Doctor Who fic!
I've been trying to work out how much writing I've ended up posting on Tumblr, and in going back through some posts, I found a Doctor Who fic from earlier this year. I had a look and decided that it was better than I remembered (if somewhat bizarre and surreal), so I'm going to share.
Title: Thou Art Sick
What: Doctor Who
Who: Doctor/Master
When: During the Year, probably, but it doesn't have to be.
Rating: PG-13
Date Written: Feb. 2011
If Jack is a hole in the universe--a constant, pulsing void that sucks in life, more life than a nondescript little speck like him deserves--then the Doctor is everything. The opposite of the absence of matter. Dripping with energy rather than drawing it in. He’s some complex formula that no one but him can ever understand, will ever understand.
And the Doctor, too, has left his mark on the universe. Not just one, mind--he doesn’t carve one, grand furrow into the cosmos. No, he leaves messy, indiscriminate little scratches. Ones that fade, not even leaving the scar of his name. No one remembers him, for all the effort that he puts in.
He’s going about it the wrong way, of course. You can’t leave scars if you’re trying to heal. And the Doctor, of course, doesn’t care.
Doesn’t care whether or not he leaves a mark. Doesn’t care that he never carves swathes out of the universe and makes them bend to his will.
Well. Barring the War.
That was a start, even if he did go about it all wrong.
The two of them are the only smudges Gallifrey left on the universe. And the Doctor hadn’t even counted on that.
He’ll teach the Doctor the value of scars.
He’ll show him, in the wet press of mouths and lips and teeth. In the bite of rope against skin. In bruises and fingernails and sharp points, in the cracking of joints. Some things last. And last. And last.
The Doctor’s mouth is different now, in little ways. But one thing is stronger, deeper, more ingrained.
He tastes sick.
The Master’s certain that none of those companions have ever been able to tell, none of those Earth girls. Not even the ones from slightly more respectable, slightly less ignorant worlds. The Doctor tastes of dying stars, of supernovae, of atoms slowing down, of radiation that’s primed to explode, always exploding, not ready to explode just yet.
O rose, he whispers, into the Doctor’s thoughts, with the suggestion of a smirk like ice. Plucking the memory of the Vortex, the recollection of dying piece by piece via golden light, forcing him to remember and to burn. Thou art sick.
The taste of dying, and dying again. The taste strengthens every time, in every body. It’s breathtaking, and it’s horrible, and the Master can’t quite get enough.
And, oh, he can use these memories. Every one of them. Every one of them raw, as memories of regeneration usually are.
The invisible worm, that flies in the night--
So raw, burning red and gold. Memories full of pain and sacrifice and all the things the Doctor so willingly feels for everyone. Well. Nearly everyone.
And he takes it, when the Doctor is exhausted--suit ripped in a pattern that the Master considers most artful indeed, every pore bleeding that intangible explosion waiting to happen, the one that only the Master can sense.
He takes the memory. And he shows him. Again and again.
In the howling storm:
There are others, of course. Naturally, there have to be others. He’s not limited to images of regeneration. The Doctor’s mind is a veritable treasure trove of sacrifices, successes and failures alike. Each one gets its turn. All those lives, strewn across the Doctor’s mind.
One day, he’ll brush a tuft of hair from the Doctor’s eye, smooth his messy fringe from his forehead, and perhaps, he’ll explain.
That it’s quite a different story, for him. That he doesn’t change the universe, history, countless lives, the flow of time itself just to walk away. He doesn’t walk away without so much as a thank you. Because what all those insignificant people have done to the Doctor--he isn’t going to let the Doctor do to him. Not again.
Has found out thy bed of crimson joy:
He’ll mark the Doctor with those tiny, indiscriminate scratches he seems to love so very much--show him how pointless they are, beyond a moment’s gratification.
And he’ll mark him in all the ways that matter; he’ll take a handful of the Doctor’s thoughts, scrawl his name across the Doctor’s mind, make him see.
Because this time, this time, he’ll be remembered. This time, the Doctor won’t be able to run. This time, the Master won’t need to chase.
And his dark secret love
The Doctor always had a bit of a weakness for poetry. So the Master will give him that, too. Some of his very favorite Earth verses, while he’s desperate and pleading. Such quaint little things, verses about protagonists and antagonists. Black and white pictures of the universe. Heroes and villains. The innocent and the corrupted.
Does thy life destroy.
He’ll see if the Doctor can work out who is who, and which is which.
Title: Thou Art Sick
What: Doctor Who
Who: Doctor/Master
When: During the Year, probably, but it doesn't have to be.
Rating: PG-13
Date Written: Feb. 2011
If Jack is a hole in the universe--a constant, pulsing void that sucks in life, more life than a nondescript little speck like him deserves--then the Doctor is everything. The opposite of the absence of matter. Dripping with energy rather than drawing it in. He’s some complex formula that no one but him can ever understand, will ever understand.
And the Doctor, too, has left his mark on the universe. Not just one, mind--he doesn’t carve one, grand furrow into the cosmos. No, he leaves messy, indiscriminate little scratches. Ones that fade, not even leaving the scar of his name. No one remembers him, for all the effort that he puts in.
He’s going about it the wrong way, of course. You can’t leave scars if you’re trying to heal. And the Doctor, of course, doesn’t care.
Doesn’t care whether or not he leaves a mark. Doesn’t care that he never carves swathes out of the universe and makes them bend to his will.
Well. Barring the War.
That was a start, even if he did go about it all wrong.
The two of them are the only smudges Gallifrey left on the universe. And the Doctor hadn’t even counted on that.
He’ll teach the Doctor the value of scars.
He’ll show him, in the wet press of mouths and lips and teeth. In the bite of rope against skin. In bruises and fingernails and sharp points, in the cracking of joints. Some things last. And last. And last.
The Doctor’s mouth is different now, in little ways. But one thing is stronger, deeper, more ingrained.
He tastes sick.
The Master’s certain that none of those companions have ever been able to tell, none of those Earth girls. Not even the ones from slightly more respectable, slightly less ignorant worlds. The Doctor tastes of dying stars, of supernovae, of atoms slowing down, of radiation that’s primed to explode, always exploding, not ready to explode just yet.
O rose, he whispers, into the Doctor’s thoughts, with the suggestion of a smirk like ice. Plucking the memory of the Vortex, the recollection of dying piece by piece via golden light, forcing him to remember and to burn. Thou art sick.
The taste of dying, and dying again. The taste strengthens every time, in every body. It’s breathtaking, and it’s horrible, and the Master can’t quite get enough.
And, oh, he can use these memories. Every one of them. Every one of them raw, as memories of regeneration usually are.
The invisible worm, that flies in the night--
So raw, burning red and gold. Memories full of pain and sacrifice and all the things the Doctor so willingly feels for everyone. Well. Nearly everyone.
And he takes it, when the Doctor is exhausted--suit ripped in a pattern that the Master considers most artful indeed, every pore bleeding that intangible explosion waiting to happen, the one that only the Master can sense.
He takes the memory. And he shows him. Again and again.
In the howling storm:
There are others, of course. Naturally, there have to be others. He’s not limited to images of regeneration. The Doctor’s mind is a veritable treasure trove of sacrifices, successes and failures alike. Each one gets its turn. All those lives, strewn across the Doctor’s mind.
One day, he’ll brush a tuft of hair from the Doctor’s eye, smooth his messy fringe from his forehead, and perhaps, he’ll explain.
That it’s quite a different story, for him. That he doesn’t change the universe, history, countless lives, the flow of time itself just to walk away. He doesn’t walk away without so much as a thank you. Because what all those insignificant people have done to the Doctor--he isn’t going to let the Doctor do to him. Not again.
Has found out thy bed of crimson joy:
He’ll mark the Doctor with those tiny, indiscriminate scratches he seems to love so very much--show him how pointless they are, beyond a moment’s gratification.
And he’ll mark him in all the ways that matter; he’ll take a handful of the Doctor’s thoughts, scrawl his name across the Doctor’s mind, make him see.
Because this time, this time, he’ll be remembered. This time, the Doctor won’t be able to run. This time, the Master won’t need to chase.
And his dark secret love
The Doctor always had a bit of a weakness for poetry. So the Master will give him that, too. Some of his very favorite Earth verses, while he’s desperate and pleading. Such quaint little things, verses about protagonists and antagonists. Black and white pictures of the universe. Heroes and villains. The innocent and the corrupted.
Does thy life destroy.
He’ll see if the Doctor can work out who is who, and which is which.