#61 Winter
Fic Name: Winter
Rating: G (back to that again)
Prompt: #61 Winter
Claim: Ten/Master
AN: This doesn't get cross posted anywhere yet, because it's going to part of a four fic cycle. How twee exciting. I'll spam everyone's f-lists when it's done. Until now, consider this a sneak preview should you be watching this community.
Silly, shallow stuff. Basically, AU for the end of LotTL. The Doctor saved the Master's life (how is not important given the length/shallowness of this) and the two are travelling the universe. Things aren't going smoothly though. After all, this is winter.
The Doctor is re-reading The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe when it starts to snow, and so, at first, he assumes it’s his overactive imagination at work again. After a while though, he begins to feel distinctly wet with a side of very cold, and having, at last, put the book down, he is forced to admit that Lewis’s writing isn’t to blame. The library is quite definitely filling with snow; icicles are forming on the bookcases. He leans backwards in his chair and squints upwards where the snow in question is materialising two inches beneath the ceiling. “Well,” the Doctor says. “That’s... interesting." He frowns. "And definitely not good.”
On the desk in front of him, a pile of the stuff is forming on top of his first edition of Great Expectations. The pages are already limp with damp. It’s probably ruined. And, for a moment, the Doctor can only stare. This is a nightmare. A small nightmare, given the things he's seen, but a nightmare nonetheless, which means it’s probably the work of someone who knows his nightmares intimately.
“Master?” he calls loudly. There is no answer and the Doctor curses and grabs as many of his favourite books as will fit into his ‘bigger on the inside’ pockets. “Master?”
He finds the other Time Lord in the control room watching Hey Arnold on the TARDIS’s principal monitor. The control room is also snowing. The Master has clearly noticed the drop in temperature as he’s muffled up in coat, gloves and a scarf that marks him as a graduate from a university he never went to, but otherwise he seems unperturbed.
The Doctor slams Great Expectations down next to him. “Why would you do this?” he demands.
The Master glances briefly at the embossed title. “I think you’ll find we have Mr Dickens to blame for that monstrosity,” he says, eyes back on the cartoon.
“You know what I mean,” the Doctor says. “It’s snowing inside the TARDIS, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“Clearly I have. You assume it’s my fault.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
The Master switches off the monitor and turns in his chair to face the Doctor. He smiles. “Now, why would I do something like that?”
The Doctor frowns. “You didn’t do this?”
“Oh no,” the Master says. “I did it. Obviously, I can’t use the controls, but if you look under that cover you’ll see a large section of the wiring has been expertly tampered with by a genius with a lot of time on his hands. But, if you remember, though our questions were the same, yours was rhetorical. Mine wasn’t.”
“What?”
The Master taps his lips with gloved fingers, thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’m not explaining myself well enough. This isn’t a defence. I just want you to think about why. Why would I do” he gestures with both hands, "this?" He smiles.
The Doctor doesn't smile back. He says: “I don't know. Out of boredom?” because he knows that’s how most of the Master’s casual acts of evil begin.
“Close,” the Master concedes. “But no. It’s not by accident, nor is it a nauseating attempt to recreate a favourite skiing holiday. It’s much simpler. Come on. Why? Work it out.”
“The TARDIS controls are delicate. My entire library is ruined... This will take weeks, literally, weeks to fix.”
“Yes,” the Master says. “It probably will. Why is it ruined, though?”
“Is this your idea of revenge?” the Doctor asks, one of his hands crunching in his icy hair. “For what: saving your life? Revenge? Is that it?”
“Yes,” the Master says, and he smiles broadly. “In this case - best served cold.” He laughs. “Seems to have worked quite well. It’s tiny really. You can get more books. You can fix the TARDIS. But I’ve always maintained that it’s the thought that counts. That’s what you get for trying to keep me, Doctor. Fun, isn’t it?”
He presses Great Expectations into the Doctor's hands and wanders off into the TARDIS, whistling a Christmas carol.
Back to autumn : On to spring
Rating: G (back to that again)
Prompt: #61 Winter
Claim: Ten/Master
AN: This doesn't get cross posted anywhere yet, because it's going to part of a four fic cycle. How twee exciting. I'll spam everyone's f-lists when it's done. Until now, consider this a sneak preview should you be watching this community.
Silly, shallow stuff. Basically, AU for the end of LotTL. The Doctor saved the Master's life (how is not important given the length/shallowness of this) and the two are travelling the universe. Things aren't going smoothly though. After all, this is winter.
The Doctor is re-reading The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe when it starts to snow, and so, at first, he assumes it’s his overactive imagination at work again. After a while though, he begins to feel distinctly wet with a side of very cold, and having, at last, put the book down, he is forced to admit that Lewis’s writing isn’t to blame. The library is quite definitely filling with snow; icicles are forming on the bookcases. He leans backwards in his chair and squints upwards where the snow in question is materialising two inches beneath the ceiling. “Well,” the Doctor says. “That’s... interesting." He frowns. "And definitely not good.”
On the desk in front of him, a pile of the stuff is forming on top of his first edition of Great Expectations. The pages are already limp with damp. It’s probably ruined. And, for a moment, the Doctor can only stare. This is a nightmare. A small nightmare, given the things he's seen, but a nightmare nonetheless, which means it’s probably the work of someone who knows his nightmares intimately.
“Master?” he calls loudly. There is no answer and the Doctor curses and grabs as many of his favourite books as will fit into his ‘bigger on the inside’ pockets. “Master?”
He finds the other Time Lord in the control room watching Hey Arnold on the TARDIS’s principal monitor. The control room is also snowing. The Master has clearly noticed the drop in temperature as he’s muffled up in coat, gloves and a scarf that marks him as a graduate from a university he never went to, but otherwise he seems unperturbed.
The Doctor slams Great Expectations down next to him. “Why would you do this?” he demands.
The Master glances briefly at the embossed title. “I think you’ll find we have Mr Dickens to blame for that monstrosity,” he says, eyes back on the cartoon.
“You know what I mean,” the Doctor says. “It’s snowing inside the TARDIS, or hadn’t you noticed?”
“Clearly I have. You assume it’s my fault.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
The Master switches off the monitor and turns in his chair to face the Doctor. He smiles. “Now, why would I do something like that?”
The Doctor frowns. “You didn’t do this?”
“Oh no,” the Master says. “I did it. Obviously, I can’t use the controls, but if you look under that cover you’ll see a large section of the wiring has been expertly tampered with by a genius with a lot of time on his hands. But, if you remember, though our questions were the same, yours was rhetorical. Mine wasn’t.”
“What?”
The Master taps his lips with gloved fingers, thoughtfully. “Perhaps I’m not explaining myself well enough. This isn’t a defence. I just want you to think about why. Why would I do” he gestures with both hands, "this?" He smiles.
The Doctor doesn't smile back. He says: “I don't know. Out of boredom?” because he knows that’s how most of the Master’s casual acts of evil begin.
“Close,” the Master concedes. “But no. It’s not by accident, nor is it a nauseating attempt to recreate a favourite skiing holiday. It’s much simpler. Come on. Why? Work it out.”
“The TARDIS controls are delicate. My entire library is ruined... This will take weeks, literally, weeks to fix.”
“Yes,” the Master says. “It probably will. Why is it ruined, though?”
“Is this your idea of revenge?” the Doctor asks, one of his hands crunching in his icy hair. “For what: saving your life? Revenge? Is that it?”
“Yes,” the Master says, and he smiles broadly. “In this case - best served cold.” He laughs. “Seems to have worked quite well. It’s tiny really. You can get more books. You can fix the TARDIS. But I’ve always maintained that it’s the thought that counts. That’s what you get for trying to keep me, Doctor. Fun, isn’t it?”
He presses Great Expectations into the Doctor's hands and wanders off into the TARDIS, whistling a Christmas carol.
Back to autumn : On to spring