Closure (A Doctor/Master/Peter Petrelli Fic ... but not in the way you're thinking)
Title: Closure
Author: me, aunt_zelda
Rating: R because there’s some naughty words, and naughty acts, and I have no beta!
Warning: I’m an American.
Spoilers: S1 of Heroes, and through ‘Last of the Time Lords’ for DW.
Pairings: 10th Doctor/6th Master, Peter Petrelli/Claude Raines, Peter Petrelli/10th Doctor, flicker of Past!Noah/Past!Claude, plus another ‘canon’ pairing you’ll catch if you watch Heroes.
Summary: After loosing the Master (and, I guess, meeting himself, and the business with the Titanic, which I haven’t seen yet, damn you, time zone!) the Doctor seeks closure with the help of an old … ‘friend.’
A/N: This is my desperate attempt to keep the Plaude community going whilst simultaneously writing Doctor/Master, a pairing that is swiftly becoming my OTP. Hopefully I’ll confuzzle the heck out of both communities, whilst shamelessly pimping these vids: http://youtube.com/profile?user=llordllama because I promised the maker I would. They’re HYSTERICAL, so please leave him lots of comments, even if you DON’T read my fic!
(Btw, I suck at titles, and I also suck at smut so please be kind, I usually never go this far in my fics.)
Running, running, always running.
Earth again.
The time is the fall of 2007. The place is NYC.
Leaves crackle underfoot. No election posters this time, but the city hasn't changed that much.
He knew Peter wouldn't explode.
Ah, Peter ... it's been so long.
Peter was before Rose.
Screech of a cab, an exclamation in Hindi ... or is it Tamil? Or Kannada? The Doctor's too bewildered to explain himself to the driver, who just rolls his eyes and continues, skidding to a halt at the next corner. A pale, dark-haired man and the little girl whose hand he’s holding clamber into the cab. The Doctor feels the flicker of a memory and brushes it aside. Later ...
It's hard to think about the time before Rose. That dark, awful time after the Time War when he forced himself into a human body. He set no limit on the watch, he didn't want to have those memories anymore. He couldn’t live with the guilt: he wanted to die.
So he did.
Claude Raines was a Company agent with the power of invisibility, plus a talent for sarcasm and the tendency to shag his young and impressionable ‘partner’ Noah Bennet. To Bennet’s family, especially little Claire, to whom Claude brought teddy bears, he was ‘Uncle Claude.’ Missions with Bennet usually ended with them sharing a hotel bed, high on adrenaline after some thrilling ‘bag and tag.’
With the exception of their agents, the Company viewed specials as little more than stray dogs. Beat them into submission or put them down. The ones they put down were usually experimented to death, tested to the limit and dissected post-mortem.
One day Claude couldn’t stand targeting his own kind anymore. He hid a special from the Company, and they found out.
Somehow he survived the bullets inflicted by Noah Bennet, and the fall from the bridge. It didn’t seem possible, and he didn’t believe in God or fate or karma.
Seven years later he was permanently invisible, hiding in NYC and stealing cash from peoples’ wallets. That was how he ran into Peter Petrelli, an empath with a crooked mouth and puppy-dog eyes. Peter was convinced he was going to explode with the overload of powers and wanted Claude to teach him control. Claude reluctantly agreed, smacking the kid around and pretending he was more interested in the pigeons on the roof than Peter. Soon, however, the sparring (both verbal and physical) became too much and suddenly he was lying, post-coital, in bed with the most dangerous man in the city, perhaps the world. And that didn’t bother him in the slightest.
Then fucking Bennet had to show up and shoot him with a tazer. One of Peter’s ‘friends’ had blabbed to the Company, thinking they were saving the city by doing so. Now the Company knew Claude was alive.
After weighing the possibility of being taken by the Company against trying to save the world (and probably getting blown up for his trouble) Claude opted out, giving Peter one last smack before fleeing.
He opened the old, strange watch in desperation early that morning …
It had taken weeks to get back on his feet.
The Doctor heard about the Nestene Consciousness and its plan for London. Automatically he shaved, put on some new clothes, slipped his sonic screwdriver into his pocket, and set off with a carefree smile plastered onto his face.
He'd forget about Claude Raines, forget about Peter Petrelli, and try to live with the guilt of the Time War.
The Doctor doesn’t want to think about what would have happened to him if Rose hadn’t been thrown into his path. He still wakes up in a cold sweat with that on his mind.
Loosing Rose was ... it still hurts.
But he isn't here for Rose.
Left, left, left, right, another left …
Martha had been lovely. She'd given him hope, she’d proved to him that there was life after Rose, however difficult that was to accept.
Then ...
Then the Master came back.
Blinking away the tears, not that these people will notice. Or care. Weirdo crying in the street: big deal.
Pull yourself together, you’re almost there …
"Peter?"
The boy - no, he's a man now - turns around. He’s been caught leaving work (something to do with the restaurant across the street.) There’s a satchel slung over his shoulder, his hair is cut short, he’s wearing grown-up clothes, and there’s a certain hardness around the edges that wasn't there before.
"Peter Petrelli?" the Doctor presses on.
"Yeah ... who are you?" eyebrows raised, head cocked to the side: there he is, the Peter he remembers …
"You know who I am, Peter."
A probe in his mind. Tentative, then insistent.
Running, running, always running.
But this time he’s going to hold his ground, stand and fight.
He needs something only Peter can give him.
It takes a while for Peter to process it all. The revelation that your former lover is a time-traveling alien isn’t something you’re prepared for, after all.
They’re in Peter’s apartment now. It’s brand new, smaller than the old one, with packing boxes still scattered around and remnants of half-started paint-jobs on the walls.
“So, Clau … I mean, Doctor,” the word is strange in Peter’s pretty mouth. The Doctor feels torn: he’s two men at once, with a third banging around inside and a fourth clinging to his back.
“Why exactly are you here?” he floats his cup of tea into his hand and idly stares at the contents. “I mean, I can’t go off ‘traveling’ with you, there’s this thing going on and no matter how many times you tell me you’ve got a time machine your past experiences don’t seem too comforting.”
The Doctor manages a laugh, but it’s a weak, forced thing that only adds to the tension in the air.
“I … uh … I need something, Peter. I need … closure. Not just from you but from the … the man I spent the last year with. The one you saw in my mind.”
Peter winces. He can’t fathom it, really he can’t. It’s bad enough he has to think of Claude as this cutesy, ADHD guy now, it’s torture to contemplate the other man. The cackling, mass-murdering, evil man who looks, in Peter’s mind, like an older, campier Sylar. (If Sylar ever grew a beard, a thought that makes Peter want to laugh.) Peter doesn’t want to think about ‘the Master’ and all the things he’s done with and to the Doctor over the centuries. It makes his palms tingle with nuclear energy.
“And you think I can provide that? How exactly?” Peter knows, he’s heard it in the Doctor’s mind, but he’s daring the Doctor to say it.
“You have the ability to shapeshift, Peter. What do you think I want you to do?”
Peter stands up, clenching his fists and willing the power back. “What makes you think I’ll let you touch me like that again? I nearly exploded because you ran -”
“If that had been me I wouldn’t have run, Peter, I would have helped you -”
“You didn’t come back though, did you?! Too busy gallivanting with blond what’s-her-name, then you lost her and ran around with another chick, and then your ex shows up, slaughters millions, you forgive him, and then he gets shot! If you want him back so bad why don’t you track down Adam Monroe, take some of his blood, and bring your Master back to life? Why the hell do you need to drag me back into this? I thought I was over you, Claude!” Peter suddenly realizes that he’s seized the Doctor by the shirtfront and has him slammed against a wall.
The Doctor shoves him backwards. “It was wrong of Claude Raines to abandon you, Peter.” he pushes Peter back. “It was wrong of me to try to forget you.” he pushes Peter again. “I should have come straight back and helped you.” Peter bumps into the wall. “But I was afraid, I didn’t want to face that part of myself again.” the Doctor’s scowling expression is replaced by one of defeat and sadness. “You can do whatever you want with me, so long as you do it with his face and his voice. And then I’ll be out of your life forever, if you want,” he holds his arms out in a vaguely messianic way. “Don’t you want to get back at Claude for leaving you?”
Peter pauses, staring at the floor, the ceiling, the opposite wall, anything but the attractive man surrendering to him.
Finally, after what seems like years but could have been minutes, Peter jerks his head across the room.
“Bedroom’s in there.”
Running, running, always running.
The Doctor almost drowns Peter with memories of the Master as they sit, side by side, on Peter’s large, new bed.
Academy Daleks fangs phones flowers “Koschei!” …
“Not so fast …” Peter whispers, feeling a little silly reading someone’s mind by placing his hands on either side of their head. It’s a more direct link, though, like the radio’s been tuned to a clearer station.
Gallifrey beards laughter Nestene …
“Getting there …” Peter mutters under his breath.
Regenerations Yana End-of-the-Universe “Say my name!” Valiant Lucy Toclafane …
“Almost there …”
Laser Cage Archangel “I forgive you” paradox “…keep me?” handcuffs “Regenerate!” …
“Done.” Peter lets go of the Doctor’s head and, without looking at the Time Lord, begins to undo the Doctor’s tie. “I’m going to put this on you,” he says, “and when I take it off, I’m going to be him. Ok?”
The Doctor nods. “Yes.”
Peter ties the blindfold, concentrates on the memories he’s just seen. He breathes in, and when he breathes out, he’s a different man.
When the blindfold is slipped off, it’s not Peter sitting beside him anymore, it’s the Master.
The Master smiles that Harold Saxon smile, leaning back slightly and eyeing the Doctor in a way that makes the Doctor feel dirty already.
“Master …” the Doctor exhales, lips trembling.
“Oh my dear Doctor,” the accent is flawless. “Of all the places for us to shag, it had to be your precious Earth, didn’t it?” oh that laugh. The laugh that used to haunt his dreams … the Master’s speaking again. “But why New York? Don’t want to sully lovely London, eh?” there’s exactly the right amount arrogance and sarcasm in each and every syllable.
The Doctor is practically thrumming with bliss at this point, so when the Master straddles him and slams him backwards onto the bed, he’s caught off-guard and has lost any advantage he’d had at the beginning.
Which was exactly how he likes it, really. Being powerless, with the Master towering over him, that is what the Doctor considers to be true happiness.
The Master seems to be on the verge of saying something, then he lunges forward, engaging the Doctor in a kiss so long and so domineering that the Doctor is grateful for his respiratory bypass system.
After carefully detaching himself from the Doctor’s face, the Master rolls onto his side and begins running a hand through the Doctor’s hair. The Doctor reacts in the same way a cat would: he closes his eyes and sighs peacefully, wishing he could purr.
“Oh god, why?” the Doctor whispers. “Why, Koschei? You had me at your bloody mercy for a whole year and … never. You never! Not once! Why?!” his eyes snap open.
He’s forgotten that the man lying beside him, the man with Harold Saxon’s oh-so-touchable body, isn’t the Master at all. He wants this to be the Master, and therefore he’s suspending reality.
Peter reaches into the Doctor’s mind, cautious now, lest he loose himself in nine-hundred years of information.
He brushes the surface and hears:
Koschei Master Master Master Saxon Koschei Master …
He slides past the barricades and hears:
I know it isn’t him …
Shhhh, it’s him …
Not him …dead, shot …burned him up …
Shhhh, he’s right here, right beside you …you can taste him on your lips …he’s real, it’s him, it’s him.
It’s him …
Peter delves into the deepest part of the Doctor’s psyche, the part that processes things, figures things out, remembers things, and so on. It’s in some weird language made up of circles, but he met a woman who could translate any language a few months ago, so soon the circles sound like English to him.
The Master pauses for the briefest of instances, then he whispers into the Doctor’s ear, his breath tickling the Doctor’s skin in that divine, ghastly, divine way.
“I was waiting until I was sure I’d won. Until there wasn’t a shred” he gently nips the Doctor’s ear “… of doubt. After the launch, after everything was finished” not so gently now “… I was going to give you back this beautiful body and have you every,” he slides his hand down the Doctor’s pants “… which,” he grasps the Doctor’s half-hard cock “…way.”
The Doctor whimpers slightly, hands gripping the bedspread as the Master strokes him ohsofuckingslow with that self-satisfied smirk - the one that’s stuck with him every regeneration - plastered across the face the Doctor wants to punch and kiss at the exact same time.
Smirking another man’s smirk, giving a hand-job to a man who used to be Claude but doesn’t look a thing like him anymore - giving a hand-job with another man’s hands - is so weird to Peter that he decides to pretend too. He pretends that Claude came back, groveled a bit, and Peter reluctantly let the man into his apartment for some ‘I’m-glad-you’re-back-but-you-made-me-suffer-you-bastard’ sex. Of course, he doesn’t have the advantage of the man splayed out before him looking like Claude, so this’ll be a bit difficult.
Especially since their clothes are soon scattered around Peter’s bedroom and the naked Doctor looks nothing like naked Claude, he hasn’t got bullet-scars or scientific-scalpel-marks, he’s skinny and small. Peter glances down at himself and feels so very wrong using another man’s body this intimately.
“Do you want this, Doctor?” he demands huskily once he’s got the Doctor lying facedown on the bed. Pinning him down is eerily easy. If he wasn’t so caught up in the moment he’d be a concerned.
“Yes!” the Doctor puts so much force behind that one syllable that Peter’s surprised the word doesn’t crumble.
He doesn’t use anything, because the Master wouldn’t give a damn about making the Doctor comfortable. The more pain the Doctor felt, the more turned on he’d get. Peter has to remember Claude’s parting words to go the final step.
Running, running, always running.
The Doctor can’t even contemplate the idea of running right now, not with the Master above him.
The Master didn’t even start slow, and now he’s going faster and faster and … oh god, he can’t, not yet, not yet, he’s going to make this last, this won’t be some quick affair … noNOno he’s going to draw this out by the Seal of Rassilon …
Peter delves into the Doctor’s mind for one quick memory.
Aha … this should be interesting …
And, at the exact same moment, there’s a simultaneous and nearly-identical cry:
“Claude!” and “Koschei!”
are practically screamed while the two extraordinary men are blinded by visions of supernovas and stars and death and rebirth and each other …
Because, at that very moment, their minds merged too.
They lay there, side by side but not touching, for what could be hours, what could be minutes, and what could be days.
Peter - he shed the other man’s form as soon as he’d caught his breath - knows, in the lapse of time that he’ll never experience something like that again in his entire life.
Thank god he’s had eidetic memory for almost a year now.
The Doctor is the one who ends the peaceful silence by sitting up and slowly easing himself off of the bed. Then he slips back into his clothes without a word.
Peter watches him, eventually propping himself up on his elbows: he’d normally take a shower, but he knows that if he did that he’d come out to find the Doctor gone. Peter needs the awkward, broken goodbye this man is going to provide.
Realizing this, Peter gets out of bed and starts to dress as well. He finds the Doctor’s tie - still done into that loose knot - behind a chair and hands it wordlessly to the Doctor.
The Doctor takes it back and tucks it into a pocket. “Thank you.”
And suddenly there are tears. Peter’s not sure if he started first or if the Doctor did, but now they’re sobbing in each other’s arms and damn wasn’t he supposed to be over Claude now?
That’s what’s scary: he’s over Claude, but he’ll never be over the Doctor.
He wonders how many like himself are out there, scattered across the cosmos.
They cry themselves out at about the same rate, so the breaking-apart is a mutual act.
“I’ve … uh … I should …” the Doctor fumbles for words like a blind man in the dark.
“I’ll walk you home.” Peter says, too drained to manage a smile just yet.
The Doctor nods, eyes so full of emotion that Peter has too look away, because he can’t handle this level of comprehension anymore. Brushing this man’s mind was a jarring event in itself, the fact that it was during the most amazing sex he’s ever had just makes it even more extraordinary
Running, running, always running.
The walk to the TARDIS is a slow, almost funeral-march-esque affair. All around them, people rush, cars drive, cabs squeal, cell-phones ring, and sirens wail, but the two men might as well be on another planet.
The Doctor can’t bring himself to form opinions or thoughts at this point, only guide his feet towards the blue box that Peter aptly dubbed ‘home.’
Peter stops a few yards away from the TARDIS, hands jammed into his pockets against the autumn chill that’s creeping up. The Doctor puts his key into the lock but doesn’t open the door. He turns to stare at the empath.
“Thank you, Peter Petrelli.” the Doctor leans against the TARDIS door for support, the effort of speech is a Herculean task.
“Am I ever going to see you again, Clau … I mean, Doctor?” those puppy-dog eyes betray a grudging acceptance that makes the Doctor want to say ‘Yes, come with me right now, never leave my side, you’re impervious, nothing will ever take you away from me.’
“I don’t think so, Peter,” the Doctor considers the empath. “Then again, you never know … but next time I might have a different face!”
“I’ll consider myself warned.” Peter raises a hand to brush away the bangs that are no longer there, catches himself, then laughs half-heartedly.
“Good luck, Peter Petrelli …” the Doctor feels tears brimming behind his eyes and forces them back.
“Goodbye … Doctor.” Peter flashes that crooked smile one last time. Then he flickers out of sight, and he’s gone with Claude Raines’ ability.
The Doctor shuts the TARDIS door with a sadness he hadn’t expected. Sure, the initial weight of grief and loss that he’s been carting around has been lessened to a bearable burden, but the price …
He can tolerate that. He’s done worse in his life. Peter’s plate is full, what with the limitless variations of ‘Save the Cheerleader, Save the World’ running around.
The Doctor sets the coordinates for familiar ground, wondering what’s going on in London these days.
Running, running, always running.