Doctor Who Fic (...okay, drabble): Recorder.
This is a direct (and I mean direct) sequel to Viola. Viola has an official 'spoilers for Season 4' warning tagged onto it, but honestly that's about six words of spoilers and absolutely none of it is unpredictable, so I'd suggest you read that first.
And yes, this has spawned a universe which I refuse to call 'season 5'. This is the prequel to Space Vietnam: Robot Vampires vs Mist Pirates!, and therefore is getting posted before I finish that messed up bit of fic. Plus this way it makes a LOT more sense.
Title: Recorder
Rating: PG
Pairing: GEN, zomg! Just the Master, Doctor, and TARDIS.
Warnings: Nothing! Not even SPOILERS. Just angst, really. And it's SHORT.
Summary: “Remember, Doctor, that you aren’t the only one who has had a bad couple of days.”
Recorder
Sanity had always been relative. Sometimes, the more disturbed you were, the higher a rank in society you were given. Seen as a voice of the gods or someone gifted with a lack of humanity who could do what a normal person never could, who could see what you could never see, the hidden spaces in the fabric of space and time.
There were different types of insanity. The Doctor was having quite a bit of trouble placing what this type was.
He was pulling things out of the viola case, which was naturally bigger on the inside. A lot of it was dresses and scissors and thread and even more clothing, followed by the clunk of metal on grating while the Master tossed device after device out, once even hitting the TARDIS’ console with an angry clang that made the Doctor wince. It was all done with a manic fervor that made him wonder whether it was a symptom of some perverse sort of grief or just another form of madness.
“Now, where are you taking me?” The Master’s voice was surprising, suddenly taking the place of all that racket and clanging and sounds that spoke of nothing but pain for both thrower and recipient of the poor treatment. When the Doctor didn’t say anything, too busy trying to puzzle out this newest development, he rolled his eyes, tossing what now was just an empty metal ball between his hands. “Oh come on, Doctor, you’re going to try and rehabilitate me, make me a good little boy and try to convince yourself that I’m actually capable of something good-”
“You are,” the Doctor said immediately at that, finally walking over and snatching what was once the shell of a Toclafane out of the Master’s hands, looking him in the eye. “You walked through those doors, to me, by yourself. There isn’t a thing in the galaxy that can’t be forgiven.”
The Master’s face said plenty about what he thought of that sentiment, all scathing disbelief and cynical amusement at the Doctor’s expense. Grinning, he reached out and pinched the Doctor’s cheek. “Awww, you think Santa’s real, don’t you. Just keep waiting for him every Christmas and get nothing but coal, hmm? Poor Doctor.”
The Doctor frowned at him. “Master-”
“Harry,” he snapped immediately, left hand obviously restrained with quite a bit of effort to keep from punching the Doctor for the second time in ten minutes. The Doctor took a moment to wonder about how a nine hundred year old Time Lord could suddenly become ambidextrous in one quiet year after ninety decades of being right-handed.
“I can help you,” the Doctor said, slow and firm, and with a roll of his eyes the Master was sliding back over to the viola case again, the ex-Toclafane missing the TARDIS’ console only because the Doctor caught it as soon as the other Time Lord launched it over his shoulder. “What are you even doing?!”
“Sifting, obviously,” the Master said, ‘sifting’ some books onto the grating. He paused, and finally looked over at the Doctor. “You know, with all this talk of forgiveness, I’d almost think you had forgotten the outcome of-”
“I didn’t forget,” the Doctor said, as calmly as possible, knowing any buttons the Master could be trying to push would all work with that answer. “Forgiving yourself and being forgiven are very different things, Mas- Harry.”
He got a triumphant smirk for that, and then the Master was back in the viola case. Finally the Doctor sighed, running a hand over his hair. “Alright, I give up. Why the viola ca-AAGH!”
The narrowly-avoided mass of something very big, heavy, and metallic (possibly a bomb) cracked against the TARDIS’ wall, the Doctor crouching behind the console. He raised his head just enough over it to see the Master glaring at him, a homemade Flablaran recorder being tossed between his hands. Considering they were massive hunks of glass with some very pokey bits, the Doctor stayed behind the console. “Where are we going.”
“Bisian,” he said simply, and the Master grimaced.
“Bisian? How boring are you? A pretty cloud planet, oh, that’s marvelous, really.” The Master rolled his eyes, the recorder thudding back into the viola case as he walked for the doors. “Rather take my chances in the vacuum of space, thank you-”
“Wait!” The Doctor went running, grabbing his hand because really, that was a bluff he wasn’t entirely sure was a bluff. “Pick somewhere, then. Somewhere nice though, because I have had a very bad few days-”
And then the Master’s hand was around his throat. His right hand. Eyes full of murder, the Master’s voice was low and deadly. “Remember, Doctor, that you aren’t the only one who has had a bad couple of days.” There was a mild shaking to the voice, but the Doctor had the sense to look back at the Master, looking long enough for the man to let go and head back, yet again, to the viola case, like he was chained to the thing. This time, however, he was putting things back in, almost feverishly. “Fine. I’m done. Dump me somewhere with decent entertainment and at least mildly intelligent inhabitants - preferably humanoid - and I’ll be out of your ridiculous-looking hair.”
The Doctor took a moment to simply perch himself on the railing, watching the Master, finally noticing the little wince that showed up every time he packed some of the clothing back inside, and most obviously the hitch in his hands when a dress went in.
Black suit with a cream silk lining, crisp black dress shirt, a rough-looking cream silk tie that looked like it’d been a slapdash affair from a very violent seamstress. The Doctor wasn’t an idiot. He’d known something had happened to the Master, more than being shot and coming back and living a year without making more mischief than any average human could.
And the Master had been many things over the ages, but a crossdresser had never been one of them.
“Are you going to throw something at me if I ask what happened to her?” he finally asked, and the Master slammed the viola case shut, hunched over the heavy black thing.
The TARDIS whirred onwards, engines pumping as loud as ever, but the silence around it was bitingly cold.
“Yes,” the Master finally said, standing up and grinning at the Doctor. “And I’d make sure that whatever I threw wouldn’t miss, too.”
Which did a very good job of ending that conversation. The Doctor stood back up, changed the coordinates, and watched the Master sit on the bench, viola case at his side and eyes constantly following him as he walked around, like a predator simply watching its prey, not interested in the kill quite yet but making sure it’d be prepared for when he was.
“Not Bisian anymore,” the Doctor finally said, scratching the back of his head as the TARDIS rocked to a halt. They crashed with it, the Master clutching the viola case to his side and glaring magma at the Doctor. “I put it on random.”
The Master smirked at him, opening the viola case one more time when the Doctor grabbed his coat. The Doctor didn’t get the time to see what his companion slipped around his neck and tucked under the black shirt, but, feeling the dampness still clinging to his own coat, he decided that everyone had their own secrets, and they were secrets for a reason.
---
AND NOW I AM GOING TO BED.
And yes, this has spawned a universe which I refuse to call 'season 5'. This is the prequel to Space Vietnam: Robot Vampires vs Mist Pirates!, and therefore is getting posted before I finish that messed up bit of fic. Plus this way it makes a LOT more sense.
Title: Recorder
Rating: PG
Pairing: GEN, zomg! Just the Master, Doctor, and TARDIS.
Warnings: Nothing! Not even SPOILERS. Just angst, really. And it's SHORT.
Summary: “Remember, Doctor, that you aren’t the only one who has had a bad couple of days.”
Recorder
Sanity had always been relative. Sometimes, the more disturbed you were, the higher a rank in society you were given. Seen as a voice of the gods or someone gifted with a lack of humanity who could do what a normal person never could, who could see what you could never see, the hidden spaces in the fabric of space and time.
There were different types of insanity. The Doctor was having quite a bit of trouble placing what this type was.
He was pulling things out of the viola case, which was naturally bigger on the inside. A lot of it was dresses and scissors and thread and even more clothing, followed by the clunk of metal on grating while the Master tossed device after device out, once even hitting the TARDIS’ console with an angry clang that made the Doctor wince. It was all done with a manic fervor that made him wonder whether it was a symptom of some perverse sort of grief or just another form of madness.
“Now, where are you taking me?” The Master’s voice was surprising, suddenly taking the place of all that racket and clanging and sounds that spoke of nothing but pain for both thrower and recipient of the poor treatment. When the Doctor didn’t say anything, too busy trying to puzzle out this newest development, he rolled his eyes, tossing what now was just an empty metal ball between his hands. “Oh come on, Doctor, you’re going to try and rehabilitate me, make me a good little boy and try to convince yourself that I’m actually capable of something good-”
“You are,” the Doctor said immediately at that, finally walking over and snatching what was once the shell of a Toclafane out of the Master’s hands, looking him in the eye. “You walked through those doors, to me, by yourself. There isn’t a thing in the galaxy that can’t be forgiven.”
The Master’s face said plenty about what he thought of that sentiment, all scathing disbelief and cynical amusement at the Doctor’s expense. Grinning, he reached out and pinched the Doctor’s cheek. “Awww, you think Santa’s real, don’t you. Just keep waiting for him every Christmas and get nothing but coal, hmm? Poor Doctor.”
The Doctor frowned at him. “Master-”
“Harry,” he snapped immediately, left hand obviously restrained with quite a bit of effort to keep from punching the Doctor for the second time in ten minutes. The Doctor took a moment to wonder about how a nine hundred year old Time Lord could suddenly become ambidextrous in one quiet year after ninety decades of being right-handed.
“I can help you,” the Doctor said, slow and firm, and with a roll of his eyes the Master was sliding back over to the viola case again, the ex-Toclafane missing the TARDIS’ console only because the Doctor caught it as soon as the other Time Lord launched it over his shoulder. “What are you even doing?!”
“Sifting, obviously,” the Master said, ‘sifting’ some books onto the grating. He paused, and finally looked over at the Doctor. “You know, with all this talk of forgiveness, I’d almost think you had forgotten the outcome of-”
“I didn’t forget,” the Doctor said, as calmly as possible, knowing any buttons the Master could be trying to push would all work with that answer. “Forgiving yourself and being forgiven are very different things, Mas- Harry.”
He got a triumphant smirk for that, and then the Master was back in the viola case. Finally the Doctor sighed, running a hand over his hair. “Alright, I give up. Why the viola ca-AAGH!”
The narrowly-avoided mass of something very big, heavy, and metallic (possibly a bomb) cracked against the TARDIS’ wall, the Doctor crouching behind the console. He raised his head just enough over it to see the Master glaring at him, a homemade Flablaran recorder being tossed between his hands. Considering they were massive hunks of glass with some very pokey bits, the Doctor stayed behind the console. “Where are we going.”
“Bisian,” he said simply, and the Master grimaced.
“Bisian? How boring are you? A pretty cloud planet, oh, that’s marvelous, really.” The Master rolled his eyes, the recorder thudding back into the viola case as he walked for the doors. “Rather take my chances in the vacuum of space, thank you-”
“Wait!” The Doctor went running, grabbing his hand because really, that was a bluff he wasn’t entirely sure was a bluff. “Pick somewhere, then. Somewhere nice though, because I have had a very bad few days-”
And then the Master’s hand was around his throat. His right hand. Eyes full of murder, the Master’s voice was low and deadly. “Remember, Doctor, that you aren’t the only one who has had a bad couple of days.” There was a mild shaking to the voice, but the Doctor had the sense to look back at the Master, looking long enough for the man to let go and head back, yet again, to the viola case, like he was chained to the thing. This time, however, he was putting things back in, almost feverishly. “Fine. I’m done. Dump me somewhere with decent entertainment and at least mildly intelligent inhabitants - preferably humanoid - and I’ll be out of your ridiculous-looking hair.”
The Doctor took a moment to simply perch himself on the railing, watching the Master, finally noticing the little wince that showed up every time he packed some of the clothing back inside, and most obviously the hitch in his hands when a dress went in.
Black suit with a cream silk lining, crisp black dress shirt, a rough-looking cream silk tie that looked like it’d been a slapdash affair from a very violent seamstress. The Doctor wasn’t an idiot. He’d known something had happened to the Master, more than being shot and coming back and living a year without making more mischief than any average human could.
And the Master had been many things over the ages, but a crossdresser had never been one of them.
“Are you going to throw something at me if I ask what happened to her?” he finally asked, and the Master slammed the viola case shut, hunched over the heavy black thing.
The TARDIS whirred onwards, engines pumping as loud as ever, but the silence around it was bitingly cold.
“Yes,” the Master finally said, standing up and grinning at the Doctor. “And I’d make sure that whatever I threw wouldn’t miss, too.”
Which did a very good job of ending that conversation. The Doctor stood back up, changed the coordinates, and watched the Master sit on the bench, viola case at his side and eyes constantly following him as he walked around, like a predator simply watching its prey, not interested in the kill quite yet but making sure it’d be prepared for when he was.
“Not Bisian anymore,” the Doctor finally said, scratching the back of his head as the TARDIS rocked to a halt. They crashed with it, the Master clutching the viola case to his side and glaring magma at the Doctor. “I put it on random.”
The Master smirked at him, opening the viola case one more time when the Doctor grabbed his coat. The Doctor didn’t get the time to see what his companion slipped around his neck and tucked under the black shirt, but, feeling the dampness still clinging to his own coat, he decided that everyone had their own secrets, and they were secrets for a reason.
---
AND NOW I AM GOING TO BED.