Crazy in Love
Title: Crazy in Love: A Case Study of Factitious Disorders and Relationship Breakdown in Gallifreyan Males
Pairing/Characters: Doctor/Master, Jack, Donna
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Individuals with Factitious Disorder may be trying to repeat a satisfying childhood relationship with a doctor. (Source: Wikipedia)
Notes: Post-LotTL AU.
Thanks to jonquil and such_heights for looking over the initial drafts. It's, um, changed quite a lot since then, so they are especially not to blame for any errors.
The Master’s circumstances - thwarted at universal domination and taken prisoner by his arch-nemesis - might have seemed a long way from a recipe for success, but he still had one ace up his sleeve. The Doctor could cluck and fuss all he liked about the Master’s supposed mental confusion, but only one of them was delusional enough to imagine that the last of the Time Lords were likely to enjoy domestic bliss and Happily Ever After together.
Of course, the Doctor was a sucker for all that soppy stuff, and oh so desperate to be loved, constantly surrounding himself with his adoring, if vastly inferior, disciples and saving their dismal little worlds. He’d always been soft, but the current version of the Doctor had a pathetic need for affection. It’d be his undoing, one of these days.
The Master would make sure of it.
::
I. Stockholm Syndrome
The Stockholm Syndrome is an emotional attachment, a bond of interdependence between captive and captor. (Source: Thomas, Volume 347 Forensic Psychology and Psychiatry Page 137-150, June 1980)
‘Have you got something in your eye?’
‘Huh?’
‘You keep looking at me funny.’ The Doctor put down the marmalade and frowned. ‘Have I got butter on my face or something?’
‘No, no,’ the Master assured him. ‘I just like looking at you, that’s all.’
He smiled at the Doctor, doing his best to arrange his features into a demure - or, at least, coquettish - expression, and not an evil smirk. The TARDIS kitchen was an unusual location for launching a fiendish scheme, but the Master felt a certain degree of absurdity would jolly things along nicely. Breakfast with the Doctor was always faintly absurd, not least because of the Doctor’s insistence on breakfasting in those ridiculous stripy pyjamas he favoured, and his habit of catching toast crumbs in his dressing gown.
‘Hmm, looking for weak spots, I shouldn’t wonder.’ The Doctor frowned, but the Master chose to ignore it.
‘Doctor, have you been sucking the marmalade spoon again?’ he asked instead.
‘What? Um, yeah, probably. Sorry about that. Do you want me to get you a clean one?’
‘No matter.’
The Master popped the Doctor-spittle coated spoon into his mouth and sucked noisily, closing his eyes in an exaggerated expression of bliss. When he looked up, the Doctor was staring at him open-mouthed, apparently lost for words.
It was brilliant.
::
Brilliant, indeed, but still not enough. The Doctor was befuddled all right, though that’s scarcely an achievement, but he seemed to attribute the Master’s outlandish behaviour to a combination of the Master being an annoying git and also a bit mental. Or maybe the Doctor was simply oblivious - it was true that the Doctor had a history of being a bit slow on the uptake about these things.
Clearly the Master needed to crank things up a notch. Trouble was, he knew better than to risk overplaying his hand - the Doctor was already suspicious of the Master for some reason. The Master needed to be stealthy, subtle, sneaky, and maybe just a little bit sexy. All his favourite ‘S’ words. But how?
Inspiration hit the Master when he least expected it - while he was still asleep. It was brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, that he woke himself up, cackling out loud at his own genius. Possibly he laughed a little too hard, because he fell out of bed, sending the angle-poise lamp on the bedside table crashing the floor and the Doctor running to see what all the commotion was about.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ said the Master hastily. ‘Bad dream.’
‘It sounded like you were laughing.’
‘I was,’ admitted the Master. ‘I, um, had a nightmare that the TARDIS crashed onto a planet of vicious cannibals who killed you and forced me to eat your brains. In a milkshake. And, you know, eating brains isn’t healthy so I went mad with laughing sickness and I realised I was going to laugh myself to death but I couldn’t stop and then when I was nearly dead they got this big pot and put Oxo cubes and bits of carrot and onion in it and were about to boil me in a stew, and there was celery, Doctor and you of all people should know how I feel about celery, but I couldn’t stop laughing even when they were lowering me into the pot and… and that’s when I woke up.
The Doctor blinked. ‘That thing about laughing sickness and cannibalism is a myth.’
‘Maybe,’ said the Master. ‘Can I sleep in your room?’
It took a bit of persuasion to convince the Doctor to allow the Master into his bedroom, and even then it was only on condition that the Master promised to a) behave himself and b) put some pyjamas on. It was worth it, though, for the look of sheer, gormless confusion on the Doctor’s face as he gaped at the Master sitting up in his bed, wearing borrowed stripy flannel pyjamas and drinking the warm milk he’d nagged the Doctor to fetch him.
‘Right, well, if you’re comfortable now, I’ll leave you to it. Night then.’ The Doctor ran a hand through his already spectacularly rumpled hair and jigged from one foot to the other as he spoke.
And he clearly had some idea that the Master had wormed his way into his bedroom because he thought the mattress was more comfortable or something. Bloody hell, he was a fuckwit sometimes - it was all the Master could do not to pummel the dim-witted bastard to death with his own milk mug.
But that wouldn’t exactly help in the long run, so instead he just jutted his lower lip out a bit, and made sad eyes at the Doctor.
‘You want me to stay with you?’ The Doctor huffed and looked exasperated although, the Master could hardly fail to notice, he didn’t exactly put up a fight about it.
The Master nodded, dropped his head forward and made a concerted effort to blush. He’d realised some time ago that blushing at appropriate moments would add a certain amount of credulity to his pretence, since it would be so wholly undignified if it weren’t an act. Unfortunately, it didn’t exactly come naturally to him, and despite many hours practicing in front of the mirror the closest the Master ever came to a demure flush was a strange, reddened, slightly constipated look.
Apparently evil doesn’t blush.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the Doctor.
The Master nodded. Maybe it was working.
‘Are you sure you don’t need the lavatory?’
The constipated look again. Ah, well, on to the next tactic. The Master patted the bed beside him and grinned at the Doctor.
‘C’mon, Doctor, time for sleepy bye-byes.’
The Doctor rolled his eyes again (seriously, he was going to have to stop doing that - see if the Master had any sympathy when the Doctor came crying that he’d sprained an extraocular muscle) and picked a book off the floor as he walked back towards the bed.
‘If you think I’m daft enough to go to sleep with you in the room, you’ve another think coming,’ said the Doctor as he positioned himself on the bed next to the Master.
The Master felt somewhat indignant at the Doctor’s lack of trust, until he remembered he actually was planning evil-doings, just on a longer-term basis than the Doctor imagined. So he said nothing, just plumped the pillow and made himself comfortable.
It was quite comfortable, actually, all nice and warm in the Doctor’s flannel jammies, with the Doctor’s hand absently ruffling the Master’s hair as he read (The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, which gave him no room at all for teasing the Master about liking kids’ telly). An impartial observer with no knowledge of the true nature of evil might have mistaken the Master’s behaviour for snuggling, but the Master knew better. A good night’s sleep was just what he needed to move on the next stage of plotting in the morning.
::
What the Master had overlooked - or, at least, not paid sufficient attention to - was psychology. To be precise, he’d forgotten the Doctor’s somewhat dubious belief in his own proficiency at it. I know you, he’d said that last day on Earth, and the Master didn’t doubt that the Doctor believed it. The Doctor was conceited enough to believe he knew the Master better than the Master knew himself. Which was infuriating, and yet… helpful at the same time.
No wonder the Doctor had been so oblivious to the Master’s increasingly anvil-like hints - he knew fine well that the Master would never fall in love with him, and even if he did, he’d never let the Doctor know it. Plus there was the fact that the Doctor seemed to work under the assumption that the Master was pretty much always Up To Something. (Which was true. But still.) Naturally he’d dismissed the Master’s suggestions of affection as either a joke or a ploy. (Again, true. Again, still.)
So, the only way the Master was going to convince the Doctor that he was in love with him was to pretend that he wasn’t in love with the Doctor. Give every impression that if he was Up To anything at all, it was simply trying to conceal the burning light of his deep and abiding Doctor-love. Ideally the Master should convince the Doctor that he was in love with him, but so deep in denial about the whole business that he couldn’t see the truth for himself, and needed the Doctor to point it out for him, thereby playing to the Doctor’s innate sense of smug know-it-all-ness and making him feel terribly important and clever. (The Master knew a thing or two about egoism.) All his plan needed was a bit of bluff and double-bluff.
It couldn’t possibly go wrong.
::
The Master waited until the Doctor was buttering his toast before casting longing glances in his direction.
‘Were you staring at me again?’
‘No,’ said the Master, turning away huffily. ‘What would I want to stare at your ugly mug for?’
*
He wrote the word “Doctor” in the condensation on the bathroom mirror and then - why not? - added a love heart for effect. The Master waited until the Doctor was banging on the door, demanding to know if he’d actually drowned this time, before wiping the (by now, condensation-free) mirror with his sleeve.
It’d show up well enough when the Doctor turned the shower on, and the Master made sure to run out of the room every time the Doctor tried to talk to him the rest of the day.
*
The Master found a scrap of paper and scribbled on it:
The TARDIS is blue,
And bigger inside
I’d rather shag you
Than do genocide.
He crumpled the paper into a ball then smoothed it back out again before feeding it into the shredder. Was the Doctor paranoid enough to ask the TARDIS for details of everything the Master destroyed? Yes, the Master rather suspected he was.
*
The TARDIS hit a spot of turbulence on the journey from Who-Knows-Where to Who-The-Fuck-Cares, sending the Doctor dancing around the console in a pathetic attempt to make it fly a little less like a cantankerous, souped-up tumble-dryer. A particularly violent jolt sent him careening in the Master’s direction, knocking the Master flat on his back with the Doctor sprawled on top of him.
‘Hello!’ said the Doctor, grinning. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Get off me, you great oaf,’ snarled the Master. He shoved the Doctor aside and legged it into his bedroom, where he locked himself in for the rest of the day.
*
Things really came on apace when the Doctor responded the Master’s whinging about being bored by giving him a laptop with internet access.
He printed out a copy of the Wikipedia article on capture-bonding, read every Patty Hearst biography he could find, and downloaded a pirate copy of A Life Less Ordinary.
And something called Bad Boy Nurses; The Doctor is In, just in case he was being a bit too subtle.
::
Eventually, the Doctor got the hint.
‘I think we need to talk,’ he said gravely. It was obvious from the ferocious state of his hair that he’d been thinking about the whole thing a great deal.
‘If you like,’ said the Master, feigning a slightly curious expression.
The Doctor led him to the sitting room and sat down on the sofa, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as the Master joined him. The Master made sure he sat as close to the Doctor as possible, and gazed at him in wide-eyed anticipation as he waited for the Doctor to speak.
‘The thing is,’ the Doctor began, ‘when you’ve got two people living in close proximity, spending so much time together day after day, it’s only natural that one of them might develop… feelings for the other.’
‘Yes?’ said the Master. His expression was mild, but he was laughing inside.
The Doctor took a deep breath. ‘And sometimes, even though the two people might not always have seen eye-to-eye in the past, these feelings might have a somewhat, er, romantic element to them.
‘Why, Doctor,’ said the Master, grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you love me?’
‘No!’ The Doctor straightened suddenly, eyes wide.
Now, that was blushing properly.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ added the Doctor. The Master just raised an eyebrow as the Doctor ducked down and retrieved a box from under the sofa.
The box contained a number of the Doctor-love baiting artefacts which the Master had planted around the TARDIS. A defaced book of Shakespearean sonnets with masculine pronouns and the word ‘Doctor’ edited in at strategic points, some crude pornographic drawings, print-outs of the Master’s long, rambling and emo-tastic blog entries, and that pair of the Doctor’s Y-fronts which the Master had filched from the TARDIS laundry and had been keeping under his pillow.
‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me?’ asked the Doctor gently.
‘Yeah, keep out of my room,’ said the Master. ‘Aren’t I allowed any privacy? Or would you like me to start leaving the door open when I take a leak?’
The Doctor at least had the decency to look guilty, the incorrigible snoop. ‘The TARDIS pointed it out to me…’
‘She hates me.’ The Master pouted. It probably looked like jealousy. Good. It was bloody disgusting the way the Doctor was always fondling the thing.
The Doctor put the box back down and took hold of the Master’s hand. Oh, this was going to be good.
‘There’s no need to be embarrassed,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s only me and I promise I won’t laugh at you.’
‘Laugh at me about what?’
‘Fine, if you won’t say it, I will,’ said the Doctor. ‘You think you’re in love with me, don’t you?’
Hang on a minute -
‘What do you mean, I think I’m in love with you?’ demanded the Master. ‘Are you saying I’m too stupid to know whether I’m in love or not?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that!’
‘Well, what did you mean, then?’
‘I mean, well - ’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re not exactly…’
‘What?’
‘You’re not…’ The Doctor fidgeted. ‘You’re not exactly a very lovingful person, are you?’
The Master folded his arms and sat back.
‘Maybe you’re just very special,’ he said.
‘I am awfully lovable,’ mused the Doctor.
‘Naturally,’ said the Master. ‘Modesty is such an attractive trait.’
‘See, that’s what I mean,’ said the Doctor. ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you?’
‘You can hardly blame me, when you make it so easy.’
‘That’s not the point,’ said the Doctor. ‘The point is, I don’t think you’re really in love with me for a second because I don’t believe you’re even capable of loving anyone.’
‘Excuse me?’ said the Master. ‘I can fall in love if I want to.’
‘No you can’t.’
‘Can.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Can so.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Can - oh, this is ridiculous,’ said the Master. ‘Why do you think I’m incapable of love?’
‘Because you’re a crazed, murdering, power-mad, vindictive evil little psychopath,’ said the Doctor matter-of-factly.
‘So?’
‘You can’t have love and evil at the same time, that’s just silly,’ said the Doctor. ‘Unless you’ve decided to stop being evil?’ he added hopefully.
‘I don’t see why not,’ said the Master. ‘Love is cruel, tempestuous and heartbreaking. It’s practically an anagram of evil.’
‘It’s an anagram of evol,’ said the Doctor, ‘which isn’t even a word, not matter what anyone on the internet says.’
‘Pedant.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ The Doctor threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me that you are actually, truly, straight-up and cards on the table, really in love with me?’
The Master sniffed. ‘Might be.’
‘But that doesn’t make any sense!’
‘Love so seldom does,’ said the Master philosophically.
‘I don’t believe you,’ said the Doctor. ‘You’re only doing this to wind me up. I expect it’s all part of some nefarious scheme of yours or other.’
Well, that was a bit too close to the truth (as in, dead on the money). The Master felt a slight change in tack was in order, to throw the Doctor off the scent.
‘I don’t see why you have to be so unreasonable about it,’ he said. ‘It’s all your fault anyway.’
‘I can’t help being adorable,’ said the Doctor defensively.
‘It’s not about you, you conceited big baby, it’s about me,’ said the Master. ‘You said yourself that I’m incapable of falling in love on my own, so obviously you’ve been brainwashing me.’
‘I - what?’
‘Oh, don’t look so innocent,’ continued the Master. ‘You just bloody love having everyone in love with you, don’t you? But having all your poor little loyal human companions pining for you wasn’t enough, you had to go and ensnare me as well.’
‘I didn’t ensnare you.’
‘So I’m free to leave, am I?’
‘No, but that’s because I don’t want you destroying the universe, not because I want you making googly eyes at me over the cornflakes.’
The Master ignored him.
‘I’ve read all about how kidnappers manipulate their captives by making them fall for them,’ he continued. ‘You’ve given me Stockholm Syndrome.’
‘You make it sound like an STI,’ said the Doctor, sounding vaguely amused.
‘Don’t mock me,’ said the Master. ‘I’m suffering from a serious psychiatric disorder.’
‘Another one?’ asked the Doctor. ‘How can you tell?’
The Master just glared at him.
‘Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean that,’ said the Doctor. ‘Really, though, Stockholm Syndrome? ’S a bit human, isn’t it - I’d have thought you were above that sort of thing.’
‘Finally admitting that I’m better than all your precious little human pets, are you?’
‘Hardly.’ The Doctor snorted. ‘But you know very well that humans are more susceptible to these things because they don’t have our psychic defences.’
‘Make your mind up,’ said the Master. ‘Either it’s true love and you should do the decent thing and marry me, or it’s a psychological aberration, which is still your fault.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘You’re the Doctor,’ said the Master, a little smugly. ‘Cure me.’
‘Oh, you want me to fix you, do you?’ The Doctor smiled a slow, calculating smile that the Master was sure belonged to him, and arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, OK, but remember - you asked for this.’
He turned to face the Master directly, grabbed hold of the Master’s hands and pinned them to his sides, then leant across and proceeded to stick his tongue down the Master’s throat.
Well. The Master hadn’t expected that. (Although, admittedly, he’d already seen ample evidence that the Doctor would put his tongue just about anywhere, so he really shouldn’t have been surprised.) Caught unawares by Doctor’s assault on his tonsils, the Master might have inadvertently nibbled on the Doctor’s lower lip and run a hand through the Doctor’s hair in all the confusion before he managed to push the Doctor back away from him.
‘What the fuck was that about?’ he demanded.
‘Aversion therapy,’ said the Doctor, triumphant grin in full throttle and looking so smug it was a wonder he didn’t sprain something. ‘If you are, as you claim, suffering from some sort of psychosomatic attraction based on the trauma of being kept captive, then naturally you still hate me deep down and the horror of me snogging you will reawaken your underlying feelings of revulsion and you can go back to despising me and sulking about my ruining all your plans.’
The Master would’ve like to point out that he didn’t sulk thankyouverymuch, but it was kind of hard to do without sounding, well, sulky, so he let it slide.
‘And what if this genius idea of yours doesn’t work?’ said the Master. ‘What if it backfires completely, in fact, and kissing you just makes it worse?’
‘Master, you’ve been writing poetry,’ said the Doctor. ‘I don’t think it can get any worse.’
There was no easy answer to that one either. Bugger.
‘Wait a minute.’ The Master backed away, trying to focus his thoughts on malicious scheming and not the way the Doctor was licking his lips or the hungry look in his eye. Although…
‘How do I know this isn’t all some ploy? First you take me captive in the TARDIS, now you’re coming up with what has to be the flimsiest excuse for a snog I’ve ever heard - you just want the chance to shag me and not feel guilty about it, don’t you?’
‘Don’t see why that should be a problem,’ said the Doctor. ‘If you’re so in love with me and all, surely you’d be dying to shag me?’
The Master sniffed. ‘Not if you’re just using me for sex.’
‘Ah, it’s like that is it?’ The Doctor sat up, looking altogether too scheming himself. ‘Very well, Master - would you like to go out with me?’
‘Out?’
‘On a date,’ the Doctor clarified.
The Master thought quickly. He hadn’t planned for it, but surely getting out of the TARDIS had to give him some sort of an advantage.
‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘But make it somewhere romantic.’
‘Oh, I think I can manage that,’ said the Doctor. He stood up and walked towards the door. ‘Play your cards right and I might even buy you flowers.’
He winked and blew the Master as kiss before disappearing in the direction of the console room.
‘Oi!’ The Master called after the Doctor’s retreating backside. ‘I’m not a girl!’
::
The Master leant back on the sofa and smirked. Convincing the Doctor had proven delightfully simple after all, and, annoying as the Doctor’s air of superiority about the whole thing may be, the Master of all people knew that pride comes before a fall. The prospect of getting out of the TARDIS was just the cherry on the cake.
Yes, it was all coming together nicely he thought as he meandered off through the TARDIS corridors, whistling. Might as well have a shower before the big date. You never knew.
::
II. Histrionic Personality Disorder
Individuals with HPD are highly emotional, charming, energetic, manipulative, seductive, impulsive, erratic, and demanding. (Source: Encyclopedia of Mental Disorders)
The Planet Valentine wasn’t, strictly speaking, a planet at all, more an overblown asteroid orbiting Planet Disney™. It was annexed by Disney™ in the 24th Century, after the discovery of an antidote to the clouds of lilac, sparkling, and highly toxic vapour which rose up from the iridescent pink rock the place was made up of. (Known to scientists as Tephraclastic Polyamthinia Dianthum -3, and to everyone else as Love Lava.)
The TARDIS materialised next to the Lake of Longing, by the Path That Never Runs Smoothly (it made several detours around a plethora of over-priced gift shops). The moment he followed the Doctor outside the Master was accosted by a small, cherubic creature who rushed up and pressed a guidebook into his hand.
‘On Valentine, your hand in mine, we walk beneath the love stars’ shine,’ he read out loud, silently wishing that the TARDIS’s translation capabilities might do the decent thing and die. Glancing up, the Master saw that though it seemed to be daytime on the ground, above them the sky was darkest blue, bedecked with stars. Heart-shaped stars. They were obviously beneath some sort of canopy, but the Master couldn’t help but feel that even the illusion of heart-shaped stars was an abomination far worse than any of his crimes. He didn’t know whether to be appalled or envious.
‘Are you trying to give me an aversion to you or the colour pink?’ he asked the Doctor.
‘Oh, it’s not so bad,’ said the Doctor, glancing around. His tone was light, but the Master noticed the flash of fear in his eyes and made a mental note of it. ‘Sort of… rosy glow. Quite cheerful, actually. Anyway, the word is that Valentine is the sort of place that only someone in love can truly appreciate, because it fills them with joy and romance. Or something. Everyone else finds it exploitative and vile. Either way, I thought you’d appreciate it.’
‘I hate you,’ said the Master.
‘Oh, good, so we’ll get back in the TARDIS and go, shall we?’ said the Doctor, turning on his heel a little too quickly.
‘Oh, no you don’t,’ said the Master, grabbing the Doctor’s arm and pulling him back. ‘Don’t think you’re backing out of this one that easily.’
‘You want to stay here?’ said the Doctor, blinking at the Master with a mixture of bewilderment and horror. ‘For a romantic day out, with me? A stroll under the starlight, maybe take a quick trip on the love boat, hold hands, that sort of thing, hmm?’
‘Yes,’ said the Master, looking the Doctor right in the eye, just daring him to argue. He held out his hand. ‘Shall we?’
The Doctor took the Master’s hand reluctantly, and allowed the Master to lead him up the path towards the main resort. A little ahead there was an archway, twin doves at either side and an animated motif of a pair of love hearts tied together with ribbon. The Master had a notion to recreate the effect by ripping the Doctor’s still-beating hearts from his chest and wrapping them in a bow of his own arteries. The prospect cheered him immensely.
‘What are you smiling about?’ muttered the Doctor.
The Master beamed at him. ‘I’m just happy to be here with you, Doctor.’
::
Valentine was, of course, unremittingly vile. Populated by loathsome little cherub-type creatures and dim-witted, dewy eyed saps from across the galaxies, the entire place was like some nightmarish experiment in cramming every saccharine notion of romance into one hideous great pile of crass commercialism, painting it pink and covering it in sparkles. The Master couldn’t turn around without seeing at least a dozen individuals who desperately needed to be ritually disembowelled, sold into slavery, or thrown into a lime pit. Possibly all three at once.
The only thing that made the whole thing bearable - nay, enjoyable - was the knowledge that skin-crawlingly, stomach-churningly awful as the Master found the entire experience, no matter how much he hated it, the Doctor hated it more.
Good. He deserved it.
Although, entertaining as it undoubtedly was to watch the Doctor pale at the sight of singing telegrams and flocks of pink doves, there was a limit to how far the Master could push him. After all, it had to be obvious even to the Doctor that the Master was only cooing along with the love-birds to wind him up, and after all they’d been through, the Master hardly thought that his being obnoxious just to annoy the Doctor would cause him any lasting damage, however amusing it might be in the short term.
No, if he really wanted to make the Doctor suffer, he’d have to up the ante a bit. And when the Doctor won him a cuddly toy on the coconut shy, proudly pressing the giant fluffy rabbit into the Master’s arms and kissing him on the cheek, the Master knew it was time for a spot of strategic escalation.
Which, as luck would have it, was just when he spotted the Wedding Chapel.
‘Well,’ he said, cocking his head in the direction of the chapel, ‘how about it? Ready to make an honest Time Lord of me?’
The Doctor snorted. ‘I don’t see anything on the billboard about them offering personality changes.’
‘Funny, Doctor, but no.’ The Master stood in front of him, arms folded across his chest. ‘Marry me.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘I mean it.’
‘No, you don’t,’ insisted the Doctor.
‘You want me to prove myself?’ The Master grinned one of his evillest grins.
And got down on one knee.
‘Oh, no you don’t!’ said the Doctor. ‘Look, can you just get up please? There are people watching.’
The Master could see that passers-by were indeed slowing down to watch. Best give them something worth watching, then.
‘Doctor,’ he said, taking the Doctor’s hand. ‘I have no words to express the my feelings for you. Will you do me the honour of granting me your hand in marriage?’
‘Get up,’ hissed the Doctor, grabbing the Master’s elbow and hauling him back to his feet. ‘OK, fine, you win. I don’t know what possessed you to start this ridiculous game of romantic chicken and right now I don’t care. Whatever it is, it’s game over, I blinked first and it’s round one to the Master. Happy now?’
The Master was, kinda, but the Doctor was wrong about one thing - it wasn’t over yet. Not until the Master had secured a much more convincing victory over the Doctor.
‘No,’ said the Master, ‘I’m not happy. I want us to get married.’
‘But… but why? ’ spluttered the Doctor, pulling his hair into positions that defied the known laws of physics in at least four galaxies. ‘It’s not as if your last marriage turned out that well.’
‘Lucy and I had some good times together,’ said the Master fondly. ‘Until she shot me, anyway.’
‘Proving that marriage to you would drive anyone to murder,’ muttered the Doctor. ‘It’s not much of an incentive, really.’
‘Oh, but you wouldn’t try to kill me, would you, Doctor?’ said the Master, taking a step closer and stroking the Doctor’s cheek. ‘You’d be so lonely without me.’
‘Stop it.’
‘I’m surprised you don’t jump at the chance to drag me to the altar,’ said the Master. ‘Till death do us part has a certain appeal, does it not?’
‘How many times?’ said the Doctor. ‘I don’t do domestic.’
‘No,’ shot the Master scornfully. ‘Except for keeping me as your pet.’
‘You’d know more about that sort of thing than I would.’
‘Oh, you think, do you?’ said the Master. ‘You like to pretend you’re so superior, but you might as well buy a leash and put a name tag on me; it couldn’t be any clearer that you think you own me. Never going to let me go, are you?’
‘Because I can’t trust you,’ said the Doctor quietly. ‘I have to keep you safe.’
‘Keep me safe?’ sneered the Master. ‘Is that what you call it when you keep me tethered up on the TARDIS, like some dangerous dog that’s not fit to be seen in public?’
‘Right, because you’ve never given me a reason not to trust you wandering about the universe unsupervised,’ said the Doctor testily.
‘You’re never going to let me go, but you can waltz off whenever you feel like it,’ said the Master. ‘Who’s the monster, really, Doctor?’
‘So,’ said the Doctor after a long pause, ‘what you’re saying is that as long as I keep you on the TARDIS, I either have to marry you or prove myself to be as much of a tyrant as you are?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, yes.’ The Master nodded. ‘Good of you to keep up.’
‘That’s…’ The Doctor’s voice trailed off, and he looked flabbergasted. The hands were in the hair again. Oh, goody. ‘That is the most insane, twisted, and downright bizarre feat of logic I have ever heard.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But why?’ asked the Doctor plaintively. ‘Why would you want to marry me anyway?’
‘Maybe I just really like wedding cake,’ said the Master.
‘Maybe you’re just trying to torment me,’ said the Doctor. ‘Not that you need a wedding ceremony for that.’ He looked at the Master curiously, then let out a sly smile. ‘Unless you really are hopelessly in love with me?’
The Master was sure he wasn’t imagining the hopeful glint in the Doctor’s eye.
He smirked. ‘Maybe I am.’
The Doctor opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a flutter of silver-winged butterflies that drifted through the air to encircle the Doctor and the Master, singing. The butterflies ignored the Doctor’s attempts to bat them away with his hands, swooping and chiming prettily
‘Is this what you really want?’ asked the Doctor at last, once he’d admitted defeat with the butterflies. ‘Will it really make you happy?’
‘Doctor, you’ll make the happiest Time Lord in the universe.’ The Master beamed with Saxon-esque sincerity.
‘OK.’ The Doctor nodded, and took a deep breath. ‘Let’s go and get married.’
The butterflies let out a peal of music, and their wings turned deep scarlet, while the small crowd of passers-by erupted into thunderous applause.
::
The ceremony was a simple affair - no attendants, of course, and the Doctor was too tight to pay for the phalanx of animated swan-robots that made up the choir, so there was no music either. They chose the most basic service they could find from the laminated list the chapel provided - non-religious same-species same-sex union, legally binding in 5000 jurisdictions.
The whole thing was done and dusted in a matter of minutes. They exchanged vows, and rings (each inscribed with the other’s name, in Gallifreyan script, courtesy of the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver), and, of course, a kiss at the end. The Doctor looked pale and horror-stricken throughout, though the Master just about managed to stop sniggering long enough to assure the celebrant it was just standard pre-wedding jitters.
It was only at the very end, when the Doctor pulled out of the rather lengthy kiss that sealed their union with an expression of overwhelming joy on his face that the Master got the terrible feeling he’d been out-manoeuvred.
::
The Master walked out of the Wedding Chapel in a daze. What in the name of Rassilon’s esteemed left testicle have I done? Possibly he really was as loopy as everyone said - how else could he have set out planning to freak the Doctor out so much he’d let his guard slip and allow the Master the chance to escape, and ended up accidentally marrying him instead? The Master was willing to concede that one or two of his plans for overthrowing the Doctor had gone a little… awry in the past, but his current predicament put all previous mishaps in the shade.
The Doctor, for his part, was positively bouncing, which only made matters worse. He sang along with the next flutter of butterflies they encountered, wore a ridiculous soppy grin on his face, and kept stopping every few paces to kiss the Master, or hug him, or attempt to fondle his arse. On any sane planet he’d have been arrested for public indecency, but on Valentine that sort of remorselessly sentimental behaviour was positively encouraged.
‘Can we go back to the TARDIS now?’ the Master asked, shaking confetti out of his hair. It sickened him to ask, but if he had to look at any more pink he thought he’d be ready to slice off his own retinas.
‘Anything you like, darling,’ agreed the Doctor, fixing the Master with a diabetes-inducingly sweet smile.
‘I’d like for you never to call me that again,’ said the Master.
‘Very well, Master,’ said the Doctor, still grinning idiotically. ‘Would you like me to carry you over the threshold?’
‘Would you like me to ritually disembowel you and scatter your intestines across the distant reaches of time and space?’
‘I’ll take that as a “no” then.’ The Doctor stopped, pushing the Master gently up against one of the trees that surrounded the Lake of Longing. (The leaves were heart-shaped. How vilely predictable.) He leant into the Master and kissed his cheek. ‘Happy now?’
‘Happy?’ The Master boggled. No, he wasn’t the mad one after all - it was obviously the Doctor who’d taken leave of his senses.
‘You said that marrying me would make you happy,’ said the Doctor as he nuzzled the Master’s neck. ‘Why else’d I agree to it?’
There’d be time for a treatise on the Doctor’s innate soppiness later. But for now…
‘I was lying!’ exploded the Master.
‘Lying?’ The Doctor looked puzzled.
‘Yes, lying,’ said the Master. ‘You know, fibbing, telling untruths, porky-pies, practicing to deceive, spreading falsehoods, duplicity, mendaciousness, LYING! I’m evil so I lie. For fun.’
The Doctor listened in startled silence and then smiled. Again. ‘Like when you said you had Stockholm Syndrome?’
‘Yes! Exactly!’
‘Well, I knew that was a lie, of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘Not that I’d expect you to admit to being in love with me.’
‘No!’ The Master shook his head in exasperation. ‘I was lying about that as well.’
‘It’s all right, you know,’ said the Doctor. ‘You’ve got me now - you don’t need to pretend that your feelings are all some complex psychological disorder.’
‘No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,’ said the Master. ‘I lied about having Stockholm Syndrome because I knew you’d see through the lie and think I was just pretending not to be in love with you as a distraction from the fact that I was only pretending to be in love with you in the first place.’
The Doctor wrinkled his nose. ‘That all sounds a bit far-fetched.’
Yes, well, that’s as may be. Although, speaking of likely stories -
‘Why are you so happy anyway?’ said the Master. ‘I thought you “didn’t do domestic” and all that. Or was that all a lie to trick me into marrying you?’
‘You proposed to me,’ the Doctor reminded him. ‘But no, it wasn’t a lie. I was bloody terrified of the whole thing - it was touch and go for a bit whether I’d actually go through with it or just trip you up in the Wedding Chapel and make a run for it.’
‘What changed your mind?’
‘I realised I didn’t have anywhere left to run,’ said the Doctor. ‘I made a proper commitment and the universe didn’t end; rocks didn’t fall and nobody died. I was OK with it - more than OK, really. I was happy - I am happy. It’s just such a relief to finally give in.’
The Master smirked. ‘I always knew you were the subbiest of subs, Doctor.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ The Doctor wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Still got to consummate the union.’
The ridiculous yearning expression on the Doctor’s face deserved some sort of a put-down, but right at that moment the Master was distracted with all manner of very interesting visions, and before he had time to think of an adequate response the Doctor was kissing him again, pressing into the Master as he licked his way into his mouth. It really was tongue first, brain later with this version of the Doctor, wasn’t it?
Although, the Master didn’t mind that part too much.
Kissing the Doctor wasn’t so bad - it stopped the Doctor from talking for one thing. The Master made a considered and tactical decision to kiss him back, nipping the Doctor’s lips with his teeth and gouging his fingernails into the back of the Doctor’s neck, lest the Doctor forget who he was snogging.
The Doctor moaned and pressed himself closer still to the Master, pushing something hard into the Master’s hip. No, not that. Well, there was that as well, but there was also the sonic screwdriver and, unless the Master was very much mistaken, there was also the TARDIS key sitting next to it in the Doctor’s pocket.
Well, that was it, wasn’t it? The Doctor was as good and distracted as he was ever likely to be, so all the Master had to do was lift the key and the screwdriver from his pocket, give the Doctor a swift kick in the bollocks, and make good his escape with the Doctor’s TARDIS and a brand new plan for galactic domination. Right?
Right, except the Doctor chose that precise moment to grab the Master’s cock through his trousers and the Master decided that, really, after the day he’d had the least he deserved was to get laid.
‘C’mon,’ he said, grabbing the Doctor’s hand and breaking into a run, ‘last one back to the TARDIS has to sleep in the wet patch.’
::
The sex was good - more than good, it was bloody fantastic, actually, nearly good enough to make up for all the miscellaneous disappointments and frustrations the Doctor had inflicted on the Master over the previous hours. (Weeks, year. Centuries.) The Master had thought about it before - how could he not? - but he’d never imagined the Doctor being so, well, eager.
The Doctor couldn’t seem to get enough of the Master, so desperate to touch and rub and taste and feel, with eager hands and a greedy mouth. Shagging didn’t stop him talking (unsurprisingly), but the Master found he enjoyed the sound of the Doctor’s voice so much more when he dropped his pompous hectoring in favour of breathy declarations of desire. The Doctor told him, over and over in words and touch and bursts of pure psychic energy how much he wanted the Master, how he admired and coveted him, about the depth of his longing, his adoration, and his lust.
And it was good. Ah, yeah, so bloody good. Being the focus of the Doctor’s full and undivided attention was intoxicating, uplifting; the Master rode the wave of the Doctor’s devotion, triumphant, exhilarated.
‘It’s only us,’ muttered the Doctor groggily when he’d exhausted himself and his surprisingly extensive repertoire of sexual gymnastics. ‘Nothing else - ’
‘ - nothing else matters,’ said the Master, pulling the Doctor half on-top of him so that the quadruple beat of their hearts synchronised with the drums in his head.
‘Yes,’ agreed the Doctor, with such sincerity that the Master allowed him the sentimental indulgence of a good-night kiss.
Because if the Doctor understood that at last - that they alone in the universe counted for anything at all - maybe the Master really had won after all.
::
On to part two.
Originally posted by my journal on 19th December 2007
Pairing/Characters: Doctor/Master, Jack, Donna
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Individuals with Factitious Disorder may be trying to repeat a satisfying childhood relationship with a doctor. (Source: Wikipedia)
Notes: Post-LotTL AU.
Thanks to jonquil and such_heights for looking over the initial drafts. It's, um, changed quite a lot since then, so they are especially not to blame for any errors.
The Master’s circumstances - thwarted at universal domination and taken prisoner by his arch-nemesis - might have seemed a long way from a recipe for success, but he still had one ace up his sleeve. The Doctor could cluck and fuss all he liked about the Master’s supposed mental confusion, but only one of them was delusional enough to imagine that the last of the Time Lords were likely to enjoy domestic bliss and Happily Ever After together.
Of course, the Doctor was a sucker for all that soppy stuff, and oh so desperate to be loved, constantly surrounding himself with his adoring, if vastly inferior, disciples and saving their dismal little worlds. He’d always been soft, but the current version of the Doctor had a pathetic need for affection. It’d be his undoing, one of these days.
The Master would make sure of it.
::
I. Stockholm Syndrome
The Stockholm Syndrome is an emotional attachment, a bond of interdependence between captive and captor. (Source: Thomas, Volume 347 Forensic Psychology and Psychiatry Page 137-150, June 1980)
‘Have you got something in your eye?’
‘Huh?’
‘You keep looking at me funny.’ The Doctor put down the marmalade and frowned. ‘Have I got butter on my face or something?’
‘No, no,’ the Master assured him. ‘I just like looking at you, that’s all.’
He smiled at the Doctor, doing his best to arrange his features into a demure - or, at least, coquettish - expression, and not an evil smirk. The TARDIS kitchen was an unusual location for launching a fiendish scheme, but the Master felt a certain degree of absurdity would jolly things along nicely. Breakfast with the Doctor was always faintly absurd, not least because of the Doctor’s insistence on breakfasting in those ridiculous stripy pyjamas he favoured, and his habit of catching toast crumbs in his dressing gown.
‘Hmm, looking for weak spots, I shouldn’t wonder.’ The Doctor frowned, but the Master chose to ignore it.
‘Doctor, have you been sucking the marmalade spoon again?’ he asked instead.
‘What? Um, yeah, probably. Sorry about that. Do you want me to get you a clean one?’
‘No matter.’
The Master popped the Doctor-spittle coated spoon into his mouth and sucked noisily, closing his eyes in an exaggerated expression of bliss. When he looked up, the Doctor was staring at him open-mouthed, apparently lost for words.
It was brilliant.
::
Brilliant, indeed, but still not enough. The Doctor was befuddled all right, though that’s scarcely an achievement, but he seemed to attribute the Master’s outlandish behaviour to a combination of the Master being an annoying git and also a bit mental. Or maybe the Doctor was simply oblivious - it was true that the Doctor had a history of being a bit slow on the uptake about these things.
Clearly the Master needed to crank things up a notch. Trouble was, he knew better than to risk overplaying his hand - the Doctor was already suspicious of the Master for some reason. The Master needed to be stealthy, subtle, sneaky, and maybe just a little bit sexy. All his favourite ‘S’ words. But how?
Inspiration hit the Master when he least expected it - while he was still asleep. It was brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, that he woke himself up, cackling out loud at his own genius. Possibly he laughed a little too hard, because he fell out of bed, sending the angle-poise lamp on the bedside table crashing the floor and the Doctor running to see what all the commotion was about.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ said the Master hastily. ‘Bad dream.’
‘It sounded like you were laughing.’
‘I was,’ admitted the Master. ‘I, um, had a nightmare that the TARDIS crashed onto a planet of vicious cannibals who killed you and forced me to eat your brains. In a milkshake. And, you know, eating brains isn’t healthy so I went mad with laughing sickness and I realised I was going to laugh myself to death but I couldn’t stop and then when I was nearly dead they got this big pot and put Oxo cubes and bits of carrot and onion in it and were about to boil me in a stew, and there was celery, Doctor and you of all people should know how I feel about celery, but I couldn’t stop laughing even when they were lowering me into the pot and… and that’s when I woke up.
The Doctor blinked. ‘That thing about laughing sickness and cannibalism is a myth.’
‘Maybe,’ said the Master. ‘Can I sleep in your room?’
It took a bit of persuasion to convince the Doctor to allow the Master into his bedroom, and even then it was only on condition that the Master promised to a) behave himself and b) put some pyjamas on. It was worth it, though, for the look of sheer, gormless confusion on the Doctor’s face as he gaped at the Master sitting up in his bed, wearing borrowed stripy flannel pyjamas and drinking the warm milk he’d nagged the Doctor to fetch him.
‘Right, well, if you’re comfortable now, I’ll leave you to it. Night then.’ The Doctor ran a hand through his already spectacularly rumpled hair and jigged from one foot to the other as he spoke.
And he clearly had some idea that the Master had wormed his way into his bedroom because he thought the mattress was more comfortable or something. Bloody hell, he was a fuckwit sometimes - it was all the Master could do not to pummel the dim-witted bastard to death with his own milk mug.
But that wouldn’t exactly help in the long run, so instead he just jutted his lower lip out a bit, and made sad eyes at the Doctor.
‘You want me to stay with you?’ The Doctor huffed and looked exasperated although, the Master could hardly fail to notice, he didn’t exactly put up a fight about it.
The Master nodded, dropped his head forward and made a concerted effort to blush. He’d realised some time ago that blushing at appropriate moments would add a certain amount of credulity to his pretence, since it would be so wholly undignified if it weren’t an act. Unfortunately, it didn’t exactly come naturally to him, and despite many hours practicing in front of the mirror the closest the Master ever came to a demure flush was a strange, reddened, slightly constipated look.
Apparently evil doesn’t blush.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the Doctor.
The Master nodded. Maybe it was working.
‘Are you sure you don’t need the lavatory?’
The constipated look again. Ah, well, on to the next tactic. The Master patted the bed beside him and grinned at the Doctor.
‘C’mon, Doctor, time for sleepy bye-byes.’
The Doctor rolled his eyes again (seriously, he was going to have to stop doing that - see if the Master had any sympathy when the Doctor came crying that he’d sprained an extraocular muscle) and picked a book off the floor as he walked back towards the bed.
‘If you think I’m daft enough to go to sleep with you in the room, you’ve another think coming,’ said the Doctor as he positioned himself on the bed next to the Master.
The Master felt somewhat indignant at the Doctor’s lack of trust, until he remembered he actually was planning evil-doings, just on a longer-term basis than the Doctor imagined. So he said nothing, just plumped the pillow and made himself comfortable.
It was quite comfortable, actually, all nice and warm in the Doctor’s flannel jammies, with the Doctor’s hand absently ruffling the Master’s hair as he read (The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, which gave him no room at all for teasing the Master about liking kids’ telly). An impartial observer with no knowledge of the true nature of evil might have mistaken the Master’s behaviour for snuggling, but the Master knew better. A good night’s sleep was just what he needed to move on the next stage of plotting in the morning.
::
What the Master had overlooked - or, at least, not paid sufficient attention to - was psychology. To be precise, he’d forgotten the Doctor’s somewhat dubious belief in his own proficiency at it. I know you, he’d said that last day on Earth, and the Master didn’t doubt that the Doctor believed it. The Doctor was conceited enough to believe he knew the Master better than the Master knew himself. Which was infuriating, and yet… helpful at the same time.
No wonder the Doctor had been so oblivious to the Master’s increasingly anvil-like hints - he knew fine well that the Master would never fall in love with him, and even if he did, he’d never let the Doctor know it. Plus there was the fact that the Doctor seemed to work under the assumption that the Master was pretty much always Up To Something. (Which was true. But still.) Naturally he’d dismissed the Master’s suggestions of affection as either a joke or a ploy. (Again, true. Again, still.)
So, the only way the Master was going to convince the Doctor that he was in love with him was to pretend that he wasn’t in love with the Doctor. Give every impression that if he was Up To anything at all, it was simply trying to conceal the burning light of his deep and abiding Doctor-love. Ideally the Master should convince the Doctor that he was in love with him, but so deep in denial about the whole business that he couldn’t see the truth for himself, and needed the Doctor to point it out for him, thereby playing to the Doctor’s innate sense of smug know-it-all-ness and making him feel terribly important and clever. (The Master knew a thing or two about egoism.) All his plan needed was a bit of bluff and double-bluff.
It couldn’t possibly go wrong.
::
The Master waited until the Doctor was buttering his toast before casting longing glances in his direction.
‘Were you staring at me again?’
‘No,’ said the Master, turning away huffily. ‘What would I want to stare at your ugly mug for?’
*
He wrote the word “Doctor” in the condensation on the bathroom mirror and then - why not? - added a love heart for effect. The Master waited until the Doctor was banging on the door, demanding to know if he’d actually drowned this time, before wiping the (by now, condensation-free) mirror with his sleeve.
It’d show up well enough when the Doctor turned the shower on, and the Master made sure to run out of the room every time the Doctor tried to talk to him the rest of the day.
*
The Master found a scrap of paper and scribbled on it:
The TARDIS is blue,
And bigger inside
I’d rather shag you
Than do genocide.
He crumpled the paper into a ball then smoothed it back out again before feeding it into the shredder. Was the Doctor paranoid enough to ask the TARDIS for details of everything the Master destroyed? Yes, the Master rather suspected he was.
*
The TARDIS hit a spot of turbulence on the journey from Who-Knows-Where to Who-The-Fuck-Cares, sending the Doctor dancing around the console in a pathetic attempt to make it fly a little less like a cantankerous, souped-up tumble-dryer. A particularly violent jolt sent him careening in the Master’s direction, knocking the Master flat on his back with the Doctor sprawled on top of him.
‘Hello!’ said the Doctor, grinning. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Get off me, you great oaf,’ snarled the Master. He shoved the Doctor aside and legged it into his bedroom, where he locked himself in for the rest of the day.
*
Things really came on apace when the Doctor responded the Master’s whinging about being bored by giving him a laptop with internet access.
He printed out a copy of the Wikipedia article on capture-bonding, read every Patty Hearst biography he could find, and downloaded a pirate copy of A Life Less Ordinary.
And something called Bad Boy Nurses; The Doctor is In, just in case he was being a bit too subtle.
::
Eventually, the Doctor got the hint.
‘I think we need to talk,’ he said gravely. It was obvious from the ferocious state of his hair that he’d been thinking about the whole thing a great deal.
‘If you like,’ said the Master, feigning a slightly curious expression.
The Doctor led him to the sitting room and sat down on the sofa, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as the Master joined him. The Master made sure he sat as close to the Doctor as possible, and gazed at him in wide-eyed anticipation as he waited for the Doctor to speak.
‘The thing is,’ the Doctor began, ‘when you’ve got two people living in close proximity, spending so much time together day after day, it’s only natural that one of them might develop… feelings for the other.’
‘Yes?’ said the Master. His expression was mild, but he was laughing inside.
The Doctor took a deep breath. ‘And sometimes, even though the two people might not always have seen eye-to-eye in the past, these feelings might have a somewhat, er, romantic element to them.
‘Why, Doctor,’ said the Master, grinning like a Cheshire cat. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you love me?’
‘No!’ The Doctor straightened suddenly, eyes wide.
Now, that was blushing properly.
‘I’ve got something to show you,’ added the Doctor. The Master just raised an eyebrow as the Doctor ducked down and retrieved a box from under the sofa.
The box contained a number of the Doctor-love baiting artefacts which the Master had planted around the TARDIS. A defaced book of Shakespearean sonnets with masculine pronouns and the word ‘Doctor’ edited in at strategic points, some crude pornographic drawings, print-outs of the Master’s long, rambling and emo-tastic blog entries, and that pair of the Doctor’s Y-fronts which the Master had filched from the TARDIS laundry and had been keeping under his pillow.
‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me?’ asked the Doctor gently.
‘Yeah, keep out of my room,’ said the Master. ‘Aren’t I allowed any privacy? Or would you like me to start leaving the door open when I take a leak?’
The Doctor at least had the decency to look guilty, the incorrigible snoop. ‘The TARDIS pointed it out to me…’
‘She hates me.’ The Master pouted. It probably looked like jealousy. Good. It was bloody disgusting the way the Doctor was always fondling the thing.
The Doctor put the box back down and took hold of the Master’s hand. Oh, this was going to be good.
‘There’s no need to be embarrassed,’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s only me and I promise I won’t laugh at you.’
‘Laugh at me about what?’
‘Fine, if you won’t say it, I will,’ said the Doctor. ‘You think you’re in love with me, don’t you?’
Hang on a minute -
‘What do you mean, I think I’m in love with you?’ demanded the Master. ‘Are you saying I’m too stupid to know whether I’m in love or not?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that!’
‘Well, what did you mean, then?’
‘I mean, well - ’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re not exactly…’
‘What?’
‘You’re not…’ The Doctor fidgeted. ‘You’re not exactly a very lovingful person, are you?’
The Master folded his arms and sat back.
‘Maybe you’re just very special,’ he said.
‘I am awfully lovable,’ mused the Doctor.
‘Naturally,’ said the Master. ‘Modesty is such an attractive trait.’
‘See, that’s what I mean,’ said the Doctor. ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you?’
‘You can hardly blame me, when you make it so easy.’
‘That’s not the point,’ said the Doctor. ‘The point is, I don’t think you’re really in love with me for a second because I don’t believe you’re even capable of loving anyone.’
‘Excuse me?’ said the Master. ‘I can fall in love if I want to.’
‘No you can’t.’
‘Can.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Can so.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Can - oh, this is ridiculous,’ said the Master. ‘Why do you think I’m incapable of love?’
‘Because you’re a crazed, murdering, power-mad, vindictive evil little psychopath,’ said the Doctor matter-of-factly.
‘So?’
‘You can’t have love and evil at the same time, that’s just silly,’ said the Doctor. ‘Unless you’ve decided to stop being evil?’ he added hopefully.
‘I don’t see why not,’ said the Master. ‘Love is cruel, tempestuous and heartbreaking. It’s practically an anagram of evil.’
‘It’s an anagram of evol,’ said the Doctor, ‘which isn’t even a word, not matter what anyone on the internet says.’
‘Pedant.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ The Doctor threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me that you are actually, truly, straight-up and cards on the table, really in love with me?’
The Master sniffed. ‘Might be.’
‘But that doesn’t make any sense!’
‘Love so seldom does,’ said the Master philosophically.
‘I don’t believe you,’ said the Doctor. ‘You’re only doing this to wind me up. I expect it’s all part of some nefarious scheme of yours or other.’
Well, that was a bit too close to the truth (as in, dead on the money). The Master felt a slight change in tack was in order, to throw the Doctor off the scent.
‘I don’t see why you have to be so unreasonable about it,’ he said. ‘It’s all your fault anyway.’
‘I can’t help being adorable,’ said the Doctor defensively.
‘It’s not about you, you conceited big baby, it’s about me,’ said the Master. ‘You said yourself that I’m incapable of falling in love on my own, so obviously you’ve been brainwashing me.’
‘I - what?’
‘Oh, don’t look so innocent,’ continued the Master. ‘You just bloody love having everyone in love with you, don’t you? But having all your poor little loyal human companions pining for you wasn’t enough, you had to go and ensnare me as well.’
‘I didn’t ensnare you.’
‘So I’m free to leave, am I?’
‘No, but that’s because I don’t want you destroying the universe, not because I want you making googly eyes at me over the cornflakes.’
The Master ignored him.
‘I’ve read all about how kidnappers manipulate their captives by making them fall for them,’ he continued. ‘You’ve given me Stockholm Syndrome.’
‘You make it sound like an STI,’ said the Doctor, sounding vaguely amused.
‘Don’t mock me,’ said the Master. ‘I’m suffering from a serious psychiatric disorder.’
‘Another one?’ asked the Doctor. ‘How can you tell?’
The Master just glared at him.
‘Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean that,’ said the Doctor. ‘Really, though, Stockholm Syndrome? ’S a bit human, isn’t it - I’d have thought you were above that sort of thing.’
‘Finally admitting that I’m better than all your precious little human pets, are you?’
‘Hardly.’ The Doctor snorted. ‘But you know very well that humans are more susceptible to these things because they don’t have our psychic defences.’
‘Make your mind up,’ said the Master. ‘Either it’s true love and you should do the decent thing and marry me, or it’s a psychological aberration, which is still your fault.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘You’re the Doctor,’ said the Master, a little smugly. ‘Cure me.’
‘Oh, you want me to fix you, do you?’ The Doctor smiled a slow, calculating smile that the Master was sure belonged to him, and arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, OK, but remember - you asked for this.’
He turned to face the Master directly, grabbed hold of the Master’s hands and pinned them to his sides, then leant across and proceeded to stick his tongue down the Master’s throat.
Well. The Master hadn’t expected that. (Although, admittedly, he’d already seen ample evidence that the Doctor would put his tongue just about anywhere, so he really shouldn’t have been surprised.) Caught unawares by Doctor’s assault on his tonsils, the Master might have inadvertently nibbled on the Doctor’s lower lip and run a hand through the Doctor’s hair in all the confusion before he managed to push the Doctor back away from him.
‘What the fuck was that about?’ he demanded.
‘Aversion therapy,’ said the Doctor, triumphant grin in full throttle and looking so smug it was a wonder he didn’t sprain something. ‘If you are, as you claim, suffering from some sort of psychosomatic attraction based on the trauma of being kept captive, then naturally you still hate me deep down and the horror of me snogging you will reawaken your underlying feelings of revulsion and you can go back to despising me and sulking about my ruining all your plans.’
The Master would’ve like to point out that he didn’t sulk thankyouverymuch, but it was kind of hard to do without sounding, well, sulky, so he let it slide.
‘And what if this genius idea of yours doesn’t work?’ said the Master. ‘What if it backfires completely, in fact, and kissing you just makes it worse?’
‘Master, you’ve been writing poetry,’ said the Doctor. ‘I don’t think it can get any worse.’
There was no easy answer to that one either. Bugger.
‘Wait a minute.’ The Master backed away, trying to focus his thoughts on malicious scheming and not the way the Doctor was licking his lips or the hungry look in his eye. Although…
‘How do I know this isn’t all some ploy? First you take me captive in the TARDIS, now you’re coming up with what has to be the flimsiest excuse for a snog I’ve ever heard - you just want the chance to shag me and not feel guilty about it, don’t you?’
‘Don’t see why that should be a problem,’ said the Doctor. ‘If you’re so in love with me and all, surely you’d be dying to shag me?’
The Master sniffed. ‘Not if you’re just using me for sex.’
‘Ah, it’s like that is it?’ The Doctor sat up, looking altogether too scheming himself. ‘Very well, Master - would you like to go out with me?’
‘Out?’
‘On a date,’ the Doctor clarified.
The Master thought quickly. He hadn’t planned for it, but surely getting out of the TARDIS had to give him some sort of an advantage.
‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘But make it somewhere romantic.’
‘Oh, I think I can manage that,’ said the Doctor. He stood up and walked towards the door. ‘Play your cards right and I might even buy you flowers.’
He winked and blew the Master as kiss before disappearing in the direction of the console room.
‘Oi!’ The Master called after the Doctor’s retreating backside. ‘I’m not a girl!’
::
The Master leant back on the sofa and smirked. Convincing the Doctor had proven delightfully simple after all, and, annoying as the Doctor’s air of superiority about the whole thing may be, the Master of all people knew that pride comes before a fall. The prospect of getting out of the TARDIS was just the cherry on the cake.
Yes, it was all coming together nicely he thought as he meandered off through the TARDIS corridors, whistling. Might as well have a shower before the big date. You never knew.
::
II. Histrionic Personality Disorder
Individuals with HPD are highly emotional, charming, energetic, manipulative, seductive, impulsive, erratic, and demanding. (Source: Encyclopedia of Mental Disorders)
The Planet Valentine wasn’t, strictly speaking, a planet at all, more an overblown asteroid orbiting Planet Disney™. It was annexed by Disney™ in the 24th Century, after the discovery of an antidote to the clouds of lilac, sparkling, and highly toxic vapour which rose up from the iridescent pink rock the place was made up of. (Known to scientists as Tephraclastic Polyamthinia Dianthum -3, and to everyone else as Love Lava.)
The TARDIS materialised next to the Lake of Longing, by the Path That Never Runs Smoothly (it made several detours around a plethora of over-priced gift shops). The moment he followed the Doctor outside the Master was accosted by a small, cherubic creature who rushed up and pressed a guidebook into his hand.
‘On Valentine, your hand in mine, we walk beneath the love stars’ shine,’ he read out loud, silently wishing that the TARDIS’s translation capabilities might do the decent thing and die. Glancing up, the Master saw that though it seemed to be daytime on the ground, above them the sky was darkest blue, bedecked with stars. Heart-shaped stars. They were obviously beneath some sort of canopy, but the Master couldn’t help but feel that even the illusion of heart-shaped stars was an abomination far worse than any of his crimes. He didn’t know whether to be appalled or envious.
‘Are you trying to give me an aversion to you or the colour pink?’ he asked the Doctor.
‘Oh, it’s not so bad,’ said the Doctor, glancing around. His tone was light, but the Master noticed the flash of fear in his eyes and made a mental note of it. ‘Sort of… rosy glow. Quite cheerful, actually. Anyway, the word is that Valentine is the sort of place that only someone in love can truly appreciate, because it fills them with joy and romance. Or something. Everyone else finds it exploitative and vile. Either way, I thought you’d appreciate it.’
‘I hate you,’ said the Master.
‘Oh, good, so we’ll get back in the TARDIS and go, shall we?’ said the Doctor, turning on his heel a little too quickly.
‘Oh, no you don’t,’ said the Master, grabbing the Doctor’s arm and pulling him back. ‘Don’t think you’re backing out of this one that easily.’
‘You want to stay here?’ said the Doctor, blinking at the Master with a mixture of bewilderment and horror. ‘For a romantic day out, with me? A stroll under the starlight, maybe take a quick trip on the love boat, hold hands, that sort of thing, hmm?’
‘Yes,’ said the Master, looking the Doctor right in the eye, just daring him to argue. He held out his hand. ‘Shall we?’
The Doctor took the Master’s hand reluctantly, and allowed the Master to lead him up the path towards the main resort. A little ahead there was an archway, twin doves at either side and an animated motif of a pair of love hearts tied together with ribbon. The Master had a notion to recreate the effect by ripping the Doctor’s still-beating hearts from his chest and wrapping them in a bow of his own arteries. The prospect cheered him immensely.
‘What are you smiling about?’ muttered the Doctor.
The Master beamed at him. ‘I’m just happy to be here with you, Doctor.’
::
Valentine was, of course, unremittingly vile. Populated by loathsome little cherub-type creatures and dim-witted, dewy eyed saps from across the galaxies, the entire place was like some nightmarish experiment in cramming every saccharine notion of romance into one hideous great pile of crass commercialism, painting it pink and covering it in sparkles. The Master couldn’t turn around without seeing at least a dozen individuals who desperately needed to be ritually disembowelled, sold into slavery, or thrown into a lime pit. Possibly all three at once.
The only thing that made the whole thing bearable - nay, enjoyable - was the knowledge that skin-crawlingly, stomach-churningly awful as the Master found the entire experience, no matter how much he hated it, the Doctor hated it more.
Good. He deserved it.
Although, entertaining as it undoubtedly was to watch the Doctor pale at the sight of singing telegrams and flocks of pink doves, there was a limit to how far the Master could push him. After all, it had to be obvious even to the Doctor that the Master was only cooing along with the love-birds to wind him up, and after all they’d been through, the Master hardly thought that his being obnoxious just to annoy the Doctor would cause him any lasting damage, however amusing it might be in the short term.
No, if he really wanted to make the Doctor suffer, he’d have to up the ante a bit. And when the Doctor won him a cuddly toy on the coconut shy, proudly pressing the giant fluffy rabbit into the Master’s arms and kissing him on the cheek, the Master knew it was time for a spot of strategic escalation.
Which, as luck would have it, was just when he spotted the Wedding Chapel.
‘Well,’ he said, cocking his head in the direction of the chapel, ‘how about it? Ready to make an honest Time Lord of me?’
The Doctor snorted. ‘I don’t see anything on the billboard about them offering personality changes.’
‘Funny, Doctor, but no.’ The Master stood in front of him, arms folded across his chest. ‘Marry me.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘I mean it.’
‘No, you don’t,’ insisted the Doctor.
‘You want me to prove myself?’ The Master grinned one of his evillest grins.
And got down on one knee.
‘Oh, no you don’t!’ said the Doctor. ‘Look, can you just get up please? There are people watching.’
The Master could see that passers-by were indeed slowing down to watch. Best give them something worth watching, then.
‘Doctor,’ he said, taking the Doctor’s hand. ‘I have no words to express the my feelings for you. Will you do me the honour of granting me your hand in marriage?’
‘Get up,’ hissed the Doctor, grabbing the Master’s elbow and hauling him back to his feet. ‘OK, fine, you win. I don’t know what possessed you to start this ridiculous game of romantic chicken and right now I don’t care. Whatever it is, it’s game over, I blinked first and it’s round one to the Master. Happy now?’
The Master was, kinda, but the Doctor was wrong about one thing - it wasn’t over yet. Not until the Master had secured a much more convincing victory over the Doctor.
‘No,’ said the Master, ‘I’m not happy. I want us to get married.’
‘But… but why? ’ spluttered the Doctor, pulling his hair into positions that defied the known laws of physics in at least four galaxies. ‘It’s not as if your last marriage turned out that well.’
‘Lucy and I had some good times together,’ said the Master fondly. ‘Until she shot me, anyway.’
‘Proving that marriage to you would drive anyone to murder,’ muttered the Doctor. ‘It’s not much of an incentive, really.’
‘Oh, but you wouldn’t try to kill me, would you, Doctor?’ said the Master, taking a step closer and stroking the Doctor’s cheek. ‘You’d be so lonely without me.’
‘Stop it.’
‘I’m surprised you don’t jump at the chance to drag me to the altar,’ said the Master. ‘Till death do us part has a certain appeal, does it not?’
‘How many times?’ said the Doctor. ‘I don’t do domestic.’
‘No,’ shot the Master scornfully. ‘Except for keeping me as your pet.’
‘You’d know more about that sort of thing than I would.’
‘Oh, you think, do you?’ said the Master. ‘You like to pretend you’re so superior, but you might as well buy a leash and put a name tag on me; it couldn’t be any clearer that you think you own me. Never going to let me go, are you?’
‘Because I can’t trust you,’ said the Doctor quietly. ‘I have to keep you safe.’
‘Keep me safe?’ sneered the Master. ‘Is that what you call it when you keep me tethered up on the TARDIS, like some dangerous dog that’s not fit to be seen in public?’
‘Right, because you’ve never given me a reason not to trust you wandering about the universe unsupervised,’ said the Doctor testily.
‘You’re never going to let me go, but you can waltz off whenever you feel like it,’ said the Master. ‘Who’s the monster, really, Doctor?’
‘So,’ said the Doctor after a long pause, ‘what you’re saying is that as long as I keep you on the TARDIS, I either have to marry you or prove myself to be as much of a tyrant as you are?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, yes.’ The Master nodded. ‘Good of you to keep up.’
‘That’s…’ The Doctor’s voice trailed off, and he looked flabbergasted. The hands were in the hair again. Oh, goody. ‘That is the most insane, twisted, and downright bizarre feat of logic I have ever heard.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But why?’ asked the Doctor plaintively. ‘Why would you want to marry me anyway?’
‘Maybe I just really like wedding cake,’ said the Master.
‘Maybe you’re just trying to torment me,’ said the Doctor. ‘Not that you need a wedding ceremony for that.’ He looked at the Master curiously, then let out a sly smile. ‘Unless you really are hopelessly in love with me?’
The Master was sure he wasn’t imagining the hopeful glint in the Doctor’s eye.
He smirked. ‘Maybe I am.’
The Doctor opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a flutter of silver-winged butterflies that drifted through the air to encircle the Doctor and the Master, singing. The butterflies ignored the Doctor’s attempts to bat them away with his hands, swooping and chiming prettily
‘Is this what you really want?’ asked the Doctor at last, once he’d admitted defeat with the butterflies. ‘Will it really make you happy?’
‘Doctor, you’ll make the happiest Time Lord in the universe.’ The Master beamed with Saxon-esque sincerity.
‘OK.’ The Doctor nodded, and took a deep breath. ‘Let’s go and get married.’
The butterflies let out a peal of music, and their wings turned deep scarlet, while the small crowd of passers-by erupted into thunderous applause.
::
The ceremony was a simple affair - no attendants, of course, and the Doctor was too tight to pay for the phalanx of animated swan-robots that made up the choir, so there was no music either. They chose the most basic service they could find from the laminated list the chapel provided - non-religious same-species same-sex union, legally binding in 5000 jurisdictions.
The whole thing was done and dusted in a matter of minutes. They exchanged vows, and rings (each inscribed with the other’s name, in Gallifreyan script, courtesy of the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver), and, of course, a kiss at the end. The Doctor looked pale and horror-stricken throughout, though the Master just about managed to stop sniggering long enough to assure the celebrant it was just standard pre-wedding jitters.
It was only at the very end, when the Doctor pulled out of the rather lengthy kiss that sealed their union with an expression of overwhelming joy on his face that the Master got the terrible feeling he’d been out-manoeuvred.
::
The Master walked out of the Wedding Chapel in a daze. What in the name of Rassilon’s esteemed left testicle have I done? Possibly he really was as loopy as everyone said - how else could he have set out planning to freak the Doctor out so much he’d let his guard slip and allow the Master the chance to escape, and ended up accidentally marrying him instead? The Master was willing to concede that one or two of his plans for overthrowing the Doctor had gone a little… awry in the past, but his current predicament put all previous mishaps in the shade.
The Doctor, for his part, was positively bouncing, which only made matters worse. He sang along with the next flutter of butterflies they encountered, wore a ridiculous soppy grin on his face, and kept stopping every few paces to kiss the Master, or hug him, or attempt to fondle his arse. On any sane planet he’d have been arrested for public indecency, but on Valentine that sort of remorselessly sentimental behaviour was positively encouraged.
‘Can we go back to the TARDIS now?’ the Master asked, shaking confetti out of his hair. It sickened him to ask, but if he had to look at any more pink he thought he’d be ready to slice off his own retinas.
‘Anything you like, darling,’ agreed the Doctor, fixing the Master with a diabetes-inducingly sweet smile.
‘I’d like for you never to call me that again,’ said the Master.
‘Very well, Master,’ said the Doctor, still grinning idiotically. ‘Would you like me to carry you over the threshold?’
‘Would you like me to ritually disembowel you and scatter your intestines across the distant reaches of time and space?’
‘I’ll take that as a “no” then.’ The Doctor stopped, pushing the Master gently up against one of the trees that surrounded the Lake of Longing. (The leaves were heart-shaped. How vilely predictable.) He leant into the Master and kissed his cheek. ‘Happy now?’
‘Happy?’ The Master boggled. No, he wasn’t the mad one after all - it was obviously the Doctor who’d taken leave of his senses.
‘You said that marrying me would make you happy,’ said the Doctor as he nuzzled the Master’s neck. ‘Why else’d I agree to it?’
There’d be time for a treatise on the Doctor’s innate soppiness later. But for now…
‘I was lying!’ exploded the Master.
‘Lying?’ The Doctor looked puzzled.
‘Yes, lying,’ said the Master. ‘You know, fibbing, telling untruths, porky-pies, practicing to deceive, spreading falsehoods, duplicity, mendaciousness, LYING! I’m evil so I lie. For fun.’
The Doctor listened in startled silence and then smiled. Again. ‘Like when you said you had Stockholm Syndrome?’
‘Yes! Exactly!’
‘Well, I knew that was a lie, of course,’ said the Doctor. ‘Not that I’d expect you to admit to being in love with me.’
‘No!’ The Master shook his head in exasperation. ‘I was lying about that as well.’
‘It’s all right, you know,’ said the Doctor. ‘You’ve got me now - you don’t need to pretend that your feelings are all some complex psychological disorder.’
‘No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,’ said the Master. ‘I lied about having Stockholm Syndrome because I knew you’d see through the lie and think I was just pretending not to be in love with you as a distraction from the fact that I was only pretending to be in love with you in the first place.’
The Doctor wrinkled his nose. ‘That all sounds a bit far-fetched.’
Yes, well, that’s as may be. Although, speaking of likely stories -
‘Why are you so happy anyway?’ said the Master. ‘I thought you “didn’t do domestic” and all that. Or was that all a lie to trick me into marrying you?’
‘You proposed to me,’ the Doctor reminded him. ‘But no, it wasn’t a lie. I was bloody terrified of the whole thing - it was touch and go for a bit whether I’d actually go through with it or just trip you up in the Wedding Chapel and make a run for it.’
‘What changed your mind?’
‘I realised I didn’t have anywhere left to run,’ said the Doctor. ‘I made a proper commitment and the universe didn’t end; rocks didn’t fall and nobody died. I was OK with it - more than OK, really. I was happy - I am happy. It’s just such a relief to finally give in.’
The Master smirked. ‘I always knew you were the subbiest of subs, Doctor.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ The Doctor wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Still got to consummate the union.’
The ridiculous yearning expression on the Doctor’s face deserved some sort of a put-down, but right at that moment the Master was distracted with all manner of very interesting visions, and before he had time to think of an adequate response the Doctor was kissing him again, pressing into the Master as he licked his way into his mouth. It really was tongue first, brain later with this version of the Doctor, wasn’t it?
Although, the Master didn’t mind that part too much.
Kissing the Doctor wasn’t so bad - it stopped the Doctor from talking for one thing. The Master made a considered and tactical decision to kiss him back, nipping the Doctor’s lips with his teeth and gouging his fingernails into the back of the Doctor’s neck, lest the Doctor forget who he was snogging.
The Doctor moaned and pressed himself closer still to the Master, pushing something hard into the Master’s hip. No, not that. Well, there was that as well, but there was also the sonic screwdriver and, unless the Master was very much mistaken, there was also the TARDIS key sitting next to it in the Doctor’s pocket.
Well, that was it, wasn’t it? The Doctor was as good and distracted as he was ever likely to be, so all the Master had to do was lift the key and the screwdriver from his pocket, give the Doctor a swift kick in the bollocks, and make good his escape with the Doctor’s TARDIS and a brand new plan for galactic domination. Right?
Right, except the Doctor chose that precise moment to grab the Master’s cock through his trousers and the Master decided that, really, after the day he’d had the least he deserved was to get laid.
‘C’mon,’ he said, grabbing the Doctor’s hand and breaking into a run, ‘last one back to the TARDIS has to sleep in the wet patch.’
::
The sex was good - more than good, it was bloody fantastic, actually, nearly good enough to make up for all the miscellaneous disappointments and frustrations the Doctor had inflicted on the Master over the previous hours. (Weeks, year. Centuries.) The Master had thought about it before - how could he not? - but he’d never imagined the Doctor being so, well, eager.
The Doctor couldn’t seem to get enough of the Master, so desperate to touch and rub and taste and feel, with eager hands and a greedy mouth. Shagging didn’t stop him talking (unsurprisingly), but the Master found he enjoyed the sound of the Doctor’s voice so much more when he dropped his pompous hectoring in favour of breathy declarations of desire. The Doctor told him, over and over in words and touch and bursts of pure psychic energy how much he wanted the Master, how he admired and coveted him, about the depth of his longing, his adoration, and his lust.
And it was good. Ah, yeah, so bloody good. Being the focus of the Doctor’s full and undivided attention was intoxicating, uplifting; the Master rode the wave of the Doctor’s devotion, triumphant, exhilarated.
‘It’s only us,’ muttered the Doctor groggily when he’d exhausted himself and his surprisingly extensive repertoire of sexual gymnastics. ‘Nothing else - ’
‘ - nothing else matters,’ said the Master, pulling the Doctor half on-top of him so that the quadruple beat of their hearts synchronised with the drums in his head.
‘Yes,’ agreed the Doctor, with such sincerity that the Master allowed him the sentimental indulgence of a good-night kiss.
Because if the Doctor understood that at last - that they alone in the universe counted for anything at all - maybe the Master really had won after all.
::
On to part two.
Originally posted by my journal on 19th December 2007