Ten Minutes
Your eyes meet over the console, and you find yourself contemplating blue; that of the ocean of evening and dawn, beneath the moon and sun.
You catch yourself wondering what it must be like, living in darkness, before you remember that you know.
You wonder then if he remembers the radiance of the sun.
You'll show him if it kills you both.
You're working together on a primitive engine, because you insisted on authenticity.
Your hands brush as they dance over coils and valves, and you share a smile.
You once cherished these moments, silently, secretly; these reprieves from murderous adversity. You knew they would never last, that your ancient companionship would come to an end.
You fear this still, every day.
He is there when you awake, sweating and trembling, and his presence is a comfort. It is so very easy to press against him, to savour his silent embrace.
Trying to forget the blood staining your dreams, the screams still echoing in your ears.
Trying to forget that he would relish it all.
You never will, of course.
You're resting together on grass that never dies, gazing at stars you never knew.
It is something that you have always shared and always will; the yearning for the freedom of the cosmos.
This is not who you are, who you should be, and you both know it.
Your hands clasp, rigid and bruising, a silent expression of wistful fury.
Your swords meet, gleaming rapiers dripping blood, and you are still.
You recognise the hunger in his eyes, for destruction and domination, carnage and chaos. .
You understand it more than you ever wanted to. You can feel it slipping through your barriers, corroding your control.
This will never be enough to satisfy, or to punish, but you fight on.
You argue often, of course. You're both stubborn, and arrogant, and often bored. Bickering, debating, fighting, they're all endlessly familiar.
One of your retorts cuts deep, and another time you may have felt pleased; now, you feel only remorse, intense enough that he feels it too.
It's one of the very few times he can, and it's almost worth it.
You reminisce rarely. So many memories are too tainted, or too painful, or too shrouded to share. Too many names you can't bear to speak.
Yet now you laugh with him about other prisons, planets and compounds and societies, and for a few moments, you are young again.
For a few moments, you can forget the death that always follows.
This is not a dance of violence or intellect, of swords or words; it is a simple waltz, quiet and peaceful, around an empty room.
Your steps are impeccable timed, carelessly graceful - until you slip, and only his grip keeps you steady.
He chuckles against your throat, a low, soft sound, fond and amused, familiar.
It makes you shiver.
Semtra lands on his feet, mewling indignantly as the Master continues his work; the Doctor scoops him up with a smile
It would be easy to throw the small cat against a wall, to snap his neck, to strike in just the right place.
He never has.
It's quite absurd, the pride that warms your chest, but there it remains.
You've always enjoyed chess, even in one dimension, especially against him.
You win as often as you lose, but you're confident this time, as the game nears its inevitable end.
The Master is utterly focused, silently smug, as brilliant and ruthless as he's ever been, both beautiful and horrifying.
Many would despair.
When your pawn takes his king, you smile.
Community: Mind the Muse
Verse: Paradisa
What would you call 60 word stories? 'Not-quite-quarter-drabbles' doesn't have much of a ring to it.
You catch yourself wondering what it must be like, living in darkness, before you remember that you know.
You wonder then if he remembers the radiance of the sun.
You'll show him if it kills you both.
You're working together on a primitive engine, because you insisted on authenticity.
Your hands brush as they dance over coils and valves, and you share a smile.
You once cherished these moments, silently, secretly; these reprieves from murderous adversity. You knew they would never last, that your ancient companionship would come to an end.
You fear this still, every day.
He is there when you awake, sweating and trembling, and his presence is a comfort. It is so very easy to press against him, to savour his silent embrace.
Trying to forget the blood staining your dreams, the screams still echoing in your ears.
Trying to forget that he would relish it all.
You never will, of course.
You're resting together on grass that never dies, gazing at stars you never knew.
It is something that you have always shared and always will; the yearning for the freedom of the cosmos.
This is not who you are, who you should be, and you both know it.
Your hands clasp, rigid and bruising, a silent expression of wistful fury.
Your swords meet, gleaming rapiers dripping blood, and you are still.
You recognise the hunger in his eyes, for destruction and domination, carnage and chaos. .
You understand it more than you ever wanted to. You can feel it slipping through your barriers, corroding your control.
This will never be enough to satisfy, or to punish, but you fight on.
You argue often, of course. You're both stubborn, and arrogant, and often bored. Bickering, debating, fighting, they're all endlessly familiar.
One of your retorts cuts deep, and another time you may have felt pleased; now, you feel only remorse, intense enough that he feels it too.
It's one of the very few times he can, and it's almost worth it.
You reminisce rarely. So many memories are too tainted, or too painful, or too shrouded to share. Too many names you can't bear to speak.
Yet now you laugh with him about other prisons, planets and compounds and societies, and for a few moments, you are young again.
For a few moments, you can forget the death that always follows.
This is not a dance of violence or intellect, of swords or words; it is a simple waltz, quiet and peaceful, around an empty room.
Your steps are impeccable timed, carelessly graceful - until you slip, and only his grip keeps you steady.
He chuckles against your throat, a low, soft sound, fond and amused, familiar.
It makes you shiver.
Semtra lands on his feet, mewling indignantly as the Master continues his work; the Doctor scoops him up with a smile
It would be easy to throw the small cat against a wall, to snap his neck, to strike in just the right place.
He never has.
It's quite absurd, the pride that warms your chest, but there it remains.
You've always enjoyed chess, even in one dimension, especially against him.
You win as often as you lose, but you're confident this time, as the game nears its inevitable end.
The Master is utterly focused, silently smug, as brilliant and ruthless as he's ever been, both beautiful and horrifying.
Many would despair.
When your pawn takes his king, you smile.
Community: Mind the Muse
Verse: Paradisa
What would you call 60 word stories? 'Not-quite-quarter-drabbles' doesn't have much of a ring to it.