10/ Master rated R for violence
already posted to dw_slash
title: door
author: briodenebuliser
pair: 10/Master
rated: R for violence
disclaimer: BBC owns this
summary: In my usual style where all the violence is sexualized. the Master suddenly realizes that, more than anything, the Doctor has to want to walk into that laboratory before any additional work can be done.
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
There's a security video the Master's watches a hundred times a night, a grainy black and white recording of the Doctor rocking back and forth, a small body in his arms, blood all over the floor. He sees himself in the image, looking up at the camera with an unreadable expression.
Sometimes when he's really drunk, he dips his finger in the wine and draws on the computer screen.
But several nights earlier, the two men were in the lab, and the Master smiled as he ripped the sheet off, watching the Doctor shake in a cold sweat. "Look what you've done," he said, grabbing the Doctor's face and turning him toward the video moniter, "Think they got the message?"
The Doctor said nothing, but stared at the screen, watching the storm he'd created crush a mountain as if it were butter. He curled into a ball on the slab.
The Master loved feeling the man's teeth chatter in his hand, smell the adrenaline in his sweat. "Cold?" he asked. He ran a hand down the Doctor's exposed shoulder.
"How did that feel?" he asked, watching the screen with the Doctor, "Can you hear the wind when you're inside the program? Can you feel it in your bones?"
He leaned over the frail, shivering scientist, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I think the people will listen to a man like you, whose footsteps are like words written on the surface of the world."
The Doctor shut his eyes, refused to look at him. But the Master continued to run a hand down his arm.
"You know what those words are?" the Master whispered.
The Doctor opened his eyes, looking to see that the Master had trailed blood all over his body with his hands. Somehow he knew the answer already.
The Master smiled. "Follow...me...follow...me..." He took the Doctor's face in both his hands, watching the storm reflected in his eyes.
The Doctor took his hands down, and sighed, looking again at the screen.
Without a word, he picked up his clothes, and walk toward the door.
He didn't take three steps before the Master plucked the clothes out of his arms. "Going somewhere?" he asked quietly. He knocked the Doctor to the floor, tossing the clothes to the side.
"Your problem," the Master said as he undid his belt, "Is you've always slept like a baby."
The belt clattered to the floor. Next the jacket rolled off his back, flung against the wall with a crack.
"If I have a bad day I can't sleep for a week, but YOU, you just roll over and you wake up the next day and the streets are still lined with sunshine."
He began to unbutton his shirt, the sleeves spattered brown, his face appearing flushed in the light of that red satin room.
"You need something to remember me by." he said.
He flung it into the Doctor's face, the smell a mixture of old blood and cologne.
"Put it on."
The Doctor dropped the shirt, his face twisted in revulsion.
The Master slowly bent down to pick up the belt. "Put--it--on." When the Doctor refused, he raised the belt over his head and smiled. "That's right, give me a reason."
But before it could come to that, the Doctor began to slide his arms through the sleeves, trying very hard not to think about the body that must still be lying out in the hallway.
He woke up in his cell the next day to find that someone had messed with the room temperature, a dry heat that nonetheless made his shirt stick to his body. It smelled like a charnel house.
All of his meals were red: tomato soup, beef tartar, strawberries. The food sickened him in that heat, so he would dip his fingers in it and draw on the wall.
The next day, the walls had, predictably, been painted over. Except for one spot.
He drew on the wall again. Again the wall was painted over the next day while he slept, but a pattern was emerging.
He drew again, higher up on the wall. It was painted over, but not all the way to the ceiling.
This time he crushed the fruit in his hand and smeared it across as much of the wall as he could. When he woke up the next day, it almost looked like...
The Master leaned in, watching the security camera screen, running his fingertip along the rim of the wineglass to make it sing.
The Doctor, despite the heat, wrapped his arms around himself in that filthy shirt.
The stain was approximately thirty inches wide and seventy-five inches high. He sat down against the opposite wall and stared at it.
The next night, the Doctor woke up to the sound of piano music coming from, it seemed, the Master's laboratory. If he strained his ears, he could also hear lab equipment clinking, the turning of pages, a man's footsteps.
He looked at the form on the wall and it made him ache.
The next night, the Doctor woke up to find no food, but a black marker. He picked it up, testing the weight in his hand, and looked up at the stain again. He traced a shape in the air a few inches from the wall, like a sideways S, or a serpent...
Or a door handle.
He awoke to the fire alarm, the hallway red with lights running off the emergency generator. He stood up to find that his door, in fact all the doors, had unlocked.
Hundreds of soldiers were rushing on the floor above him, but he appeared to be alone. He considered checking the Master's lab, but decided this was his best chance for escape.
He didn't go a hundred feet before hearing someone breathing very fast around the corner. A little boy shot past on rabbit legs, something hard and glittering in his hand.
"Hold on," the Doctor said, nabbing the kid, "How'd you get on the ship?"
He looked terrified and tried to twist away, but the Doctor said, "Come on, I'll hide you in my room, it's right there."
Once the door was shut he was sure the boy would calm down, but his breathing seemed to get worse, a thin, high sound coming out of his lungs.
"Lie down and try to---what's that in your hand?"
The boy smiled and clutched it to his chest. After a few seconds he gained some control on his breathing and said, "My friends didn't think I could get here and back home. They said I had to bring something back to prove it."
He held up his right arm to show another one of the Earth vortex manipulator models, though even the Doctor could tell its power supply was shot. In the boy's hand...
"Where did you get that?" he asked, panic in his voice.
The boy drew away. "It's busted anyway, why, is it yours? I found it in an office."
"You were led to that thing, weren't you?" he said, "Did you hear it say anything?"
The boy looked down at the fob watch.
"Did it say anything to you?" he repeated.
Footsteps approached from behind.
"Follow...me." the Master said, smiling in the doorway, a shadow framed in red, gun in one gloved hand. "So you've found our little stowaway. He had us all worried, we thought we might have another killer on our hands."
The boy's chest began to convulse, his breath quick as he looked at the gun. "He's having some sort of attack," the Doctor said, "Let me use one of your first aid kits and---"
The Master shook his head. "He's trespassing. He gets what he deserves." he said, walking up to the Doctor, gently pressing the nuzzle against his belly. "Except for the fortunate ones."
The boy's face was turning a disturbing color, and he put up his hands to the Doctor's chest in a last-ditch plea. The Doctor held him in his arms and calculated how long it would take for someone to suffocate. For the lungs to quit, then the heart, then the brain.
He reached a decision, and reached for the Master's gun.
"What're you doing?" the Master asked.
"A mercy killing."
The Master laughed. "Oh come on, not you?"
"I can make it quick, quicker than dying from shock. I can't just stand here and watch him..." he said trailing off.
"Of course you can't," the Master said, one hand looping around the Doctor's neck, the nails digging in, "You never had to watch. About time you tried some real murder." And with that he began to step back.
"No, give it," the Doctor demanded, grabbing for the gun, and managing to get his hand on the barrel.
"Don't be thick."
"Fine, you want to kill him?" the Doctor asked.
"Why bother," the Master replied, looking at the struggling child, "When you've done the job for me."
"He's in pain."
"Oooooh I bet he is." the Master said, smiling.
The two men were inches away, the red emergency lights blinking all around them, the air so hot it hurt to breath. The Master looked at the part of the Doctor's chest exposed under the bloody shirt, watched how the sweat poured down his face, down his neck.
The Doctor made another pull at the gun, knocking the Master off balance so that his free hand grabbed the man's shoulder to steady himself. He slipped a finger under the collar and pulled it to the side, slowly peeling the fabric free of the sweaty skin.
"I guess the shirt taught you nothing."
"Let go--"
He got a little further inside the shirt, feeling a heart against his palm. "Come along," he said, pulling the Doctor toward the door, "I'm sure the boy knows how to die on his own."
"Let go--"
"This isn't your style--"
"Have some pity--"
"Look, he's the one that--"
"LET GO--"
Bang.
There's a security video the Master's watches a hundred times a night, a grainy black and white recording of the Doctor rocking back and forth, a small body in his arms, blood all over the floor. He sees himself in the image, looking up at the camera with an unreadable expression.
Something like envy for the child's position.
If he strains his ears, he can still hear the Doctor crying in his cell across the hall.
The Master rewinds the video again, and dips his finger in the wine, tracing a door around the man in the security video.
title: door
author: briodenebuliser
pair: 10/Master
rated: R for violence
disclaimer: BBC owns this
summary: In my usual style where all the violence is sexualized. the Master suddenly realizes that, more than anything, the Doctor has to want to walk into that laboratory before any additional work can be done.
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
There's a security video the Master's watches a hundred times a night, a grainy black and white recording of the Doctor rocking back and forth, a small body in his arms, blood all over the floor. He sees himself in the image, looking up at the camera with an unreadable expression.
Sometimes when he's really drunk, he dips his finger in the wine and draws on the computer screen.
But several nights earlier, the two men were in the lab, and the Master smiled as he ripped the sheet off, watching the Doctor shake in a cold sweat. "Look what you've done," he said, grabbing the Doctor's face and turning him toward the video moniter, "Think they got the message?"
The Doctor said nothing, but stared at the screen, watching the storm he'd created crush a mountain as if it were butter. He curled into a ball on the slab.
The Master loved feeling the man's teeth chatter in his hand, smell the adrenaline in his sweat. "Cold?" he asked. He ran a hand down the Doctor's exposed shoulder.
"How did that feel?" he asked, watching the screen with the Doctor, "Can you hear the wind when you're inside the program? Can you feel it in your bones?"
He leaned over the frail, shivering scientist, and ran his fingers through his hair. "I think the people will listen to a man like you, whose footsteps are like words written on the surface of the world."
The Doctor shut his eyes, refused to look at him. But the Master continued to run a hand down his arm.
"You know what those words are?" the Master whispered.
The Doctor opened his eyes, looking to see that the Master had trailed blood all over his body with his hands. Somehow he knew the answer already.
The Master smiled. "Follow...me...follow...me..." He took the Doctor's face in both his hands, watching the storm reflected in his eyes.
The Doctor took his hands down, and sighed, looking again at the screen.
Without a word, he picked up his clothes, and walk toward the door.
He didn't take three steps before the Master plucked the clothes out of his arms. "Going somewhere?" he asked quietly. He knocked the Doctor to the floor, tossing the clothes to the side.
"Your problem," the Master said as he undid his belt, "Is you've always slept like a baby."
The belt clattered to the floor. Next the jacket rolled off his back, flung against the wall with a crack.
"If I have a bad day I can't sleep for a week, but YOU, you just roll over and you wake up the next day and the streets are still lined with sunshine."
He began to unbutton his shirt, the sleeves spattered brown, his face appearing flushed in the light of that red satin room.
"You need something to remember me by." he said.
He flung it into the Doctor's face, the smell a mixture of old blood and cologne.
"Put it on."
The Doctor dropped the shirt, his face twisted in revulsion.
The Master slowly bent down to pick up the belt. "Put--it--on." When the Doctor refused, he raised the belt over his head and smiled. "That's right, give me a reason."
But before it could come to that, the Doctor began to slide his arms through the sleeves, trying very hard not to think about the body that must still be lying out in the hallway.
He woke up in his cell the next day to find that someone had messed with the room temperature, a dry heat that nonetheless made his shirt stick to his body. It smelled like a charnel house.
All of his meals were red: tomato soup, beef tartar, strawberries. The food sickened him in that heat, so he would dip his fingers in it and draw on the wall.
The next day, the walls had, predictably, been painted over. Except for one spot.
He drew on the wall again. Again the wall was painted over the next day while he slept, but a pattern was emerging.
He drew again, higher up on the wall. It was painted over, but not all the way to the ceiling.
This time he crushed the fruit in his hand and smeared it across as much of the wall as he could. When he woke up the next day, it almost looked like...
The Master leaned in, watching the security camera screen, running his fingertip along the rim of the wineglass to make it sing.
The Doctor, despite the heat, wrapped his arms around himself in that filthy shirt.
The stain was approximately thirty inches wide and seventy-five inches high. He sat down against the opposite wall and stared at it.
The next night, the Doctor woke up to the sound of piano music coming from, it seemed, the Master's laboratory. If he strained his ears, he could also hear lab equipment clinking, the turning of pages, a man's footsteps.
He looked at the form on the wall and it made him ache.
The next night, the Doctor woke up to find no food, but a black marker. He picked it up, testing the weight in his hand, and looked up at the stain again. He traced a shape in the air a few inches from the wall, like a sideways S, or a serpent...
Or a door handle.
He awoke to the fire alarm, the hallway red with lights running off the emergency generator. He stood up to find that his door, in fact all the doors, had unlocked.
Hundreds of soldiers were rushing on the floor above him, but he appeared to be alone. He considered checking the Master's lab, but decided this was his best chance for escape.
He didn't go a hundred feet before hearing someone breathing very fast around the corner. A little boy shot past on rabbit legs, something hard and glittering in his hand.
"Hold on," the Doctor said, nabbing the kid, "How'd you get on the ship?"
He looked terrified and tried to twist away, but the Doctor said, "Come on, I'll hide you in my room, it's right there."
Once the door was shut he was sure the boy would calm down, but his breathing seemed to get worse, a thin, high sound coming out of his lungs.
"Lie down and try to---what's that in your hand?"
The boy smiled and clutched it to his chest. After a few seconds he gained some control on his breathing and said, "My friends didn't think I could get here and back home. They said I had to bring something back to prove it."
He held up his right arm to show another one of the Earth vortex manipulator models, though even the Doctor could tell its power supply was shot. In the boy's hand...
"Where did you get that?" he asked, panic in his voice.
The boy drew away. "It's busted anyway, why, is it yours? I found it in an office."
"You were led to that thing, weren't you?" he said, "Did you hear it say anything?"
The boy looked down at the fob watch.
"Did it say anything to you?" he repeated.
Footsteps approached from behind.
"Follow...me." the Master said, smiling in the doorway, a shadow framed in red, gun in one gloved hand. "So you've found our little stowaway. He had us all worried, we thought we might have another killer on our hands."
The boy's chest began to convulse, his breath quick as he looked at the gun. "He's having some sort of attack," the Doctor said, "Let me use one of your first aid kits and---"
The Master shook his head. "He's trespassing. He gets what he deserves." he said, walking up to the Doctor, gently pressing the nuzzle against his belly. "Except for the fortunate ones."
The boy's face was turning a disturbing color, and he put up his hands to the Doctor's chest in a last-ditch plea. The Doctor held him in his arms and calculated how long it would take for someone to suffocate. For the lungs to quit, then the heart, then the brain.
He reached a decision, and reached for the Master's gun.
"What're you doing?" the Master asked.
"A mercy killing."
The Master laughed. "Oh come on, not you?"
"I can make it quick, quicker than dying from shock. I can't just stand here and watch him..." he said trailing off.
"Of course you can't," the Master said, one hand looping around the Doctor's neck, the nails digging in, "You never had to watch. About time you tried some real murder." And with that he began to step back.
"No, give it," the Doctor demanded, grabbing for the gun, and managing to get his hand on the barrel.
"Don't be thick."
"Fine, you want to kill him?" the Doctor asked.
"Why bother," the Master replied, looking at the struggling child, "When you've done the job for me."
"He's in pain."
"Oooooh I bet he is." the Master said, smiling.
The two men were inches away, the red emergency lights blinking all around them, the air so hot it hurt to breath. The Master looked at the part of the Doctor's chest exposed under the bloody shirt, watched how the sweat poured down his face, down his neck.
The Doctor made another pull at the gun, knocking the Master off balance so that his free hand grabbed the man's shoulder to steady himself. He slipped a finger under the collar and pulled it to the side, slowly peeling the fabric free of the sweaty skin.
"I guess the shirt taught you nothing."
"Let go--"
He got a little further inside the shirt, feeling a heart against his palm. "Come along," he said, pulling the Doctor toward the door, "I'm sure the boy knows how to die on his own."
"Let go--"
"This isn't your style--"
"Have some pity--"
"Look, he's the one that--"
"LET GO--"
Bang.
There's a security video the Master's watches a hundred times a night, a grainy black and white recording of the Doctor rocking back and forth, a small body in his arms, blood all over the floor. He sees himself in the image, looking up at the camera with an unreadable expression.
Something like envy for the child's position.
If he strains his ears, he can still hear the Doctor crying in his cell across the hall.
The Master rewinds the video again, and dips his finger in the wine, tracing a door around the man in the security video.