, he didn't have a choice, and he knew it. But was his pride so strong that he'd rather die than stay with the Doctor?
"You won't be able to fly the TARDIS." the Doctor continued, taking the Master's silence to mean that he was listening to what the Doctor had to say "None of the controls will work for you. But you'll be my guest, not my prisoner."
The Master tapped his fingernail against his teeth and frowned, kicking the pizza box onto the floor and drawing his legs up onto the chair, hugging his knees.
"What's in it for you?" he asked slowly.
"Nothing. I just thought... I owe you one." the Doctor replied, hoping to massage the Master's ego just enough to make him see that he wasn't here under duress.
He didn't look entirely convinced.
"And if I say no, you'll drop me off on the planet of my choice, and leave me alone...?"
"Yeah. Course. I'll leave you alone, for the rest of your life. But, without my help, that's really not going to be a long time. You could leave, and maybe try and find another way to fix it. But there's only one TARDIS in the universe, and you're in it, right now. Endure a few weeks, with me, and you can raise hell in the cosmos later, strong and glorious. I'll stop you then. Course I will. But I'm making an offer, as a gentleman; I'm offering my TARDIS, to you, temporarily."
The Immortality Gate hadn't worked, but that hadn't been Time Lord technology. It had been designed for mortals, and no ordinary mortal man would have survived the amount of physiological damage that the Master had suffered. It had allowed him to graft his biological code onto every person in the planet, but it couldn't fix what had already been done. But the TARDIS was old, old technology. A living, sentient being that could do things that no living Time Lord could imagine. The radiated energy that existed in the very air that circulated the ship. It wasn't enough to heal the Master, just like that, but it would allow his body to heal itself, instead of burning up from the inside. The Master knew that. That was why he couldn't say no.
The Master looked at him from a long while, and then nodded slightly, dropping his head to rest on his knees. The Doctor smiled, a little surprised that it had been that easy, but nonetheless happy about it. But the Master didn't look like he had much strength to fight about it. In fact, he didn't even look like he could stand up. The Doctor was beginning to wish that he'd asked Jack to give him some of the energy supplement they were feeding him through the drip. Pizza wouldn't be enough to fortify his depleting energy, and he was still extraordinarily pale. His skin was translucent, almost, and the Doctor wasn't sure if he was imagining the moving, flickering outline of the man's skull under his flesh.
"Let's get you to bed."
"I thought I was your guest." the Master said, his words muffled "Not your prisoner, or your patient."
Taken aback, the Doctor paused, realising the flaw in his plans and also that the Master was right. He had been trying to look after him, and he had promised not to try and force him into anything, and he was doing it already. Maybe he'd been intending that all along. Could he really say that he'd been prepared to give the Master free run of his TARDIS? No. He had been saying that to make the Master agree. And it had worked, hadn't it? It was all good, wasn't it?
"I'm going to bed." the Master muttered, pushing himself up, swaying slightly.
The Doctor stood, not to force his help onto the Master but in case he fell or asked for assistance. The poisonous glare directed at him told him that the Master would probably rather stick a skewer through his own head than ask the Doctor for help. Obediently, the Doctor remained still with his arms held loosely at his side while the Master used the console and then the walls of the TARDIS as supports, looking faintly green. The Doctor watched him struggle down a corridor in the direction of the re-constructed Zero Room before walking back to the console, standing there in silence. Now that he had the Master, he wasn't sure what he intended to do with him. Or with himself. He supposed he'd had images of spending every waking moment tending to his enemy. But even when he was close to death, the Master was fiercely independent. He should have known that he wouldn't have given himself over to the Doctor.
Running a palm over the glowing surfaces of his TARDIS, he gazed downwards, lost in thought. The danger was over now, and the world was safe. Time was safe, rather. Wilfred was home with Donna, who was safe and happy and maybe even married by now. The Doctor hadn't died... yet. But he remained full of the dread that he hadn't been able to shake, ever since he'd said goodbye to Rose for the last time on a beach in the parallel universe. This regeneration had been born full of so much joy, and love, and hope. He didn't want to die filled only with this... emptiness. No hope. No joy. No love. Rose was gone, and he was alone. His best friend, Donna... well, he'd saved her. But Wilf's words had cut him to the quick; Donna had been better with him, among the stars, well of course she was!. He never considered how much he was changing the people he was with, but he imagined that he changed them as much as they changed him. And he had loved Donna Noble. As his best friend-- truly. Not a companion or an assistant. As a complete equal. That had been shown in its entirety after the Meta-crisis. The DoctorDonna. She was always capable of great things, and in that moment she had held the entire universe in her hands. And in her mind. She was burning from the inside, just as the Master was. It wasn't as though saving the Master would make up for losing Donna, but he simply didn't think he'd be able to let the Master die again, didn't think he could let anybody else die.
He didn't see the Master for several days. He had the TARDIS check on his vitals periodically, sometimes sitting and staring for hours on end at the glowing monitor that recorded the Master's twin heartbeat. His eyes following the oscillation with the apt expression of a small child watching a television programme. It was all he could bring himself to do, really. He was filled with energy, frustrated, but lethargic. Sometimes he paced up and down the control room, or walked the winding corridors of the deeper levels of his TARDIS, just walking, wandering. Sometimes he sat still, lost in his own mind, his memories, his thoughts. The Master stayed in his room, probably sleeping, although when food began disappearing from the fridge, the Doctor began to suspect that the Master was slipping out at night to forage for supplies. Probably doing his best to avoid running into the Doctor.
He told himself that he wasn't landing anywhere because he couldn't risk the Master escaping. But the truth was, he wasn't ready to leave the confines of his ship. He felt like a monk, secluded in a cell in a Cistercian abbey, shut off from the universe while he reflected on his life. And if he was being entirely honest, he didn't have the will to run around and fix things. He needed to rest.
The Master was trying hard not to get caught each time he left the room, it seemed, and the Doctor respected that choice to an extent. But he wasn't going to play the same game, and one night when he couldn't sleep and decided to get a glass of water, he wasn't put off by the idea that this was the time that the Master came out of his room. True enough, when he walked down the dark corridor in his pyjamas and flannel dressing gown to the kitchen, the fridge door was wide open and only partially concealing the hunched figure knelt in front of it. The Master was surrounded by wrappers, and seemed to be eating straight from the packets. Standing in the shadows, the Doctor stood to watch, feeling as though he was the shoemaker in Grimm's fairy tale, hiding to watch the elves come out at night. The food would be gone in the morning, and the wrappers would be disposed of, and the Master would be gone. It seemed oddly voyeuristic to be watching him.
Slowly standing, the Master gathered the food wrappers in his arms, turning slowly and unsteadily as he got to his feet. The Doctor didn't know what he'd expected, that the rest and food would have done him good and that the time in the TARDIS so far would have had some effect. But illuminated in the faint light from the fridge, the Master looked as pallid as before, with dark shadows under his eyes.
He kicked the fridge closed as he shoved the wrappers into the pedal bin beneath a marbled worktop, and leant back against the counter for a moment, his eyes closed. The Doctor could hear tapping, and it took a moment before he made out the shape of the Master's fingers in the half dark, drumming out that same beat on the hard polished surface. Four beats. Repeated over and over again. He tried not to dwell on what Wilf had said, that the noise heralded his death at the Master's hands. He had almost forgotten about the problem of the drums, in his determination to free him from the depleting energy.
"Are you just going to stand and gawp, or did you want something?" the Master asked, his eyes still closed.
The Doctor started, embarrassed at having been caught out. The Master tilted his head on the side, opening one eye with a small smirk. Despite his dishevelled appearance, his long perfected smirk still had a certain effect of superiority, which although the Doctor had learned to ignore it over the years, still managed to make him feel awkward. Awkward in his own kitchen, in his own TARDIS! He frowned, getting a glass and filling it with water. The Master stayed still, continuing to rap with his fingernails against the worktop.
"I almost thought it'd be gone." he said softly and the Doctor looked over quickly, an eyebrow raised in question.
"Because Rassilon had gone?" he inquired, and the Master nodded "I suppose he didn't think of setting the noise to remove itself once it had fulfilled its purpose."
The Master nodded, leaning back further against the hard edge of the worktop, his back a stiff arch. His lips parted as though he was about to speak, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times before wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue. The Doctor drained his water, keeping his eyes on the other man.
"Do you want to get rid of it?"
There was a long pause, and the Doctor was just about to repeat his question when the Master raised one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. The Doctor took a step towards him, and the Master's eyes flicked warily to his face but he didn't attempt to draw away from him.
"You can't get rid of it. Don't think I haven't tried." the Master said "It won't leave me. Every regeneration. Every time I come back, I drag that with me. You can't do anything."
"I can take it for you." the Doctor said quietly, and the Master's eyes widened in shock "I know you've tried to give it to other people. Humans."
"Yes, and it doesn't work!"
"Of course not. Their minds can't take it. That sound was designed for a Time Lord mind, implanted by a Time Lord. You were a child, you couldn't fight it. I won't fight it. Please, let me."
"You won't be able to stand it." the Master replied disparagingly, keeping his eyes fixed steadily on the Doctor despite his misgivings.
"Not forever. Until you get better, that's all. It's too much to deal with. And besides--" he added as the Master opened his mouth to assert that he could deal with it, thank you very much "--you hate me enough to want me to suffer. So why not put me through the pain you've been carrying for centuries?"
The Master blinked, and the Doctor fought the urge to smile. He knew that his reasoning made sense. Besides, the Master surely wouldn't want to appear as though he was protecting the Doctor by keeping the drums to himself. The Doctor took another step forwards, raising his hands up to mid chest. The Master inclined his head slightly in his direction.
"Right now?"
"Why not?"
He gently placed his fingertips to the Master's temples, spread out. The Master hesitated before moving his own hands to mimic the position, spreading his fingers out over the sides of the Doctor's face. The Doctor closed his eyes and concentrated, stretching out with his mind until he reached the periphery walls of the Master's consciousness. The Master paused, feeling him there, before drawing back the barricade to let him through. He could hear it. Straight away, he could hear it. Because the Master wanted him to. But he couldn't find the source, not yet, and searched through the Master's consciousness as best as he could, his job made more difficult by the masses of mental walls and doors that the Master kept firmly locked around the majority of his mind. He tried to push at one, to see if there was a way through, and the Master responded with such a violent pulse of telepathic energy that the Doctor whimpered aloud, hastily reeling in his mental tendrils and retreating safely to the warm centre of the Master's mind. In their conjoined minds, there was a light ahead, a small sphere of it, like a gravity globe.
As his telepathic consciousness edged towards the light, the glowing ball moved backwards slightly, illuminating a blood red ribbon-like line stretching as far as he could see. The Master was making him a path. He allowed himself to be led obediently through the twists and turns of the Master's mind, encouraged by the swelling, echoing of the drumming surrounding him. He wondered vaguely if it was possible for him to get lost, and what would happen if the Master closed the walls of his mind back around him. Would part of his consciousness be trapped inside the Master's head? But he felt fairly assured that the Master wouldn't do that. Live with the Doctor's voice within his mind? The Doctor thought that the Master would probably rather deal with the drums.
He didn't know what he'd expected the drums to manifest as. Of course, none of this was real, but a virtual demiworld that the two of them had conjured out of their mingled, mangled minds in order to make sense of the chaos. But when he eventually reached the epicentre, he saw it like a weed, dark red and oozing, pulsing and throbbing in rhythm, roots spreading like a disease through the Master's mind. His physical fingers twitched on the Master's forehead as he reached out telepathically, swirling his mind against the source and curling around it. The weed dislodged, lifted up, but the roots remained firmly in place. He strained, pulling hard, and the Master's mind shuddered slightly with the effort, before one by one the roots began to give, and the Doctor imagined that the Master was severing any mental links one by one, as best he could. As the weed was pulled free and into the Doctor's waiting telepathic hands, it shifted, roots furling up and curling around into a viscous, barely solid mass, which the Doctor wrapped up firmly in his mind before retreating, slowly, the way he'd come. The Master seemed unwilling to wait for him to leave gradually and pulled his head back from the Doctor's hands, releasing the Doctor's mind by yanking back his own fingers, and they both gasped in unison, as the sound of drums flooded hard into the Doctor's head with the force of a speeding bus.
The Master shook his head a little uncertainly, as though dislodging water from it. The Doctor kept his eyes closed tightly as the drums pounded like a migraine, like a disco with the volume turned up full, but the sounds directly inside his head. He winced as he straightened up in front of the Master, and hoped he wasn't imagining the slight flush of colour in the Master's cheeks, as though it was already doing some good to be rid of the noise. The drums were pounding so hard that he felt he could hardly stand and he fell as his legs gave way, forwards, collapsing, into the Master's waiting arms...
The first thing he heard when he woke up was the rhythm, and he wondered how he'd actually managed to fall asleep with the colossal pounding in his mind. But then he realised that he hadn't technically been asleep. He'd been unconscious, and that was completely different. And then he wondered if he'd ever be able to sleep again, and for that matter, how had the Master managed to sleep? Did it just fade slowly into the background over time, dulled with the fog of thought and papered over with layers of mind and memory until it was buried, roots-deep, into his subconscious? Or perhaps it was more a matter of waiting until he was simply so exhausted that even the beating drums wouldn't hold him back from sleep. The Doctor didn't know, and he should really have thought it through before hand. But, to be honest, he was still getting to grips with the idea that the sound existed at all. A little easier to believe when the pounding was richocheting around his skull.
He was lying in bed, he realised. His bed. On the bed, rather, as he'd been placed on top of the covers, rather unceremoniously he imagined, as his feet were up on the pillow and he sprawled sideways with his head lolling slightly over the side. He struggled to sit up, glancing around him warily. Of course, the Master wasn't around. The Doctor wasn't sure how long he had been out of it, but he was half expecting to find the other Time Lord gone, or at the very least tearing his console apart and rewiring it into a new attempt at a Doomsday Device. But when he walked back into the kitchen as steadily as he could manage, the first thing he saw was the Master sitting up at the table, eating jam sandwiches. Well, perhaps jam sandwiches was a slightly loose term for it; more like a loaf of bread and a jar of jam in what could be haphazardly labelled a culinary combination. The Master tore huge hunks out of the slab of unsliced bread with his hands, dunking them in the jar and lifting the scarlet, dripping chunks to his mouth.
"You're up." he remarked, sucking jam off his fingers unapologetically as he glanced up at the Doctor with his dark, shifting eyes.
The Doctor wanted to ask whether it had always been this difficult for the Master to stand upright, to concentrate on what people were saying, to even exist with this sound. But the Master had scoffed that he would never be able to stand it. So he supposed that was a yes. He was also unwilling, due to pride perhaps or his own stubborn nature, to admit that he was already struggling to cope.
"Yup." he said brightly, his voice sounding tinny and a little false "Yeah, good nap. How're you feeling?"
The Master narrowed his eyes to slits and didn't reply, mopping up the remainder of the jam with the last piece of crust as best as he could before tilting the jar up to his mouth and tipping out an entire globule of jam, swallowing it in one. The Doctor watched as he angled his lips around the rim of the jar and pushed his tongue almost to the bottom, licking in circles to chase the viscous red gloop.
"You'll rot your teeth." the Doctor remarked, licking over his own teeth with a grin.
There was a clunk as the Master smacked the nearly empty jar of jam down on the table in front of him, deliberately hard. The Doctor managed not to flinch, holding himself still in his seat and stretching his legs out in front of him. The Master smirked, licking around his sticky lips, and leaning forwards deliberately.
"Want some?" he offered, holding the jar out with both hands.
The drums in the Doctor's head throbbed hard, and he suddenly felt a powerful surge of annoyance, hitting him out of nowhere in a wave that left him feeling sick and dizzy, and he shook his head to clear it. He had to hold onto who he was. He was doing this to help the Master. He had done this freely, to help, and there was no point in feeling angry with the Master for... for what? Not warning him about exactly how terrible it felt? No, he had to deal with it. He could deal with it, with the knowledge that he was saving the Master, bit by bit.
"No thanks." he muttered, shoving the jar away from him "It's disgusting."
The Master quirked an eyebrow, his smirk widening.
"Worried you'll get my germs?" he enquired innocently, sticking his tongue out and biting down on it, curling the dexterous pink muscle over his lower lip, stretching it until the tip just touched his chin.
The Doctor glanced at the red smear of jam low on the Master's jaw, and reached out instinctively to wipe it away. The Master stayed still, tilting his head slightly as the Doctor rubbed firmly over his jawbone, intrigued by the rough rasp of stubble under the tip of his thumb. He glanced at the Master's eyes, still slitted and suspicious, and smiled encouragingly, perhaps a little patronisingly. The Master stared steadily at him, swiping the tip of his tongue over the underside of the Doctor's thumb to lick off the jam. The Doctor thought that it was for the shock element. An intention, perhaps, to show just how far his inhibitions had fallen, how the Doctor's attempts to redeem him were fruitless. Or maybe he truly had fallen so far. When he ate, it wasn't so much a show to repulse or evoke horror, but pure hunger. It was simply primitive instinct. So far from the Master that the Doctor remembered. But, oh, was he really the man that he had once been either?
If he'd been expecting the Doctor to recoil in disgust, it hadn't worked. Though the Master had dropped his gaze from the Doctor's eyes to his hand, and although the Doctor did consider that moving his hand away might be the best idea, he was more curious than concerned, because the Master was acting so bizarrely, and he was fascinated. He slowly unfurled his fingers, holding his palm out flat, and the Master licked from the heel of his palm to the tip of his middle finger, before fastening his lips around the tip of his finger. The Doctor swallowed, heat rising in his cheeks, as the Master slid his lips down to his second knuckle and sucked, hard. The Doctor hooked his finger around the corner of his mouth and tugged lightly, and the Master bit him warningly, digging in his teeth. The Doctor gasped, trying to wrench his hand away, and the drums in his head throbbed dizzyingly. The Master chuckled, slackening his hold and pulling away his mouth with a wet pop.
There was a pause, as the Doctor gazed down at the neat line of indentations left by the Master's teeth. The Master gazed silently at him, his expression blank and impassive, and his eyes so dark that hardly any of the white sclera was visible, and the Doctor felt as though he was gazing into twin bottomless pits. He hadn't even considered what he was doing, only that he should probably look away because the Master was trying to hypnotise him, and was therefore taken by surprise when he found himself leaning over the table and pressing his lips firmly to the Master's. The Master didn't seem surprised- maybe he had hypnotised him into it, after all- and wasted no time in taking control, clamping his hand to hold the back of his neck, tilting his head back and forcing his tongue between the Doctor's lips. The Doctor didn't even think before opening his mouth for him, leaning further across the table to reach. It might have been his imagination, but the drums seemed to dull slightly, as though the layer of lust was taking over the discomfort, and it was only at this point that he realised how fully and painfully aroused he was. As though he had been waiting to do this ever since he had brought the Master aboard... though that hadn't been his intention at all. The idea that the Master still harboured any feelings for him other than hate was nothing but a distant fantasy, and he had been telling the truth when he had said that he had no ulterior motives... sort of. Nothing this ulterior.
He had climbed on top of the table before it occurred for him to do so, and the Master laughed, a wild joyful noise that the Doctor just had to devour, so he did, crushing their lips together again. The Master grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him along, and sending the empty-ish jam jar crashing to the ground. The Doctor was probably getting covered in the mess of crumbs and smears of jam, but he didn't care, scrambling desperately to get closer to the Master until he landed in his lap clumsily, both legs to one side. The Master shifted under him, pulling him into a more accessible position and digging his fingertips hard into the shapes of his shoulderblades. Up close, the Doctor could smell the pure scent of the Master, perfect unwashed him. It wasn't unpleasant, it was musky and rich, the smell of his skin, his blood, that marked him out as a Time Lord. Maybe this was what had attracted him so firmly to the Master this time around; it had always been covered up before. Even in his most fiendish moments, the Master had kept himself impeccably groomed. Even when they were younger, at their most uninhibited, there had been nerves in the way and the impossible rituals of culture that they had tried so hard to follow, and then ended up making their own rules anyway. But there had still been rules, reasons, regulations. Not anymore. This was just want, need, raw and uncontrollable. The Doctor hummed, following the shuddering of the drumbeat urging him on, and the Master began wrenching the buttons of his shirt open, sending them flying in every direction. The Doctor shoved the Master's hoodie up his chest, tugging insistently.
Tilting his head back, the Master smirked. The Doctor stared at his mouth, transfixed. It was the expression he wore when he was winning, when he was glorious, when he was beating the Doctor. During sex, sometimes, maybe, when he was in charge and the Doctor was completely bowed to his will. But neither of them were in charge at the moment. Neither of them needed to be. They were thinking of themselves, purely, selfishly, wonderfully. The Master allowed his sweatshirt to be stripped away, untying the sash of the Doctor's dressing gown to pull both it and his pyjama shirt from his shoulders. Their mouths met again, frantic, sucking on each other's tongues as they clashed in the space where their lips were conjoined, and the Doctor wrenched the Master's jeans open at the same time as the Master shoved down the Doctor's striped pyjama trousers. Their minds working in symbiosis, as they always had, but for the first time in centuries they were letting it, letting their almost identical consciousnesses flow rather than using it, trying to twist it around to use as a weapon, trying to work out what the other was thinking, or planning. That didn't matter, and the Doctor wondered if it ever had. If the hundreds of years of fighting, tussling, warring had been simply pointless when compared to this, how they worked together, how they fit together perfectly.
Wordlessly, the Doctor lifted his hips, straddling the Master's thighs, and the Master pulled on his hips, twisting them to fit against him. Their eyes locked, as the Doctor sank down, slowly, his mouth falling open as the Master filled him fully. The Master huffed out his breath, his teeth gritted. The Doctor gasped out his breath, holding tightly to his shoulders, wondering faintly if it had all been too much, too fast, too right. But that had always been their mistake, he supposed. They had never let themselves have what was right, and that had been all his fault. He had made the Master who he was, more firmly and finally than Rassilon could ever have done. He knew that now, it had to be true. He was still a good person, and he had the same drum rhythm which the Master claimed as his insanity, so it couldn't have been them. It had been the Master all along, and that had been what the Doctor had pushed him into. He could still fix him; this just proved that it wasn't too late. They could still fix each other.
How he could still think with the Master's cock creating hot, fast friction inside him was a mystery, but he could think a lot more clearly then he had done all day. Spreading his legs wider, he grasped tightly to the Master's shoulders, raising and lowering himself in quick movements, and the Master reached around him to hold onto the edge of the table, using it for support as he started thrusting harder, lifting the Doctor bodily into the air with his pelvis and fucking him in mid-air. The Doctor stood up on the crossbars of the chair, swivelling his feet to hold himself up there, amused by the soft, breathy noises the Master was making as he drove himself as deeply as he could up into the Doctor while in their current unorthodox position. Apparently frustrated that he couldn't quite get enough of the Doctor as he wanted, the Master used his shoulder to push at the Doctor's chest. Taking the hint, the Doctor allowed himself to be shoved to lie flat on the table, wrapping his legs around the Master's waist, crossing at the ankles to keep a tight hold on him, pulling him to him, urging him to speed up.
The Master leaned forwards to press their mouths together in another hard, biting kiss. This was new too, the Doctor observed. Kissing in sex. Before, of course. Afterwards, sometimes. But the Master didn't usually go for it during. He liked to have his own mouth free, because he liked to talk, giving the Doctor a running commentary of what he was going to do, how good it was going to feel and how thoroughly his endeavours would cause the Doctor to submit to him, to be his. He liked the Doctor's mouth free as well, which was why he rarely went in for gags unless the particular situation and his particular plan required it. He liked to make the Doctor beg, to make him scream, to make him shout his chosen name over and over again. Sex with the Master had always been about the power, the power gained by claiming his greatest enemy. Sometimes it was about making him feel filthy and guilty, like on the Valiant, pressed against the huge window overlooking the Earth, forcing his eyes open, forcing him to gaze out over the burning islands as his hips were driven against the glass over and over again, whimpering and pleading until the Master let him come, laughing in his ear as the Doctor's come smeared great white lines over the image of the Earth below. It had been about hate, about showing his own power, about showing that he had won. Sometimes it was about showing him just how much he'd lost. The scrape of a rough goatee down his spine, making him shiver, his arms twisted up behind his head tied with tightly bound silk, a gloved hand on his arse, the Master fully clothed and in control and the Doctor naked and helpless, just as he liked him. The Master's hand on his cock, driving him to the drink and leaving him there, not letting him come, not until he was almost sobbing from want, begging for him. But this was different. The Master never acted like he wanted him, and although they both knew the truth, he insisted on pretending that it was all the Doctor, all his twisted thoughts that the Master was using against him. But now...
There was no sound, apart from the involuntary whimpers and moans dragged from them both, muffled as their tongues rubbed messily against each other. They rocked against each other, increasing friction and body contact, skin to skin. The Doctor could feel his muscles tensing, his body shuddering slightly as the heat in his body built up, or was that the Master's body against him? They were so pressed up close and twisted together that he could feel every tremor of the Master's hips, every drop of sweat collecting on his chest. They were both close, he could tell, but he was in no hurry to speed up the process, content with just letting it happen. He kissed the Master slowly, almost tenderly, licking his way around his mouth and sucking on the very tip of his tongue. The Master moved in slow, deep thrusts, twisting his hips to pound into him just so, so that when they climaxed together, it was an actual, physical, mental cataclysm, a crescendo of the drums in his mind, and he wondered whether that had happened for the Master too when he'd held the sound in his own head.
The Master laughed breathlessly, shattering the heavy dreamy silence, and the Doctor rolled automatically to tuck his head against the crook of his neck. He was expecting the Master to shove him off, or at least be irritated by the Doctor's need for comfort. A need for affection and reassurance that had probably been increasing as the Master's compulsion for independence increased even more rapidly. Just as, quite possibly, his desire to help the Master was directly proportional to the resentment and loathing the Master seemed to hold for him. They had the same mind, yes, in more ways that one, but it rarely occurred that they wanted exactly the same thing at the same time, and certainly not for the same reasons. Yet the Master merely adjusted his position lying flat against the table, huffing out a slow breath in what sounded like a contented sigh, and actually wrapped his arm around the Doctor's waist, holding him closer. There was a sudden, irritating pulse in the back of the Doctor's mind and suddenly he felt like pulling away. Restless. Though he didn't quite know why. This was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? He still felt content, his limbs heavy, awash in the comforting afterglow. Yet, somehow, discontent.
He stayed anyway, in the circle of the Master's arms, breathing in his hot, strong scent, and pressing against his warm, sticky, sweaty skin. More comfortable, and more at home than he had been for years, but then... he felt as though his flesh was crawling. Itching. The Master brushed a languid hand through his hair, pushing it to the side almost playfully, before sitting up and dislodging the Doctor from on top of him. The Doctor huffed in protest, but found himself secretly glad, sliding off the table as the Master stretched cat-like and stepped down, padding with a sloping grace in the direction of the bathroom. He didn't ask the Doctor to follow him. So the Doctor didn't. The Doctor paced, up and down, his dressing gown hanging loose from his shoulders, open over his chest. His feet hit the ground in a repeated rhythm; one, two, three, four, turn. Repeat in the other direction. Quick, precise, purposeful strides. His arms held loose at his sides. He didn't hear the Master returning until he heard his voice from the doorway and turned to look, halting mid-pace.
"You look nervous. Is this where you tell me we just made a terrible, terrible mistake and somehow, somewhere stepped over one of your stupid invisible lines?"
He was wet from the shower and clean-looking, scrubbed, a white towel slung low on his waist and his blonde hair sticking up in every direction, fluffed up like the head of a dandelion in spots, and plastered flat to his head in the others.
"No?" the Doctor answered, it coming out as a question even though it was meant to be an assertive statement, and the Master laughed in a short bark-like ha, stepping towards him in slow, loping steps, pulling the sides of the dressing gown together and tying them over his stomach, pulling the sash a little tighter than necessary.
The Doctor found himself sliding his arms around the Master's damp shoulders and hugging him tightly, pulling their bodies closer to fit together.
"You aren't a mistake. Never." he murmured against the other man's ear and the Master stiffened against him.
"Get off me, you sap." he muttered, pushing him, but the Doctor refused to let go and eventually the Master relaxed slightly against him, his chin on his shoulder, and let the Doctor hold him.