DW -- Forever (and Forgotten)
Title: Forever (and Forgotten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Master/Ten (Master/Three, Koschei/Theta)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 491
Warnings: attempts at self-destruction
Prompt: "Love the Way You Lie" (but for real this time!)
Summary: (Post-S3 AU.) The Master absolutely despises being the Doctor's pet.
Author's Note: For richelle2972! …again! XD
Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
Well, that’s all right
Because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and watch me cry
Well, that’s all right
Because I love the way you lie
- “Love the Way You Lie” - Skylar Grey -
FOREVER (AND FORGOTTEN)
“You’re doing it wrong,” the Master says.
The Doctor spares him only the briefest of glares before returning his full attention to the TARDIS console, which he is repairing with all of the skill and finesse of a four-year-old Gaxarg.
Gaxargs have no hands.
It would be significantly easier for the Master to exert his intellectual and technological superiority if he wasn’t handcuffed to the bench seat, but the Doctor has been especially paranoid since the Tuesday (time is fluid in the Vortex, so the Master arbitrarily decides what day it is on any given occasion) when he drank half of the bottle of industrial bleach. The Master has not explained that he was attempting to off himself in the hopes of regenerating into someone who would do to the Doctor what the Doctor does to him. He has also chosen not to mention that having the Doctor’s fingers down his throat felt quite nice until it triggered his gag reflex. He will certainly not be declaiming on the fact that being wrapped up in a blanket and coddled afterward was, despite the nonstop scolding, the best he’s felt since the first day on the Valiant.
The next morning, all of that was forgotten, and the throbbing of the Master’s diaphragm was the only proof that it had happened at all. That’s how it always goes; that’s the way it’s always gone. You can’t trust this Doctor, because you can’t trust any Doctor, because it’s always a lie.
The inevitable phone call, picturing the new face, knowing that the CCTV feeds wouldn’t have done it justice. I can fix you. I can help.
Lie.
In the old TARDIS, white walls, with the churning madness of human folly just outside. Come with me. We can blaze across the sky like twining comets, you and I, and leave this filthy rock behind forever.
Lie.
In his father’s house, with the sunset turning the grassy slopes into a blinding wall of red, lighting Theta’s pale hair crimson, casting violet shadows on his smile. I love you. I always will.
Lie.
“That should do it,” the Doctor says, as if one of his puny human yes-men is here to make a show of excitement.
“It won’t,” the Master says.
The Doctor frowns at him, programs in some new destination as insipid as the last, and stands back.
The TARDIS starts whirring promisingly, but then there’s a horrible shriek of metal on metal, and a shuddering that rocks the floor, and smoke everywhere-
The Master wrenches himself forward, the handcuff chain straining, and slams a fist down on three buttons in perfect sequence. The ship stabilizes instantaneously.
The Doctor releases the coral strut that broke his fall and dusts himself off, having the grace to look embarrassed. “Ah… Well.”
“I think your ears are defective,” the Master says.
Back to the scowl. “Don’t be petty. I hear you perfectly. I know you.”
Lie.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Master/Ten (Master/Three, Koschei/Theta)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 491
Warnings: attempts at self-destruction
Prompt: "Love the Way You Lie" (but for real this time!)
Summary: (Post-S3 AU.) The Master absolutely despises being the Doctor's pet.
Author's Note: For richelle2972! …again! XD
Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
Well, that’s all right
Because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and watch me cry
Well, that’s all right
Because I love the way you lie
- “Love the Way You Lie” - Skylar Grey -
FOREVER (AND FORGOTTEN)
“You’re doing it wrong,” the Master says.
The Doctor spares him only the briefest of glares before returning his full attention to the TARDIS console, which he is repairing with all of the skill and finesse of a four-year-old Gaxarg.
Gaxargs have no hands.
It would be significantly easier for the Master to exert his intellectual and technological superiority if he wasn’t handcuffed to the bench seat, but the Doctor has been especially paranoid since the Tuesday (time is fluid in the Vortex, so the Master arbitrarily decides what day it is on any given occasion) when he drank half of the bottle of industrial bleach. The Master has not explained that he was attempting to off himself in the hopes of regenerating into someone who would do to the Doctor what the Doctor does to him. He has also chosen not to mention that having the Doctor’s fingers down his throat felt quite nice until it triggered his gag reflex. He will certainly not be declaiming on the fact that being wrapped up in a blanket and coddled afterward was, despite the nonstop scolding, the best he’s felt since the first day on the Valiant.
The next morning, all of that was forgotten, and the throbbing of the Master’s diaphragm was the only proof that it had happened at all. That’s how it always goes; that’s the way it’s always gone. You can’t trust this Doctor, because you can’t trust any Doctor, because it’s always a lie.
The inevitable phone call, picturing the new face, knowing that the CCTV feeds wouldn’t have done it justice. I can fix you. I can help.
Lie.
In the old TARDIS, white walls, with the churning madness of human folly just outside. Come with me. We can blaze across the sky like twining comets, you and I, and leave this filthy rock behind forever.
Lie.
In his father’s house, with the sunset turning the grassy slopes into a blinding wall of red, lighting Theta’s pale hair crimson, casting violet shadows on his smile. I love you. I always will.
Lie.
“That should do it,” the Doctor says, as if one of his puny human yes-men is here to make a show of excitement.
“It won’t,” the Master says.
The Doctor frowns at him, programs in some new destination as insipid as the last, and stands back.
The TARDIS starts whirring promisingly, but then there’s a horrible shriek of metal on metal, and a shuddering that rocks the floor, and smoke everywhere-
The Master wrenches himself forward, the handcuff chain straining, and slams a fist down on three buttons in perfect sequence. The ship stabilizes instantaneously.
The Doctor releases the coral strut that broke his fall and dusts himself off, having the grace to look embarrassed. “Ah… Well.”
“I think your ears are defective,” the Master says.
Back to the scowl. “Don’t be petty. I hear you perfectly. I know you.”
Lie.