Oneshot: "A Danger to Himself" Ten/Master, R (Boredom)
Pairing: Ten/Master
Challenge: 84 Boredom
Rating: R, to be safe
Warnings: Bit of blood and bit of violence
Spoilers: AUish from “Last of the Time Lords;” minor for general Series 4
A Danger to Himself
What he remembered consisted mostly of darkness. Not grey, not purple, but red. So deep and dark and internal that it consumed everything around him. Redder than blood, deeper than passion. It was a sick color which brought him comfort. It was the only color he’d ever known.
There had been blue, annoyingly bright and so bloody obvious that it stuck out every place it was put. There was gold, the aged and dimmed glow that always put him to sleep. Bright red was fun, for a bit, until that got old. Black and white looked rather dashing on him, but some would argue those weren’t colors.
Really, that deep, dark, internal red was the only color he’d ever known. It was the color of the back of his eyelids. It was the color of the underside of his skin, of his organs and his blood vessels, of his life force and his death. It was the color of the drums.
The Master was sick. He was sick to death of sitting in gold inside of a stupid blue box, waiting for tan to leave orange and come entertain him. He didn't ask for this. He wouldn’t sit still for long, swathed in loneliness, craving the contact of another. He refused to be taken that low.
For three days, the Master sat quietly on the bed in the dark, waiting. He did not eat. He did not sleep. He kept his feet planted on the ground. He kept his eyes open. The drums beat on. For three days, he had seen nary a soul. Not even the TARDIS made a sound for him to hear.
The Doctor had the gall to walk through the door in the final hour of the Master's third day of solitude as though it were nothing - as though he were nothing.
“Where have you been?” The Master asked simply, not moving but finally - finally - blinking.
As expected, the Doctor gave him the brush off.
“Where were you, I asked,” the Master repeated calmly.
“Out.”
He caught the Doctor’s wrist as soon as he was near, and pulled him closer. “Last chance. Where. Were. You.”
“Out,” the Doctor pulled his hand away. “With Donna.”
The Master saw red. “Have you enjoyed mooning about?”
“Mooning?” The Doctor blinked, clearly confused, but not one bit concerned about the Master. “Oh! That was an artificial satellite constructed in the middle of an asteroid field. There wasn’t any moon.”
The Master pushed his fists into the mattress. He imagined himself punching the Doctor. He imagined the blood that would spray from his mouth, drip down his chin, and fall to the ground. He imagined the feel of bones breaking against his skin. The Master breathed deeply. He counted to ten like a good little boy and asked nicely, “Did you get the part you were after?”
“No. The keeper wasn’t one for bargaining I’m afraid.” The Doctor was completely unaware of the anger boiling beneath the Master’s skin.
“You didn’t make an unlimited credit chip?” He spat out.
The Doctor looked guilty. “Well . . .” He hadn’t.
“Let the pretty one haggle?” The Master said, raising his voice.
“I’m afraid . . .”
“They didn’t have it, did they?” The Master yelled across the small space between them.
The Doctor’s eyes were wide, but not with surprise and not with fear. There was little to satisfy the Master in his face. The Master could read the curl of the Doctor’s lip: defiance, obstinacy, and rage. The drums sang. Slowly, the Doctor shrugged, shedding the layer of dull tan off his wiry body. “The part they had was a bit advanced for my purposes.” His voice gave none of his emotions away.
The Master smirked, satisfied to have taken the Doctor into his game. He was alone no more. “Because you stole such an outdated, ancient model.”
The TARDIS shook in retaliation, dimming her lights in disapproval. The Master merely smiled. In the darkness, the Doctor’s suit was almost that beautiful red. He could see the pulse beneath the clothes: onetwothree four onetwothree four. Uncurling one hand, the Master reached out and stroked down the breast of the jacket. “Three days, Doctor.”
“Yeah,” the other Time Lord drawled. “She runs away from you, time does.”
The Master clenched a fistful of blue fabric between his fingers. “You’re the only one that runs!”
The Doctor tensed. It would have been wondrous to think that he was frozen in fear, but the Master knew better. There were thoughts running through the Doctor's head, dangerous thoughts. They were calculations, plans, and words. Oh, how the Master loathed the Doctor's words! Gently, the Doctor's hand covered the Master's that was grasping him so tightly. He crouched down to the Master’s level, those doleful brown and white eyes blinking at him. “I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”
“You don’t miss me,” the Master whispered, already feeling sick from those terribly sweet words. “You never miss me.” Then it happened: the pulsing red faded, swept away by a gentle golden wind. The Doctor’s fingers carded through his hair and the Master closed his eyes. It was easier to breath now. His thoughts were clearer. He could see. There were no colors; there was only black. He hated this! He wanted the red back. “Where am I, Doctor?”
The Doctor’s reply did not come for some time. It was so long in arriving that the Master had to ask again. He asked again and again, until his hand sat atop the Doctor’s chest. Onetwothree four, the answer came. Onetwothree four.
The dark red curtain fell across his eyes and the Master answered himself. Supported by the litany of drums, he slammed his fist just under the Doctor’s jaw and smiled as the bones cracked. Laughing, he watched as the red trickled out from between the Doctor’s shadowed-red lips. “Here I am! Yes! Here! I’m here!” He pulled the Doctor up by the collar and threw him against the floor. “Always here and always alone! You shouldn’t leave me alone for so long, Doctor! I’m a danger to myself, to you!”
There was the fear he’d been wanting! The surprise! The horror! Oh, no one could ever look quite like the Doctor! No one would ever come near the pleasure his pain gave the Master! “No, Doctor. Not alone. Never alone. Never! The drums, Doctor. My beautiful red drums!” He jumped up from the bed and crawled over to the Doctor's strewn form. The Master roughly wiped away the trail of blood that had fallen on the Doctor’s chin. “They are just your color.”
Mad laughter bubbled up in his chest and he threw his head back to release it. The drums laughed with him. They told him to snap the Doctor’s neck. The Master looked at the column of flesh, watching intently as it rose and fell with the Doctor's breath. "Yes. Snap it."
He lunged, but the Doctor’s hands were too fast. They pressed against his chest and the Master could feel that horrible gold brushing past him. He looked down at the Doctor's hands and frowned. "Why?" He couldn't finish his question. The Doctor had pushed and the Master disintegrated into a fine golden dust.
***
The Doctor panted heavily, his body sinking down into the floor. He licked his lip, gently examining the damage to his jaw. There were some things, he decided, one should never do, no matter how bored or how intelligent or how lonely one was. He could add this to the list.
He stumbled out of the spare bedroom, using the wall to support himself as made his way towards Donna. She was always a good idea.
Challenge: 84 Boredom
Rating: R, to be safe
Warnings: Bit of blood and bit of violence
Spoilers: AUish from “Last of the Time Lords;” minor for general Series 4
A Danger to Himself
What he remembered consisted mostly of darkness. Not grey, not purple, but red. So deep and dark and internal that it consumed everything around him. Redder than blood, deeper than passion. It was a sick color which brought him comfort. It was the only color he’d ever known.
There had been blue, annoyingly bright and so bloody obvious that it stuck out every place it was put. There was gold, the aged and dimmed glow that always put him to sleep. Bright red was fun, for a bit, until that got old. Black and white looked rather dashing on him, but some would argue those weren’t colors.
Really, that deep, dark, internal red was the only color he’d ever known. It was the color of the back of his eyelids. It was the color of the underside of his skin, of his organs and his blood vessels, of his life force and his death. It was the color of the drums.
The Master was sick. He was sick to death of sitting in gold inside of a stupid blue box, waiting for tan to leave orange and come entertain him. He didn't ask for this. He wouldn’t sit still for long, swathed in loneliness, craving the contact of another. He refused to be taken that low.
For three days, the Master sat quietly on the bed in the dark, waiting. He did not eat. He did not sleep. He kept his feet planted on the ground. He kept his eyes open. The drums beat on. For three days, he had seen nary a soul. Not even the TARDIS made a sound for him to hear.
The Doctor had the gall to walk through the door in the final hour of the Master's third day of solitude as though it were nothing - as though he were nothing.
“Where have you been?” The Master asked simply, not moving but finally - finally - blinking.
As expected, the Doctor gave him the brush off.
“Where were you, I asked,” the Master repeated calmly.
“Out.”
He caught the Doctor’s wrist as soon as he was near, and pulled him closer. “Last chance. Where. Were. You.”
“Out,” the Doctor pulled his hand away. “With Donna.”
The Master saw red. “Have you enjoyed mooning about?”
“Mooning?” The Doctor blinked, clearly confused, but not one bit concerned about the Master. “Oh! That was an artificial satellite constructed in the middle of an asteroid field. There wasn’t any moon.”
The Master pushed his fists into the mattress. He imagined himself punching the Doctor. He imagined the blood that would spray from his mouth, drip down his chin, and fall to the ground. He imagined the feel of bones breaking against his skin. The Master breathed deeply. He counted to ten like a good little boy and asked nicely, “Did you get the part you were after?”
“No. The keeper wasn’t one for bargaining I’m afraid.” The Doctor was completely unaware of the anger boiling beneath the Master’s skin.
“You didn’t make an unlimited credit chip?” He spat out.
The Doctor looked guilty. “Well . . .” He hadn’t.
“Let the pretty one haggle?” The Master said, raising his voice.
“I’m afraid . . .”
“They didn’t have it, did they?” The Master yelled across the small space between them.
The Doctor’s eyes were wide, but not with surprise and not with fear. There was little to satisfy the Master in his face. The Master could read the curl of the Doctor’s lip: defiance, obstinacy, and rage. The drums sang. Slowly, the Doctor shrugged, shedding the layer of dull tan off his wiry body. “The part they had was a bit advanced for my purposes.” His voice gave none of his emotions away.
The Master smirked, satisfied to have taken the Doctor into his game. He was alone no more. “Because you stole such an outdated, ancient model.”
The TARDIS shook in retaliation, dimming her lights in disapproval. The Master merely smiled. In the darkness, the Doctor’s suit was almost that beautiful red. He could see the pulse beneath the clothes: onetwothree four onetwothree four. Uncurling one hand, the Master reached out and stroked down the breast of the jacket. “Three days, Doctor.”
“Yeah,” the other Time Lord drawled. “She runs away from you, time does.”
The Master clenched a fistful of blue fabric between his fingers. “You’re the only one that runs!”
The Doctor tensed. It would have been wondrous to think that he was frozen in fear, but the Master knew better. There were thoughts running through the Doctor's head, dangerous thoughts. They were calculations, plans, and words. Oh, how the Master loathed the Doctor's words! Gently, the Doctor's hand covered the Master's that was grasping him so tightly. He crouched down to the Master’s level, those doleful brown and white eyes blinking at him. “I’ve missed you. I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”
“You don’t miss me,” the Master whispered, already feeling sick from those terribly sweet words. “You never miss me.” Then it happened: the pulsing red faded, swept away by a gentle golden wind. The Doctor’s fingers carded through his hair and the Master closed his eyes. It was easier to breath now. His thoughts were clearer. He could see. There were no colors; there was only black. He hated this! He wanted the red back. “Where am I, Doctor?”
The Doctor’s reply did not come for some time. It was so long in arriving that the Master had to ask again. He asked again and again, until his hand sat atop the Doctor’s chest. Onetwothree four, the answer came. Onetwothree four.
The dark red curtain fell across his eyes and the Master answered himself. Supported by the litany of drums, he slammed his fist just under the Doctor’s jaw and smiled as the bones cracked. Laughing, he watched as the red trickled out from between the Doctor’s shadowed-red lips. “Here I am! Yes! Here! I’m here!” He pulled the Doctor up by the collar and threw him against the floor. “Always here and always alone! You shouldn’t leave me alone for so long, Doctor! I’m a danger to myself, to you!”
There was the fear he’d been wanting! The surprise! The horror! Oh, no one could ever look quite like the Doctor! No one would ever come near the pleasure his pain gave the Master! “No, Doctor. Not alone. Never alone. Never! The drums, Doctor. My beautiful red drums!” He jumped up from the bed and crawled over to the Doctor's strewn form. The Master roughly wiped away the trail of blood that had fallen on the Doctor’s chin. “They are just your color.”
Mad laughter bubbled up in his chest and he threw his head back to release it. The drums laughed with him. They told him to snap the Doctor’s neck. The Master looked at the column of flesh, watching intently as it rose and fell with the Doctor's breath. "Yes. Snap it."
He lunged, but the Doctor’s hands were too fast. They pressed against his chest and the Master could feel that horrible gold brushing past him. He looked down at the Doctor's hands and frowned. "Why?" He couldn't finish his question. The Doctor had pushed and the Master disintegrated into a fine golden dust.
***
The Doctor panted heavily, his body sinking down into the floor. He licked his lip, gently examining the damage to his jaw. There were some things, he decided, one should never do, no matter how bored or how intelligent or how lonely one was. He could add this to the list.
He stumbled out of the spare bedroom, using the wall to support himself as made his way towards Donna. She was always a good idea.