Fic: The Quiet Game
Title: The Quiet Game
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1655
Spoilers: Utopia, The Sound of Drums, The Last of the Time Lords
Beta: none
Warnings: angst, language, another bloody Valiant fic
Summary: Six months on the Valiant and the Doctor still hasn't spoken. The Master's going to find a way to make him talk, one way or another.
(This came as the result of a conversation in chat where it was brought up that there weren't enough decent Valiant fics. So here's one with no rape, no Tenbeating, and nothing any of you want to read. Sorry in advance)
(This came as the result of a conversation in chat where it was brought up that there weren't enough decent Valiant fics. So here's one with no rape, no Tenbeating, and nothing any of you want to read. Sorry in advance)
He never spoke. Not once after the toclafane had descended had the Doctor uttered a single word. “I’ve got just one thing to say to you.” That was the last thing the Master had heard from him, and the only thing he expected he would ever hear from him. But he wasn’t giving in this time. The Master’s reign of terror had not even begun. By the time things were really rolling any consideration his prisoner had to speaking those three absurd words would be a thing of the past. He didn’t need the Doctor’s approval anymore and he was going to prove it.
At first the silence had been nothing short of bliss. To have his rival, always ready to regale him with some moralistic lecture, speechless and at his mercy amused the Master to no end. He didn’t have to hear the Doctor’s voice to know what was going on inside that head, For once there was no wiggling out of this, no plucky companions coming to save the day, no flaw in the design to exploit. He was in this for the long haul and they both knew it.
The Master had delighted in the deepening lines in the Doctor’s face when he tortured the freak, he way he turned his head away when Lucy kissed him, that delicious catch of breath whenever he watched another city fall on the television. It was all so perfect.
But after a while the novelty wore away and the Master’s patience was thinning. Six months had passed and the Doctor no longer reacted to any of the usual games. He sat rigid and straight-backed in his wheelchair during the sessions with Jack and observed the whole scene with admirable stoicism. After it was all over he would fix the Master with a stare that made him feel like a defiant child facing down an unimpressed parent. He soon stopped wheeling him down to the cells.
When the Doctor failed to show continuing interest in the bawdy displays of affection between him and Lucy, the Master pushed each encounter further and further until he couldn’t bring himself to look at the wretched woman anymore, let alone touch her. Those too eventually came to a halt.
Even tearing apart the Doctor’s favorite planet had lost some of its appeal. The Master had taken to eliminating entire countries at a time to earn so much as a flinch from the other. He blew up Japan, drowned Mexico in nerve gas, set fire to the forests of Madagascar, and flooded several major cities along the entire east coast of North America. And still, as he faced the Doctor, chest heaving and eyes alight, it wasn’t enough. He could still feel those words hanging between them like a foul smell. He could hear them in his mind whenever the Doctor looked at him. It became a mantra in his head as constant and maddening as the drums. One thing to say. One thing to say.
There were times he thought about what it would be like to physically torment the Doctor, to beat him until he screamed, till he begged him to stop. How satisfying it would be to hear that proud voice drawn out in agony as blood ran down his lips and bruises blossomed across his body. What would the ‘last of the Time Lords’ have to say to him then? What would the ‘Oncoming Storm’ offer him to stop the pain? Would he still forgive him?
It was a pretty thought, however the Master never went through with the ideas. What good would it do? Would beating the Doctor or fucking him unconscious really yield the kind of reaction that destroying an entire species and killing his friends had not? He needed something closer, something personal and present to really shake the self-righteous bastard to his core. And then he had an idea.
On Christmas Eve the Master decided it was time he finally heard what the Doctor had to say. Never mind he already knew what it was; things needed a good mixing up. The whole affair was a huge production that took a lot of delicate planning. He couldn’t wait to for the moment when his foe would at last give up on this petty silent treatment.
He’d taken the Doctor, de-aged to his original state, to one of the Valiant’s more extravagant sitting rooms. There was an enormous fir tree in one corner, decked out in all manner of glittering ornaments. Colorful lights had been strung all around the room and a fire was blazing in the hearth. It was a picture right out of a Norman Rockwell collection. The Master grinned widely at the other’s confusion. He stood back and watched him enter cautiously, eying the decorations as though they might grow teeth and attack him at any minute. He shot the Master a questioning glance before walking over to the fireplace to better survey his surroundings. The sound of the heavy door sliding shut caused him to start. The Master chuckled at this and rolled his eyes.
“Come now, Doctor. No need to be tense. It’s Christmas. I thought you could use a change of scene.” Unsurprisingly his captive did not look convinced. He gave a theatrical sigh. “Relax, would you? It’s a bloody holiday. No tricks, no Captain carnage, no blowing up bits of Soviet Russia. Just you and me. Look, I even got you a little something.” Indeed he had. At the base of the tree sat a package, about the size and shape of a football. Wrapped in festive paper that featured little reindeer in sweater and Santa hats and topped with a bow, it certainly looked harmless enough. Admittedly it was a bit messily wrapped, with too much tape in places, but the Master hadn’t wrapped anything in a very long time and he hadn’t been about to let someone else in on this game. This was just for them.
Clearly the Doctor didn’t trust him one bit, judging by his dubious expression, but he must have decided to play along because he’d already crossed to the tree and knelt down to examine the gift. Slender fingers brushed tentative across the surface.
“Oh just open it already! It’s not an explosive, it isn’t going to burst into flames if you touch it.” The Master walked over to stand behind him with baited breath. Still nothing. Maybe he just needed a little push to get him started. He plucked the bow off the top of the present and placed it atop the Doctor’s head. This earned him a flat, exasperated look, but it got him moving. Come on Doctor. That’s it. He watched the Doctor peel back the paper, bit by bit until a gleaming silver orb was left nestled among the wrappings. He saw those bony shoulders stiffen beneath the pinstripes and felt a shiver of pleasure coarse through him. Resting his hands upon them he bent down and spoke low into the Doctor’s ear, so close his lips brushed against it.
“Remember those stories they used to tell us when we were young? How the made you so scared that you’d crawl into bed with me at night just to fall asleep? I took you in my arms and told you it was just a fairytale. Just a nightmare.”
The Doctor twitched, but his eyes remained fixed on the motionless toclafane. The Master squeezed his shoulders. “I’ve given that fairy tale life, Doctor. I’ve given it a face. And I think you’ll find that it’s not so monstrous after all. In fact-“ He rose now, with drawing the laser screwdriver from his pocket and aiming it at the creature. “I’d say it’s almost human.”
With that he pressed a button and fired. There was a whirring of many gears turning and a soft click and the silver shell opened up like an Easter egg. He heard the Doctor inhale sharply and grinned. A pair of wide blue eyes blinked up at them out of a shrunken face. It giggled, a weak tinny sound and the Master found he was rather pleased with how well his creation had been able to endure all the abuse it took to get it immobile and properly wrapped. “We’ve made it.” A child’s voice croaked dreamily. “Utopia.” The Doctor recoiled.
“Happy Christmas Doctor! How about it then? Aren’t you pleased? We saved them together, our very own children!” He laughed loudly. “Come on, say something. I know you’ve just been dying to. Say it now.” Nothing. The Doctor was gazing with unconcealed horror at the being in the metal case. His mouth worked for a moment then shut tight. The Master’s eyes narrowed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The Doctor was supposed to leap to his feet in a rage, shouted at him that he was mad and needed to reverse this now. He should be yelling, pleading, making demands. Not just sitting there. This was his precious human race! His childhood memories perverted! Where was the passion? Wasn’t he angry? Wasn’t he impressed?
“You said you had one thing to say to me. Well go ahead. I’m ready now. Say it. … SAY IT!”
The man on the floor turned and looked up at him and something suspiciously like tears glimmered in the corners of his eyes. For the first time in six months he appeared truly broken and the Master didn’t like it.
“I can’t.”
“You… You what?”
“I can’t.”
“…Oh.”
What followed felt like the longest silence in the Master’s life. The two of them sat, unspeaking in the glow of the fairy lights and dying embers while the toclafane wheezed away in its nest of paper and ribbon. When it had given its last shuddering breath the Doctor was aged again and returned to his tent. After that the Master stopped trying to make him talk.
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1655
Spoilers: Utopia, The Sound of Drums, The Last of the Time Lords
Beta: none
Warnings: angst, language, another bloody Valiant fic
Summary: Six months on the Valiant and the Doctor still hasn't spoken. The Master's going to find a way to make him talk, one way or another.
(This came as the result of a conversation in chat where it was brought up that there weren't enough decent Valiant fics. So here's one with no rape, no Tenbeating, and nothing any of you want to read. Sorry in advance)
(This came as the result of a conversation in chat where it was brought up that there weren't enough decent Valiant fics. So here's one with no rape, no Tenbeating, and nothing any of you want to read. Sorry in advance)
He never spoke. Not once after the toclafane had descended had the Doctor uttered a single word. “I’ve got just one thing to say to you.” That was the last thing the Master had heard from him, and the only thing he expected he would ever hear from him. But he wasn’t giving in this time. The Master’s reign of terror had not even begun. By the time things were really rolling any consideration his prisoner had to speaking those three absurd words would be a thing of the past. He didn’t need the Doctor’s approval anymore and he was going to prove it.
At first the silence had been nothing short of bliss. To have his rival, always ready to regale him with some moralistic lecture, speechless and at his mercy amused the Master to no end. He didn’t have to hear the Doctor’s voice to know what was going on inside that head, For once there was no wiggling out of this, no plucky companions coming to save the day, no flaw in the design to exploit. He was in this for the long haul and they both knew it.
The Master had delighted in the deepening lines in the Doctor’s face when he tortured the freak, he way he turned his head away when Lucy kissed him, that delicious catch of breath whenever he watched another city fall on the television. It was all so perfect.
But after a while the novelty wore away and the Master’s patience was thinning. Six months had passed and the Doctor no longer reacted to any of the usual games. He sat rigid and straight-backed in his wheelchair during the sessions with Jack and observed the whole scene with admirable stoicism. After it was all over he would fix the Master with a stare that made him feel like a defiant child facing down an unimpressed parent. He soon stopped wheeling him down to the cells.
When the Doctor failed to show continuing interest in the bawdy displays of affection between him and Lucy, the Master pushed each encounter further and further until he couldn’t bring himself to look at the wretched woman anymore, let alone touch her. Those too eventually came to a halt.
Even tearing apart the Doctor’s favorite planet had lost some of its appeal. The Master had taken to eliminating entire countries at a time to earn so much as a flinch from the other. He blew up Japan, drowned Mexico in nerve gas, set fire to the forests of Madagascar, and flooded several major cities along the entire east coast of North America. And still, as he faced the Doctor, chest heaving and eyes alight, it wasn’t enough. He could still feel those words hanging between them like a foul smell. He could hear them in his mind whenever the Doctor looked at him. It became a mantra in his head as constant and maddening as the drums. One thing to say. One thing to say.
There were times he thought about what it would be like to physically torment the Doctor, to beat him until he screamed, till he begged him to stop. How satisfying it would be to hear that proud voice drawn out in agony as blood ran down his lips and bruises blossomed across his body. What would the ‘last of the Time Lords’ have to say to him then? What would the ‘Oncoming Storm’ offer him to stop the pain? Would he still forgive him?
It was a pretty thought, however the Master never went through with the ideas. What good would it do? Would beating the Doctor or fucking him unconscious really yield the kind of reaction that destroying an entire species and killing his friends had not? He needed something closer, something personal and present to really shake the self-righteous bastard to his core. And then he had an idea.
On Christmas Eve the Master decided it was time he finally heard what the Doctor had to say. Never mind he already knew what it was; things needed a good mixing up. The whole affair was a huge production that took a lot of delicate planning. He couldn’t wait to for the moment when his foe would at last give up on this petty silent treatment.
He’d taken the Doctor, de-aged to his original state, to one of the Valiant’s more extravagant sitting rooms. There was an enormous fir tree in one corner, decked out in all manner of glittering ornaments. Colorful lights had been strung all around the room and a fire was blazing in the hearth. It was a picture right out of a Norman Rockwell collection. The Master grinned widely at the other’s confusion. He stood back and watched him enter cautiously, eying the decorations as though they might grow teeth and attack him at any minute. He shot the Master a questioning glance before walking over to the fireplace to better survey his surroundings. The sound of the heavy door sliding shut caused him to start. The Master chuckled at this and rolled his eyes.
“Come now, Doctor. No need to be tense. It’s Christmas. I thought you could use a change of scene.” Unsurprisingly his captive did not look convinced. He gave a theatrical sigh. “Relax, would you? It’s a bloody holiday. No tricks, no Captain carnage, no blowing up bits of Soviet Russia. Just you and me. Look, I even got you a little something.” Indeed he had. At the base of the tree sat a package, about the size and shape of a football. Wrapped in festive paper that featured little reindeer in sweater and Santa hats and topped with a bow, it certainly looked harmless enough. Admittedly it was a bit messily wrapped, with too much tape in places, but the Master hadn’t wrapped anything in a very long time and he hadn’t been about to let someone else in on this game. This was just for them.
Clearly the Doctor didn’t trust him one bit, judging by his dubious expression, but he must have decided to play along because he’d already crossed to the tree and knelt down to examine the gift. Slender fingers brushed tentative across the surface.
“Oh just open it already! It’s not an explosive, it isn’t going to burst into flames if you touch it.” The Master walked over to stand behind him with baited breath. Still nothing. Maybe he just needed a little push to get him started. He plucked the bow off the top of the present and placed it atop the Doctor’s head. This earned him a flat, exasperated look, but it got him moving. Come on Doctor. That’s it. He watched the Doctor peel back the paper, bit by bit until a gleaming silver orb was left nestled among the wrappings. He saw those bony shoulders stiffen beneath the pinstripes and felt a shiver of pleasure coarse through him. Resting his hands upon them he bent down and spoke low into the Doctor’s ear, so close his lips brushed against it.
“Remember those stories they used to tell us when we were young? How the made you so scared that you’d crawl into bed with me at night just to fall asleep? I took you in my arms and told you it was just a fairytale. Just a nightmare.”
The Doctor twitched, but his eyes remained fixed on the motionless toclafane. The Master squeezed his shoulders. “I’ve given that fairy tale life, Doctor. I’ve given it a face. And I think you’ll find that it’s not so monstrous after all. In fact-“ He rose now, with drawing the laser screwdriver from his pocket and aiming it at the creature. “I’d say it’s almost human.”
With that he pressed a button and fired. There was a whirring of many gears turning and a soft click and the silver shell opened up like an Easter egg. He heard the Doctor inhale sharply and grinned. A pair of wide blue eyes blinked up at them out of a shrunken face. It giggled, a weak tinny sound and the Master found he was rather pleased with how well his creation had been able to endure all the abuse it took to get it immobile and properly wrapped. “We’ve made it.” A child’s voice croaked dreamily. “Utopia.” The Doctor recoiled.
“Happy Christmas Doctor! How about it then? Aren’t you pleased? We saved them together, our very own children!” He laughed loudly. “Come on, say something. I know you’ve just been dying to. Say it now.” Nothing. The Doctor was gazing with unconcealed horror at the being in the metal case. His mouth worked for a moment then shut tight. The Master’s eyes narrowed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The Doctor was supposed to leap to his feet in a rage, shouted at him that he was mad and needed to reverse this now. He should be yelling, pleading, making demands. Not just sitting there. This was his precious human race! His childhood memories perverted! Where was the passion? Wasn’t he angry? Wasn’t he impressed?
“You said you had one thing to say to me. Well go ahead. I’m ready now. Say it. … SAY IT!”
The man on the floor turned and looked up at him and something suspiciously like tears glimmered in the corners of his eyes. For the first time in six months he appeared truly broken and the Master didn’t like it.
“I can’t.”
“You… You what?”
“I can’t.”
“…Oh.”
What followed felt like the longest silence in the Master’s life. The two of them sat, unspeaking in the glow of the fairy lights and dying embers while the toclafane wheezed away in its nest of paper and ribbon. When it had given its last shuddering breath the Doctor was aged again and returned to his tent. After that the Master stopped trying to make him talk.