Life on Mars/Doctor Who fic
Title: Now Your World is Mine
Author:
acidpenguin46
Characters: Sam Tyler, The Master, Gene Hunt
Word Count: 1181
Rating: Red Cortina/R to NC-17 (to be safe)
Warning: Blood, violence, adult themes, unbetaed.
Summary: Prequel to All Over the Place. Sam struggles with memories and actions that don't belong to him.
Spoilers: None for LoM, spoilers for S3 of Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Unfortunately it's not mine, it all belongs to Kudos and the BBC (the latter also owning Doctor Who).
Notes: So this is my first LoM fic in a while, after being distracted for the last month or so by wanting to marry both Donna Noble and Dr. Horrible Doctor Who and Dr. Horrible's Singalong Blog, which is apt considering this fic features the Master and was indirectly inspired by the Dr. Horrible song "Everything You Ever" (where I also pinched the title from).
Now Your World is Mine
He dreamt of fire, of rage. Of battles spanning the breadth of space and time. Of an unknown man, of unknown civilizations, completely at his mercy. Of a bright orange planet burning away in the blink of an eye. He woke up panting, hard on not even remotely concealed by his thinning pyjama pants. He’d always have a shower after those dreams, letting these twisted images that didn’t even belong to him wash away, trickle down the drain along with the running water.
***
He never saw her anymore. He’d even deliberately left the TV on some nights, just to see if she would return. To see if she would pop out in with her clown doll and little red dress, tormenting him with the possibility that this wasn’t real, that he could still wake up from this nightmare. She never did. She just deserted him, leaving him alone with the familiar voice in his head and the incessant drum beat that just refused to go away.
***
“Jesus Tyler, you look worse then the arse-end of a scrawny donkey.” He looked up at Gene from under his wrists while his fingers applied pressure to his throbbing temples.
“What do you want Gene?”
“You know Evan Harper?” Sam tried to think, sorting through the debris of memories that didn’t belong to him to find some of those that did.
“Um, wasn’t he that dealer you banged up a while back?”
”Yeah him. According to one of our snouts he’s making moves to climb up the food chain.”
“Yay for him.” Gene just glared at him, and Sam grimaced. “Sorry.”
“If you’re quite finished being a prat, I suggest we work out a way to cut his climbing rope.”
“What, drag him in kicking and screaming?”
“If I wanted to do that, you’d hardly be first choice as me partner Gladys. And besides, the bastard’s gone underground.”
“So what do you want me to do then?”
“Oh, I don’t know, at least pretend at being a copper who wants to investigate this further.”
Sam lowered his face into his hands and then ran his fingers through his hair before looking back up at his DCI. “Right, where are the case files?
***
Sometimes, the taste of alcohol in his mouth, as it settled there momentarily before making its journey through his body, was the best feeling in the world. Things didn’t seem as though they mattered that much, and the thoughts that were sending him around the bend would slowly dissipate under the surge of burning liquid that slowly clouded his brain. It made him feel, if not happy, then at least less prone to thinking. If he could choose one thing to take with him if he ever returned home it wasn’t alcoholism, but in this hell hole sometimes a half a bottle of whiskey felt like the only friend he had. Or two and a half. It must be the latter if he was having difficulty remembering the exact amount. And it wasn’t doing much all to help him clear his head either. Thoughts kept swimming around, broken at random intervals by random outbursts of manic laughter. He tried not to dwell too much on that.
***
He blinked, and saw Gene before him, pinning him to the wall out the back of the Arms. “What the hell were you thinkin’ Tyler?”
“What?”
“I said what in God’s bleedin’ name were yer thinkin’?”
“When did we come to the Arms?” Gene let him go and looked at him, his green eyes boring into Sam’s brown in a mixture of hurt and something else. He turned around and went back into the pub, leaving Sam to wonder where the hell the last three hours of his life had gone.
***
The early morning sun burst through his windows, casting its rays that were entirely too bright across the trashed flat around him. In his post-sleep haze he looked around him, taking in the upturned furniture, the empty liquor bottles, the cutlery strewn everywhere. He didn’t even remember coming back here last night. Clenched fists rubbed at his tired eyes and he startled fully awake at the cold sticky residue they left behind on his face. He looked down at his hands, and felt like he was going to be sick. Stumbling blindly to the bathroom, he grabbed a cloth and scrubbed at his hands, arms and upper body vigorously, watching as the drying blood was washed away under the running tap. Once dry he examined himself, but couldn’t find a single wound.
***
The stake-out felt different. There were no arguments, no footy scores, no whinging about the Missus. The only thing that was loud was the total absence of noise. He wondered if Gene knew how that blood ended up on his hands. He could still feel it on him, although he made sure all of it was gone. He’s just thankful he’d discovered it before Gene came storming into his flat, yelling about Harper stabbing one of his rivals to death during the night. He had kept silent all the way Harper’s last known residence, and if Gene had a problem with this silence then he wasn’t sharing it. Probably still pissed off about whatever he couldn’t remember doing in the pub last night. He looked across the car as his DCI brooded and sudden images of Gene, kneeling before him and pleading for his life as Sam towered above him with a silver blade in his hands, flashed before his eyes. He opened the door just in time to avoid vomiting all over the Cortina’s dashboard. He heard the other car door slam as Gene made his way around the front of the car, while that voice in his head that sounded so much like his own laughed.
***
He couldn’t tell what thoughts were his anymore. He couldn’t even seek the oblivion of a whiskey bottle because if he was going around killing people when he was blacked out he didn’t exactly want to bring the sensation upon himself. A laugh slipped from his mouth, escaped of its own volition. A maniacal sadistic cackle that made the bile rise up in his throat. He looked down at his hands, and weren’t even sure if they were his anymore. He closed his eyes momentarily, and when they opened all he could see was darkness.
***
Sweet Gallifrey, Seventies clothes were repulsive. He sifted through the horror that was Tyler’s wardrobe until he settled on an open-collar white shirt and tight black jeans. He smirked after he put the outfit on and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. This was going to be too easy. A little murder here, a well-placed phone call there, saying that Harper would be at the Russell Club tonight. A suggestion at work, saying that maybe he, Gene and Chris should go undercover. His grin widened. This was sport.
He flicked on the radio and danced around the flat to fast-paced drum beat of “Suffragette City.” Tonight The Master would return to the future.
Author:
acidpenguin46
Characters: Sam Tyler, The Master, Gene Hunt
Word Count: 1181
Rating: Red Cortina/R to NC-17 (to be safe)
Warning: Blood, violence, adult themes, unbetaed.
Summary: Prequel to All Over the Place. Sam struggles with memories and actions that don't belong to him.
Spoilers: None for LoM, spoilers for S3 of Doctor Who
Disclaimer: Unfortunately it's not mine, it all belongs to Kudos and the BBC (the latter also owning Doctor Who).
Notes: So this is my first LoM fic in a while, after being distracted for the last month or so by wanting to marry both Donna Noble and Dr. Horrible Doctor Who and Dr. Horrible's Singalong Blog, which is apt considering this fic features the Master and was indirectly inspired by the Dr. Horrible song "Everything You Ever" (where I also pinched the title from).
Now Your World is Mine
He dreamt of fire, of rage. Of battles spanning the breadth of space and time. Of an unknown man, of unknown civilizations, completely at his mercy. Of a bright orange planet burning away in the blink of an eye. He woke up panting, hard on not even remotely concealed by his thinning pyjama pants. He’d always have a shower after those dreams, letting these twisted images that didn’t even belong to him wash away, trickle down the drain along with the running water.
***
He never saw her anymore. He’d even deliberately left the TV on some nights, just to see if she would return. To see if she would pop out in with her clown doll and little red dress, tormenting him with the possibility that this wasn’t real, that he could still wake up from this nightmare. She never did. She just deserted him, leaving him alone with the familiar voice in his head and the incessant drum beat that just refused to go away.
***
“Jesus Tyler, you look worse then the arse-end of a scrawny donkey.” He looked up at Gene from under his wrists while his fingers applied pressure to his throbbing temples.
“What do you want Gene?”
“You know Evan Harper?” Sam tried to think, sorting through the debris of memories that didn’t belong to him to find some of those that did.
“Um, wasn’t he that dealer you banged up a while back?”
”Yeah him. According to one of our snouts he’s making moves to climb up the food chain.”
“Yay for him.” Gene just glared at him, and Sam grimaced. “Sorry.”
“If you’re quite finished being a prat, I suggest we work out a way to cut his climbing rope.”
“What, drag him in kicking and screaming?”
“If I wanted to do that, you’d hardly be first choice as me partner Gladys. And besides, the bastard’s gone underground.”
“So what do you want me to do then?”
“Oh, I don’t know, at least pretend at being a copper who wants to investigate this further.”
Sam lowered his face into his hands and then ran his fingers through his hair before looking back up at his DCI. “Right, where are the case files?
***
Sometimes, the taste of alcohol in his mouth, as it settled there momentarily before making its journey through his body, was the best feeling in the world. Things didn’t seem as though they mattered that much, and the thoughts that were sending him around the bend would slowly dissipate under the surge of burning liquid that slowly clouded his brain. It made him feel, if not happy, then at least less prone to thinking. If he could choose one thing to take with him if he ever returned home it wasn’t alcoholism, but in this hell hole sometimes a half a bottle of whiskey felt like the only friend he had. Or two and a half. It must be the latter if he was having difficulty remembering the exact amount. And it wasn’t doing much all to help him clear his head either. Thoughts kept swimming around, broken at random intervals by random outbursts of manic laughter. He tried not to dwell too much on that.
***
He blinked, and saw Gene before him, pinning him to the wall out the back of the Arms. “What the hell were you thinkin’ Tyler?”
“What?”
“I said what in God’s bleedin’ name were yer thinkin’?”
“When did we come to the Arms?” Gene let him go and looked at him, his green eyes boring into Sam’s brown in a mixture of hurt and something else. He turned around and went back into the pub, leaving Sam to wonder where the hell the last three hours of his life had gone.
***
The early morning sun burst through his windows, casting its rays that were entirely too bright across the trashed flat around him. In his post-sleep haze he looked around him, taking in the upturned furniture, the empty liquor bottles, the cutlery strewn everywhere. He didn’t even remember coming back here last night. Clenched fists rubbed at his tired eyes and he startled fully awake at the cold sticky residue they left behind on his face. He looked down at his hands, and felt like he was going to be sick. Stumbling blindly to the bathroom, he grabbed a cloth and scrubbed at his hands, arms and upper body vigorously, watching as the drying blood was washed away under the running tap. Once dry he examined himself, but couldn’t find a single wound.
***
The stake-out felt different. There were no arguments, no footy scores, no whinging about the Missus. The only thing that was loud was the total absence of noise. He wondered if Gene knew how that blood ended up on his hands. He could still feel it on him, although he made sure all of it was gone. He’s just thankful he’d discovered it before Gene came storming into his flat, yelling about Harper stabbing one of his rivals to death during the night. He had kept silent all the way Harper’s last known residence, and if Gene had a problem with this silence then he wasn’t sharing it. Probably still pissed off about whatever he couldn’t remember doing in the pub last night. He looked across the car as his DCI brooded and sudden images of Gene, kneeling before him and pleading for his life as Sam towered above him with a silver blade in his hands, flashed before his eyes. He opened the door just in time to avoid vomiting all over the Cortina’s dashboard. He heard the other car door slam as Gene made his way around the front of the car, while that voice in his head that sounded so much like his own laughed.
***
He couldn’t tell what thoughts were his anymore. He couldn’t even seek the oblivion of a whiskey bottle because if he was going around killing people when he was blacked out he didn’t exactly want to bring the sensation upon himself. A laugh slipped from his mouth, escaped of its own volition. A maniacal sadistic cackle that made the bile rise up in his throat. He looked down at his hands, and weren’t even sure if they were his anymore. He closed his eyes momentarily, and when they opened all he could see was darkness.
***
Sweet Gallifrey, Seventies clothes were repulsive. He sifted through the horror that was Tyler’s wardrobe until he settled on an open-collar white shirt and tight black jeans. He smirked after he put the outfit on and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. This was going to be too easy. A little murder here, a well-placed phone call there, saying that Harper would be at the Russell Club tonight. A suggestion at work, saying that maybe he, Gene and Chris should go undercover. His grin widened. This was sport.
He flicked on the radio and danced around the flat to fast-paced drum beat of “Suffragette City.” Tonight The Master would return to the future.