Crazy in Love: part two

[shaggydogstail]

III. Major Affective Disorder, Pleasant Type

Happiness is statistically abnormal, consists of a discrete cluster of symptoms, is associated with a range of cognitive abnormalities, and probably reflects the abnormal functioning of the central nervous system. (Source: Journal of Medical Ethics, Vol 18, Issue 2 94-98)

‘I’m still not sure this is a good idea,’ said the Doctor as he shut the TARDIS door.

‘Nonsense, it’s a wonderful idea,’ the Master contradicted him. He took in a deep breath and glanced around him: Earth, 21st Century London. It felt almost nostalgic - good to be somewhere that was neither the TARDIS nor pink, at any rate. ‘Besides, just because we’re on honeymoon doesn’t mean we can spend all our time in bed. Think of the chafing.’

The Doctor fidgeted, looking uncomfortable. Possibly he was thinking of the chafing. ‘Let’s just get this over with, shall we?’

‘Ah, my own sweet Doctor, ever the romantic,’ sighed the Master. He reached out and took the Doctor’s hand. ‘Lead on, darling.’

The Doctor glanced one way and then the other before setting off, leading the Master down the street and through a set of park gates. They hadn’t got far when the Master realised that something wasn’t quite right.

‘Doctor,’ he hissed in the Doctor’s ear. ‘People are staring at me.’

‘And that bothers you?’ asked the Doctor, sounding vaguely amused.

‘When it’s not in wonderment or terror, yes,’ said the Master. ‘They keep whispering and pointing as well. I don’t like it.’

‘Maybe they’re just curious about the striking similarity between you and their late Prime Minister,’ said the Doctor.

‘I’m still not happy about your little friends telling them I’m dead, by the way,’ muttered the Master. ‘Did I at least get a state funeral?’

The Doctor stared at him. ‘You killed the entire cabinet.’

‘They were only politicians.’ The Master shrugged. ‘No-one liked them anyway. I saw the opinion polls; the only reason anyone ever voted for that bunch of snivelling little traitors was that they hated them marginally less than the others.’

‘And you assassinated the US President live on international television.’

‘Yes, well, they don’t like Americans much either,’ said the Master. He sniffed. ‘Bunch of parochial little apes - entire galaxies out there to be conquered and they’re all too busy fighting people who live in the next street.’

‘Could you save your unique perspective on international relations for another time, perhaps?’ said the Doctor. ‘This is supposed to be a social visit, remember?’

‘But of course,’ said the Master, smiling sweetly. ‘I know you must be so eager to show me off. Which of your fawning acolytes will we be visiting today anyway?’

‘The only one I’m pretty sure won’t recognise you,’ said the Doctor. ‘Ah, there she is!’

He bounded off the path and across a stretch of grass, dragging the Master along behind him, and grinning maniacally at the superbly-stacked redhead who was sitting on a park bench waiting for him.

‘Donna!’ he exclaimed. ‘Oh, it is smashing to see you again. Don’t you look well!’

The redhead - Donna, presumably - put down her magazine and stood up, allowing the Doctor to envelop her in one of his ridiculously over-enthusiastic bear-hugs. Yuck. The Master gave the Doctor a surreptitious kick in the shins before things got a bit too cosy.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said the Doctor. ‘Donna, there’s someone I want you to meet. You remember I told you I’d got married. Well, here he is.’ He smiled and pushed the Master forward.

‘Oh my god!’ Donna stared at the Master, open-mouthed in shock.

‘Er…’ The Doctor shuffled a bit. ‘Probably should have mentioned it wasn’t to a woman.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Donna. She turned to the Master. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Harold Saxon?’

The Master smiled. ‘There’s a very good reason for that.’

‘Don’t…’ the Doctor began warningly.

The Master ignored him, and winked at Donna.

‘No!’ Donna clapped her hand to her mouth.

‘Yes.’ The Master grinned, nodding.

‘Oh, no,’ said the Doctor, but no-one paid any attention to him.

‘You’re alive,’ said Donna, sounding breathless and awe-struck. ‘Oh, Mr Saxon!’

She flung her arms around the Master’s neck, and burst into tears.

‘Um…’ The Master glanced around, thoroughly confused.

‘Er…’ agreed the Doctor.

‘Look, would you mind… not,’ said the Master, disentangling himself from Donna’s grasp. He did hope she hadn’t got snot on his suit.

‘Sorry,’ said Donna, offering the Master a lop-sided grin. ‘Got a bit carried away. I think I’m a bit star-struck.’

‘I quite understand,’ the Master assured her.

‘Well I don’t,’ said the Doctor, doing his best ‘bewildered hedgehog’ impression. ‘I mean, you do remember Harold Saxon, right? Shortest-serving British Prime Minister in history? You haven’t gone and got him confused with some soap opera character or other, have you?’

Donna leant towards the Master. ‘I know he’s your husband and all, but don’t you sometimes want to slap him?’

‘Frequently,’ agreed the Master. ‘It’s no good though - I think he likes it.’

The Doctor growled. ‘Master!’

The Master winked at Donna. ‘See?’

‘This doesn’t make any sense,’ said the Doctor plaintively. He turned to the Master, jabbing a finger into his chest. ‘Have you done something to her?’

‘I’ve only just met her!’ said the Master, with an air of outraged innocence that was, for the first time in centuries, completely genuine.

‘Doctor, what you being so mean for?’ demanded Donna. ‘You can’t marry a man like Mr Saxon and not expect him to get a bit of attention.’

‘I am quite a catch,’ said the Master.

The Doctor spluttered ineffectually and turned to Donna. ‘What is it… what do you think he did when he was Prime Minister?’

Donna glared at him. ‘Honestly, Doctor, don’t you watch the news?’

For some reason this sent the Doctor into such fits of gaping and hair-pulling that he seemed to lose the power of coherent speech entirely, so the Master thought he’d better take over.

‘I can assure you that my dear life-companion here isn’t quite so dim as he seems,’ said the Master. ‘It’s just that we expected the usual cover-up and, since we’ve been away, wondered how much of what actually happened has entered the public domain.’

He offered her one of his best, ‘trust me, I’m a politician’ smiles to sweeten the deal.

‘Tell you what,’ said Donna, ‘why don’t I show you?’

She walked off, leaving the Doctor and the Master to follow in her wake, with the Doctor muttering suspiciously about the Master’s supposed plotting. The Master - who hadn’t actually plotted anything suspicious at all but didn’t mind taking the credit for it anyway - just ignored all questions as he strode after Donna, whistling.

‘There,’ said Donna at last, beaming proudly and pointing at something the Master really hadn’t expected to see on his return to Earth.

It was a statue, twelve feet tall and cast in bronze, of the Master himself. The inscription on the plinth below read Harold Saxon, 1969 - 2008: Defender of the Earth.

‘WHAT?!’

‘Deep breaths, darling,’ said the Master, patting the Doctor’s arm. ‘You don’t want to go upsetting yourself and having one of your funny turns, do you?’

The Doctor pulled his arm out of the Master’s reach and whirled around to face Donna, looking furious. ‘Why is there a bloody great big statue of - of him standing in the middle of London?’

‘He deserves it!’ exclaimed Donna. She looked more than a little offended on the Master’s behalf. ‘He was the only one clever enough to escape the assassination of the cabinet, defeated Winters, repelled the Toclafane - ’

‘ - he what?’ the Doctor interrupted her. ‘Donna, I think your grasp of current affairs is deteriorating.’

‘Fuck off,’ said Donna eloquently. ‘I’m a bit more interested in the news since I was part of it. I’ve been interviewed by Trevor McDonald. And I was a contestant on Have I Got News for You.’

‘Whose team were you on?’ asked the Master, more out of a desire to provoke the Doctor than any real interest.

‘Paul’s,’ said Donna. ‘I wanted to win.’

‘Smart girl,’ said the Master. ‘I was going to be guest presenter, you know, but there’s not much time on the campaign trail and then there was the… ah…’

‘Terroristic alien invasion?’ suggested Donna helpfully.

‘That’s the one,’ said the Master, nodding. Not that he had the first idea what she was babbling on about, or why he was suddenly being treated like the saviour of humanity, but the whole thing was winding the Doctor up so beautifully he thought he might as well play along. Besides, it was funny.

Still, even the Doctor couldn’t keep flapping and flailing forever. He turned to the Master, looking so serious it was all the Master could do not to snigger like an errant schoolboy.

‘Are you sure you didn’t do this?’ he asked, indicating the statue.

The Master turned his hands up. ‘Would I?’

‘Doctor, what is wrong with you?’ demanded Donna angrily.

‘Sorry, Donna, no time to explain,’ said the Doctor as he started to pull the Master away. ‘The defender of the universe here and I have important business to attend to.’

The Master barely had time to mouth the words ‘completely insatiable’ to a thoroughly-exasperated looking Donna before the Doctor hauled him off.

::

‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

Jack leant back in his chair, grinning in a mock-sheepish way that was no doubt supposed to be charming. The Master was gratified to note that the Doctor wasn’t falling for it.

‘Is that the official Torchwood motto?’ asked the Doctor, scathingly. ‘“It seemed like a good idea at the time”? How did turning someone who nearly destroyed the planet into a national hero seem like a good idea?’

Jack fidgeted. ‘Look, we had to do something. After you swanned off with Psychopathy Today here there was still a missing Prime Minister, a dead cabinet, and a Presidential assassination to account for.’

‘Yeah, still not seeing how any of this means you need a bloody great big statue of the Master in the middle of London.’

‘Does there need to be a reason for a statue of me?’ asked the Master. ‘I mean, really? I think it looks good.’

The Doctor and Jack both turned to glare at him incredulously. What?

‘Anyway,’ said Jack, pointedly moving on, ‘the key to a good cover-up is telling people what they want to hear. They’d had eighteen months of low-level brainwashing from the Archangel Network and there was a certain amount of… residual affection for Harold Saxon. It was easier to work with that than against it.’

‘You hear that, Doctor?’ said the Master, beaming affectionately. ‘My people still love me.’

The Doctor just shot him a withering glance before turning back to Jack. ‘And it was easier to make out that the President of the US was some sort of intergalactic terrorist, was it?’

‘Oh, who cares?’ said the Master. ‘I told you, they don’t like Americans.’

‘That bit wasn’t us,’ said Jack. ‘The press made it up for themselves. We just… didn’t correct anything.’

‘Yes,’ said the Doctor slowly. ‘I still can’t believe you got away with this. Didn’t UNIT have anything to say about it?’

Jack fidgeted some more. ‘They’ve never been too fond of Torchwood, really.’

‘I can’t imagine why,’ said the Doctor. ‘You do realise this plan is completely mental, don’t you? Even by Torchwood standards it’s downright bizarre.’

‘It was working just fine,’ said Jack, a little defensively. ‘It would have carried on working if you’d done your bit and kept him away as well. What did you bring him back to Earth for anyway?’

The Master decided he’d had enough of people talking about him like he wasn’t there.

‘Oh, didn’t you tell him, darling?’ he asked, grasping the Doctor’s hand before turning to beam at Jack. ‘We’re on our honeymoon.’

‘You’re what?’ Jack looked absolutely horror-stricken. It was perfect. Between that and reviving the Cult of Saxon, the Master almost felt a teeny bit guilty for killing him all those times. Almost.

‘Yes, honeymoon,’ said the Master cheerfully. ‘Sorry we didn’t invite you to the wedding, but it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Whirlwind romance, you know how it is.’

‘I see.’ Jack grimaced and looked back at the Doctor. ‘I suppose that seemed like good idea at the time, did it?’

The Doctor bristled. ‘I have my reasons.’

‘Really?’

‘He’s trying to shag the evil out of me,’ said the Master.

Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘Is it working?’

‘I think it will take a very long time,’ the Master intoned gravely.

There was a long silence, during which the Doctor glanced around uncomfortably while Jack appeared to be working himself up into a jealous sulk. Which the Master found utterly predictable, but vaguely entertaining nonetheless. The Master made the most of the lull in conversation by squeezing the Doctor’s hand and pulling it to his mouth, tracing his teeth over the irregular outline of the Doctor’s knuckles. The Doctor turned to him, presumably to tell him off, but just ended up smiling in the soppy way he’d grown so fond of lately, and kissed the Master’s forehead.

‘Let me get this straight,’ said Jack slowly. ‘Taking over the country, nearly causing intergalactic warfare, moving time back-and-forth.... Was it all part of some elaborate Time Lord mating ritual?’

‘I think that’s oversimplifying things a bit,’ said the Doctor.

Jack ignored him and looked at the Master. ‘Couldn’t you just have sent him a card at Valentine’s or something?’

The Master shrugged. ‘I’m actually very shy.’

‘Yes, well, I hope you’ll both be very happy,’ said Jack. ‘Just, Doctor, will you do me a favour?’

‘What?’

‘Promise me that if you ever get divorced, you’ll do it well away from Earth.’

IV. Attention Surfeit Disorder

Certain individuals don’t really know what they want, or how to be truly content when they get it. (Source: Everyone knows that, duh.)

Seven years later…

The Master stood gloomily in the TARDIS kitchen, stirring too much sugar into the Doctor’s tea and wondering what the hell he was doing with his life. It wasn’t that marriage to the Doctor had been wholly awful - he’d spent quite a lot of it lying flat on his back and letting the Doctor lick him all over, which had been pleasurable enough. He’d even had some good times tormenting the Doctor by casually dropping the word ‘looms’ into the conversation and ‘hiding’ baby names books in the breadbin. (He dropped that tactic pretty darn quick after he’d caught the Doctor going through one of them with a highlighter pen.)

Lately, though, the Master had begun to wonder if he hadn’t finally lost the plot completely. The heady rush of the Doctor’s constant attention had been enough to distract him from all but the most fanciful of evil plots and, shameful as it was to admit it, the Master had turned a bit soft. The Doctor’s devotion had quelled the Master’s lust for power far more effectively than his constant thwarting ever had. (The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on the Master; he wondered if the Doctor noticed it too. Possibly he’d planned it all along - that would be annoying.)

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ shouted the Master at no-one in particular. He threw the Doctor’s tea down the sink with a snort of self-disgust. Is this what he’d been reduced to? Serving the Doctor over-sweetened drinks in the knowledge that the Doctor would have to pretend not to mind, out of manners. Why didn’t he just tell the useless bastard to make his own tea? (It occurred to the Master suddenly that there might be a reason why women kept leaving the Doctor.)

In fact, what was the Master doing there at all? He stormed out of the kitchen and into the Control Room - officially he was still allowed only limited use of the TARDIS’ controls, but the Doctor’s security precautions had become sloppier and sloppier over the years. He’s taking me for granted, thought the Master sourly. The Master scanned the navigation screen, looking for possibilities, and grinned as he programmed in a new course, standing back as the Time Rotor moved up and down.

He even let out a maniacal cackle, for old times’ sake. Why the hell not? He was getting out, moving up, and bringing evil back.

::

Less than 48 hours later in the Master’s personal time line (and maybe as many minutes in the Doctor’s) and things were already looking up. He was back in his own TARDIS, a ship that was actually worthy of the name, unlike the Doctor’s clapped out old rust-bucket, whistling as he tapped out co-ordinates on the sleek, elegantly functional console. The Master could feel his evil mojo flooding back and life was good.

Still, no rest for the wicked. The Master had a planet to take over.

‘Ready to go, Mr Saxon?’

‘Yes, thank you, Donna.’ The Master offered Donna his best aren’t-I-a-brave-little-soldier smile, and held out his hand. Donna took it, and gave his palm a quick squeeze.

‘It’ll be all right,’ she assured him. ‘Just be strong: I know you can do it.’

The Master just nodded, took a deep breath - as though screwing up his courage - and stepped outside of the TARDIS.

Truth be told, he was a little bit scared of Donna, but she suited his plans so perfectly. A friend of the Doctor’s, but not enough of a fawning acolyte to question the Master’s tear-wrenching story about how his poor husband had gone quite mad, becoming dangerously unstable and was, even now, charging towards Earth, bringing calamity and devastation in his wake. The Master hadn’t even had to lie much to convince her. Yes, Donna’s lack of Doctor-worship made her the ideal accomplice, and even if she did end up all smitten she’d still make a good hostage. Also, she was more than willing to slap anyone who questioned the Master, which the Master found both useful and admirable.

Really, it was quite ironic how helpful all the Doctor’s friends were. The Master had been forced to make a quick phone call to the acting Prime Minister to get Jack locked up, of course, but if it hadn’t been for Jack letting the world think The Master was some sort of hero, then the Master wouldn’t currently be striding through the corridors of the United Nations, on his way to an emergency Security Council meeting at which he fully expected to be granted a whole raft of very useful global powers.

Martha would have to be taken out of the way as well - bit worryingly competent that one. Not yet, though. The Master had a job for her first.

‘Oh, Donna, did you remember to post that letter for me?’ he asked.

‘The one for Martha Jones? Yeah, the woman on reception said she’d put it in the internal mail for me.’

The Master smiled at her. ‘What would I do without you?’

Her and the lovely Dr Jones, who could surely be relied upon to pass on the Doctor’s mail. The Master’s smile deepened as he imagined the expression on the Doctor’s face when he discovered that the Master was divorcing him on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour. Shame the Master wouldn’t actually get to see the Doctor spluttering ‘what?’ and doing the Mad Hair Dance when he read the petition - that would have been quite fun. Still, there was the Doctor’s response to look forward to (he was bound to contest it), and that would be entertaining enough to cheer the Master up during the boring bits of taking over the world.

One adversary locked up, another soon to follow, terrifying and ironically appropriate companion at his side, global domination at his fingertips and, no doubt, the Doctor chasing at his heels. The Master couldn’t be happier.

‘Ah, Mr Saxon,’ some self-important diplomat greeted the Master with an oily smile and a weak handshake. ‘So good to see you.’

The Master thought it was, rather.

FIN