Crossing Paths
Title: Crossing Paths
Author: souleswanderer
Characters: The Master(Simm)/ Captain John Hart
Fandom - Prompt : Doctor Who/Torchwood; The Master (any incarnation)/Captain John Hart; mind games - sistercarrion - Who could resist this??? Not I.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I only own my imagination, which thankfully is locked somewhat securely inside my head, I think.
A/N: Written for consci_fan_mo
The man in the black, tailored, business suit seated at the bar halted his actions with the rim of the shot glass resting against his bottom lip. One hand held his drink steady, as if someone had pushed the pause button on their favorite movie, and the other hand lay palm down on the top of the bar. His eyes studied the new arrival with cold calculation in the mirror hanging across the back of the bar, finally tipping his head back and letting the liquid spill into his mouth. He closed his eyes, his brow lifting as he swished the liquor around in his mouth, and finally swallowed. His adam's apple bobbed once and he dropped his head forward as the bottom of the glass met the countertop with a loud crack like that of a cue ball striking another.
There was a short clipped chuckle and measured clapping behind him, and when he opened his eyes to see the stranger standing a few feet beyond his shoulder the man exaggerated his motions, mocking rather than demonstrating delight with the Master's performance.
"That was brilliant, and now having demonstrated you've got a pair, you can leave," the stranger dead-panned. His face hardened into sharp angular lines while his left arm motioned towards the front door, where the other patrons had previously fled in panic.
The Master lowered his gaze and stared at the glass now twirling between his fingers. "You call that an entrance?" The question seemed to catch the other man off guard and it was the Master's turn to chuckle, hearing the slightest intake of breath at his observation.
The slightest rustle sounded, like breath against a veil, and a thin steel blade slashed through the air where the Master sat, slicing deeply into the red cushion.
Staring disbelievingly at the now empty stool, the stranger started as a cool hand dropped on top of his. The Master's grip prevented him from pulling his sword back, and simultaneously warm breath caressed the stranger's ear sending shivers down his spine.
"I hope you've learned from that little demonstration. Next time, John, I won't be so forgiving," whispered the voice.
John blinked, pulled his sword free and whirled to face his adversary, only to discover he was standing in the empty pub alone.