ficlet: i gave it up for music
justice_turtle asked for a Doctor Who band AU. This is... um, I let you decide what this is.
Also this is very a propos, since I just got my new loudspeakers developed and there's MUSIC. Without tinny sounds.
Fic: I gave it up for music
(Eight, Roberts!Master, Grace Holloway, all ages)
TV Movie, the Band AU.
Grace tried to slam the door shut in his face, but the Master got his foot in too quickly.
“Honestly, ma’am,” he said, tipping his shades the way someone playing a gangster in a bad noir film might tip his hat, “this is a misunderstanding. I’m not trying to harm John.”
“John?” Grace asked. As far as she knew, the only John involved in this fiasco was the John Doe who had escaped from the morgue to turn her life into a madhouse, but she was prepared to pretend she'd never met anyone called John in her life.
The Master sighed and smiled at the same time. “Has he been introducing himself as ‘The Doctor’ again?”
Grace hesitated. This stranger didn't sound so evil. Or mad. The Doctor, on the other hand, was decidedly weird, and she wasn’t sure she believed him. But the Doctor had sounded very urgent when he’d asked her to hide him, and she had nearly killed him earlier today...
“He says he’s an alien from the planet Gallifrey. And you’re his nemesis.”
“Christ,” the Master said, without any shock at all. He just sort of drawled it, as if this sort of thing happened thrice before breakfast in his life. “He’s Welsh, you know. Gallifrey. That’s his home town. Little Welsh village. Very... rural. And Welsh.”
“I’m not Welsh!”
Grace turned around to glare at the Doctor. “I thought you were going to hide.”
“I am. Hiding. I’m not here. And I’m not Welsh!”
The Master used this opportunity to edge further into the house. Grace tried to block him, but he was very tall and dark and clad in leather. “He’s afraid of you,” she said accusingly. "I don't think you should come in."
“He’s very confused,” the Master said, and offered his hand. “The drugs, you know, and the pressure. He doesn’t handle pressure well. And America. America never agrees with him. I’m Sam, by the way. Sam Tyler.”
“He says you’re called the Master.”
Sam-or-the-Master laughed. “I am.”
“Are you going to tell me that’s a Welsh name, too?”
“Of course not. I’m one hundred percent American. It’s a stage name.”
Grace looked from the Doctor, who was hiding most of himself behind the sofa, back to Maybe-Sam in his leather coat and shades. She tried to imagine what they’d do on a stage. Stand-up comedy? Magician and assistant? Male strippers?
“We’re in a band,” Sam helpfully explained.
Grace snorted. “No. Sorry, I don’t buy that.”
“The Deca,” Sam said. “We’re pretty famous. In Wales.”
“I’m a Time Lord,” the Doctor whined. “I’m only human on my mother’s side. I don’t want to be in a band.”
“He’s brilliant,” the Master assured her. “A prodigy. But very... highly strung.”
“You died,” the Doctor continued in an increasingly accusing tone, “you turned into a gooey... thing of goo. You crashed my TARDIS. And then I died. We all died, it was a very bad day. Tell him, Grace.”
“John,” the Master said soothingly, “I’m not mad at you for running off and crashing the car. It’s fine, you see, we’ll get the band back together, and then - “
“We’ll conquer the charts together?” the Doctor sneered.
“We could do it. We could be a number one hit.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” the Doctor sniffed. “And a worse musician.”
Grace was losing her patience with both of them. “What sort of music?” she asked.
Both of them looked at her. “Recorder and harp,” the Doctor said, at the same time as the Master said, “A sort of pop-goth-wave-psychedelic.”
Grace wasn’t really at home with modern music. She was more of an opera fan. “Sounds... interesting.”
The Master gave a half shrug with one leather-clad shoulder. “It’s been described as the bastard child of The Cure and Queen.”
“Ha!” The Doctor said. “Critics! What a bunch of unimaginative philistines.”
“So you are in a band?” Grace abandoned her post defending the door against the Master, and walked over to the Doctor, looking sternly down at him. “You told me you were an alien.”
“Maybe I was in a band,” the Doctor said, looking unsure of himself. “I think I remember critics. Yes, there were definitely critics. And I had a coat.”
“Eighties glam metal phase,” the Master whispered as he went past Grace to kneel by the couch. He touched the Doctor’s face. The Doctor flinched, but didn’t try to run. Instead, he sent Grace a helpless look.
“Grace, Grace, what do I do? I thought he only wanted me for my body, but no I don’t know, he has a nice body, nice hands, you have nice hands now, Master, did you know that?”
Grace cleared her throat. “I - I really don’t think I need to hear this. Let’s just - let’s just all forget about the aliens and the dying and go back to - to Wales or wherever you come from.”
“Of course,” the Master said smoothly, and pulled the Doctor to his feet move him towards the door, one arm over the smaller man’s shoulders in a protective embrace. They were nearly out of the door when the Doctor twisted around in his grip to wave at Grace, smiling like a child. As he did so, Grace got a glimpse of the Master's eyes behind those black shades: bright green, almost glowing in the dark. The door fell shut behind them a second later.
“Contact lenses,” Grace told herself shakily. “Welsh glam rock.”
Also this is very a propos, since I just got my new loudspeakers developed and there's MUSIC. Without tinny sounds.
Fic: I gave it up for music
(Eight, Roberts!Master, Grace Holloway, all ages)
TV Movie, the Band AU.
Grace tried to slam the door shut in his face, but the Master got his foot in too quickly.
“Honestly, ma’am,” he said, tipping his shades the way someone playing a gangster in a bad noir film might tip his hat, “this is a misunderstanding. I’m not trying to harm John.”
“John?” Grace asked. As far as she knew, the only John involved in this fiasco was the John Doe who had escaped from the morgue to turn her life into a madhouse, but she was prepared to pretend she'd never met anyone called John in her life.
The Master sighed and smiled at the same time. “Has he been introducing himself as ‘The Doctor’ again?”
Grace hesitated. This stranger didn't sound so evil. Or mad. The Doctor, on the other hand, was decidedly weird, and she wasn’t sure she believed him. But the Doctor had sounded very urgent when he’d asked her to hide him, and she had nearly killed him earlier today...
“He says he’s an alien from the planet Gallifrey. And you’re his nemesis.”
“Christ,” the Master said, without any shock at all. He just sort of drawled it, as if this sort of thing happened thrice before breakfast in his life. “He’s Welsh, you know. Gallifrey. That’s his home town. Little Welsh village. Very... rural. And Welsh.”
“I’m not Welsh!”
Grace turned around to glare at the Doctor. “I thought you were going to hide.”
“I am. Hiding. I’m not here. And I’m not Welsh!”
The Master used this opportunity to edge further into the house. Grace tried to block him, but he was very tall and dark and clad in leather. “He’s afraid of you,” she said accusingly. "I don't think you should come in."
“He’s very confused,” the Master said, and offered his hand. “The drugs, you know, and the pressure. He doesn’t handle pressure well. And America. America never agrees with him. I’m Sam, by the way. Sam Tyler.”
“He says you’re called the Master.”
Sam-or-the-Master laughed. “I am.”
“Are you going to tell me that’s a Welsh name, too?”
“Of course not. I’m one hundred percent American. It’s a stage name.”
Grace looked from the Doctor, who was hiding most of himself behind the sofa, back to Maybe-Sam in his leather coat and shades. She tried to imagine what they’d do on a stage. Stand-up comedy? Magician and assistant? Male strippers?
“We’re in a band,” Sam helpfully explained.
Grace snorted. “No. Sorry, I don’t buy that.”
“The Deca,” Sam said. “We’re pretty famous. In Wales.”
“I’m a Time Lord,” the Doctor whined. “I’m only human on my mother’s side. I don’t want to be in a band.”
“He’s brilliant,” the Master assured her. “A prodigy. But very... highly strung.”
“You died,” the Doctor continued in an increasingly accusing tone, “you turned into a gooey... thing of goo. You crashed my TARDIS. And then I died. We all died, it was a very bad day. Tell him, Grace.”
“John,” the Master said soothingly, “I’m not mad at you for running off and crashing the car. It’s fine, you see, we’ll get the band back together, and then - “
“We’ll conquer the charts together?” the Doctor sneered.
“We could do it. We could be a number one hit.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” the Doctor sniffed. “And a worse musician.”
Grace was losing her patience with both of them. “What sort of music?” she asked.
Both of them looked at her. “Recorder and harp,” the Doctor said, at the same time as the Master said, “A sort of pop-goth-wave-psychedelic.”
Grace wasn’t really at home with modern music. She was more of an opera fan. “Sounds... interesting.”
The Master gave a half shrug with one leather-clad shoulder. “It’s been described as the bastard child of The Cure and Queen.”
“Ha!” The Doctor said. “Critics! What a bunch of unimaginative philistines.”
“So you are in a band?” Grace abandoned her post defending the door against the Master, and walked over to the Doctor, looking sternly down at him. “You told me you were an alien.”
“Maybe I was in a band,” the Doctor said, looking unsure of himself. “I think I remember critics. Yes, there were definitely critics. And I had a coat.”
“Eighties glam metal phase,” the Master whispered as he went past Grace to kneel by the couch. He touched the Doctor’s face. The Doctor flinched, but didn’t try to run. Instead, he sent Grace a helpless look.
“Grace, Grace, what do I do? I thought he only wanted me for my body, but no I don’t know, he has a nice body, nice hands, you have nice hands now, Master, did you know that?”
Grace cleared her throat. “I - I really don’t think I need to hear this. Let’s just - let’s just all forget about the aliens and the dying and go back to - to Wales or wherever you come from.”
“Of course,” the Master said smoothly, and pulled the Doctor to his feet move him towards the door, one arm over the smaller man’s shoulders in a protective embrace. They were nearly out of the door when the Doctor twisted around in his grip to wave at Grace, smiling like a child. As he did so, Grace got a glimpse of the Master's eyes behind those black shades: bright green, almost glowing in the dark. The door fell shut behind them a second later.
“Contact lenses,” Grace told herself shakily. “Welsh glam rock.”