Who Fic
Title: Unsafe, Insane, Consensual
Rating: R
Pairing: Shalka!Doctor/Master
Warnings: violence
Summary: It doesn't really matter whether it's a game or real amnesia. Betaed by x_los
"I'm not in the mood," the Doctor growled when he found himself suddenly held at gunpoint on the way to his bedroom.
The day had been harrowing, the aliens hostile and unrepentant, the weather dismal, the local wine an insult to good taste, and Alison had clearly been in a particularly unpleasant phase of her menstrual cycle. By now, all the Doctor wanted was to throw his muddy clothes on the floor - shared suffering made for half the suffering - take a hot bath and go to bed. He had been in the process of doing just that, his long coat and boots already divested in the hallway, and had just started unbuttoning his shirt. The Master's love games could wait, especially since he hadn't even bothered to ask how the Doctor was, and oh, had he survived the man-eating cyber-forest?
"In the mood for what?" the Master asked, a dangerous hiss to his voice. A sideways glance told the Doctor that the laser gun was definitely not set to stun. In open defiance of the threat, he unbuttoned his shirt all the way and moved on to his belt buckle.
"We talked about this," the Doctor snapped, rolling his eyes. "Safe and consensual, remember?"
"No, Doctor. That's precisely the problem. I don't remember. But you're going to help, or - - well. I'm sure you can imagine." The Master, standing behind the Doctor, threw his free arm around him, confining his arms. The Doctor's attempt to wriggle out of the Master's grip was met with surprising force. Or not so surprising, since the Master's artificial limbs had the strength to tear through steel if he wanted to. The Master pushed the Doctor ahead of him, through the door into the bedroom, without releasing him from his hold.
"I'm not going to invoke that perfectly ridiculous safe-word!” muttered the Doctor. “I shouldn't have to, frankly. Any civilised person would realise that this is not the right time or place."
The Master's grip grew close to crushing. Literally. Shocked and indignant, the Doctor gasped for air. Against his ear, the Master whispered, "No more diversion, Doctor. Please. You may start by explaining this peculiar body of mine. I find its strength quite startling, and I don’t think it’d be pleasant for you if I happened to miscalculate it."
Complaining was no longer topping the Doctor's priority list. Perhaps because the first sliver of doubt had insinuated itself into his thoughts - what if this wasn't a game? - but just as likely because he was actually starting to feel better. Nothing like a kick of adrenaline against the old brain to drive away frustration and exhaustion. And Russian roulette with the Master never quite lost its thrill. It had been a long time since they'd actually played with loaded guns. Was the laser really armed, or had the Master just tampered with the controls to make it look that way?
"I take it you've lost your memory," he said, his voice pressed but steady.
"I wouldn't say that, no. Lost sounds so much like accidentally misplaced. I don't accidentally misplace things, Doctor. But maybe someone took it from me. It would be rather easy, I suspect, considering that much of my recent memory seems to be stored within this android brain of mine. Familiar handiwork, by the way."
"I should think so. You helped me construct it."
The Master loosened his grip, but the Doctor knew his tactics and stayed perfectly still. Trying to escape now would only end painfully. So he licked his lips, catching his breath and waiting for the Master's next words. "I can't leave the TARDIS, Doctor."
"Ah. You noticed that as well. No, you can't. It was one of our conditions. What do you remember?"
"Dying." A flat, monosyllabic reply. It made the Doctor frown, because it lacked theatricality. But then, the Master tended to forget that thin, significant line between play and serious business.
"Which time?" You had to ask, with the Master. It wouldn't do if they were following different scripts.
"I fell into the Eye of Harmony." The Master hesitated, and his hands flexed involuntarily, causing the Doctor to wince and draw in a startled breath of pain. "I was... alive."
The Event Horizon of a black hole. After that first time describing it, the Master had never volunteered any more information. They avoided some topics in their mutual history, and this was one of them.
"What is this, Doctor? Us?" Now the Master sounded brittle and strained. At the limit of his... sanity, the Doctor supposed. He swallowed. Pretending that this was a game looked more and more like wishful thinking. Damn. Had something gone wrong with the Master's memory circuits? "What am I doing here?"
"I saved you. We built this body for you. We have a," truce, he was going to say. But that was at least a lie of omission, of understatement. And the Master, amnesiac or not, was very much a man for overstatements. "We're friends again."
The Master apparently put two and two together, arriving at one-and-a-half. "We're sleeping with each other."
There were sane ways in which to ask for attention or point out the need to talk to each other, the Doctor was sure. The Master just didn't know any. Still. So what was it he wanted to hear from the Doctor? It didn't really matter if the Master was amnesiac or not. The Doctor's side of the equation, the things he could say, remained unchanged, and thus the things the Master needed to hear.
"Left to your own devices, could you scheme your way out of this box?" the Doctor asked. If the Master was playacting, then now the Doctor had turned tables on him: now it was he who had to tell an uncomfortable truth if he wanted to keep up the act. They both knew that the Master could get out if he tried hard enough - somehow, he'd find a way. They both tried not to admit it, because it would complicate things.
But the Master's answer came readily and arrogantly, "Obviously I could. With you out of the way."
"The laws of robotics,” the Doctor said after a short pause in which he gathered his wits. Oh, it had been a while since he'd come up with a speech for the Master's benefit. “Incidentally, also a good manual for slave owners. I would certainly keep them in mind, if a slave owner was what I wanted to be." He caught his breath, his hearts jumping for a second of doubt. Did it matter what he wanted to be? The Master had - incongruous with his pragmatic side - always favoured intention over method, and often over result when it came to decisions. But then, the Master should not be his standard. The Doctor knew that the Master's thoughts were running parallel to his right now through the maze of moral implications and knowing that he had company energised him to the point of elation. It wasn't his usual kind of speech. This one wasn't meant to distract or confuse, this one was meant to convince himself as well as his critical audience. Whether this had been a game to begin with no longer mattered - if he said the wrong thing, it would hurt him. He smiled, breathing in deeply and a little shakily. "How does the first law go again? ‘A robot may not harm his owner, or, through inaction, allow him to come to harm’?" A bastardisation of the original, but more to the point.
The conversational turn seemed to baffle the Master, but only for a moment. Then he whirled the Doctor around. They stared at each other, face to face for the first time. The Doctor studied the hungry look in the Master's eyes, but could divine nothing except that raw intensity, alive to the point of devouring itself, the thing he loved and feared the most about the Master. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, and with a tense, ironic smile nodded at the Master.
It happened faster than the Doctor could follow, a twist, a crack, the Master's eyes widening with sheer lust, the gun dropping to the floor, and suddenly the Doctor sat on the bed, cradling a broken arm. Through clenched teeth, but still, somehow, smiling, the Doctor finished proving his point by managing a strangled but exhilarated, "I love you."
With two brisk steps, the Master was by the bed, and sat down in one fluid motion, tilting the Doctor's chin towards him and kissing him. A kiss just as brisk as his motions, all economy, all power. It melted briefly into something gentler, at the end, and the Doctor released a small moan of pain into the soft parting of their lips.
"I forgive you," the Master said in one shuddering breath. It took the Doctor a few pain-hazy seconds to recognise their safe-word.
With a curse, the Doctor let himself drop into a curl on the bed, still cradling his arm. He rubbed his sweaty face against the cool linen and squirmed against the pain. "Get a damn bone regenerator, I can't do anything like this."
Not surprisingly, the Master had one ready. Was he so predictable, the Doctor wondered, or had the Master simply prepared for all eventualities? The Master ran the bone regenerator over the Doctor’s arm with the calm, relaxed expression of a cat licking its fur after a bowl of cream. A few times a different expression slipped over his features, clouding his dark eyes, but he seemed to have it almost under control now. He'd never quite lost his control, the Doctor realised, or he wouldn't have ended the scene when he was afraid of losing it. As the efficient little tool did its work on his arm, the Doctor slowly relaxed on the bed, stretching out into a sprawl. Prickling heat spread through his limbs. The Master's free hand rubbed his side in small, not entirely innocent circles. This was mad, but the ways in which they were bent somehow fit into each other like puzzle pieces, and so the Doctor basked in the perfect moment of complicity. He didn't think he had gone too far with his little demonstration of faith in the Master. Too far was exactly the right distance for them. He made an encouraging murmur and moved into the touch. The Master raised an inquisitive brow.
"Oddly enough," the Doctor said playfully, "I'm in the mood now."
Rating: R
Pairing: Shalka!Doctor/Master
Warnings: violence
Summary: It doesn't really matter whether it's a game or real amnesia. Betaed by x_los
"I'm not in the mood," the Doctor growled when he found himself suddenly held at gunpoint on the way to his bedroom.
The day had been harrowing, the aliens hostile and unrepentant, the weather dismal, the local wine an insult to good taste, and Alison had clearly been in a particularly unpleasant phase of her menstrual cycle. By now, all the Doctor wanted was to throw his muddy clothes on the floor - shared suffering made for half the suffering - take a hot bath and go to bed. He had been in the process of doing just that, his long coat and boots already divested in the hallway, and had just started unbuttoning his shirt. The Master's love games could wait, especially since he hadn't even bothered to ask how the Doctor was, and oh, had he survived the man-eating cyber-forest?
"In the mood for what?" the Master asked, a dangerous hiss to his voice. A sideways glance told the Doctor that the laser gun was definitely not set to stun. In open defiance of the threat, he unbuttoned his shirt all the way and moved on to his belt buckle.
"We talked about this," the Doctor snapped, rolling his eyes. "Safe and consensual, remember?"
"No, Doctor. That's precisely the problem. I don't remember. But you're going to help, or - - well. I'm sure you can imagine." The Master, standing behind the Doctor, threw his free arm around him, confining his arms. The Doctor's attempt to wriggle out of the Master's grip was met with surprising force. Or not so surprising, since the Master's artificial limbs had the strength to tear through steel if he wanted to. The Master pushed the Doctor ahead of him, through the door into the bedroom, without releasing him from his hold.
"I'm not going to invoke that perfectly ridiculous safe-word!” muttered the Doctor. “I shouldn't have to, frankly. Any civilised person would realise that this is not the right time or place."
The Master's grip grew close to crushing. Literally. Shocked and indignant, the Doctor gasped for air. Against his ear, the Master whispered, "No more diversion, Doctor. Please. You may start by explaining this peculiar body of mine. I find its strength quite startling, and I don’t think it’d be pleasant for you if I happened to miscalculate it."
Complaining was no longer topping the Doctor's priority list. Perhaps because the first sliver of doubt had insinuated itself into his thoughts - what if this wasn't a game? - but just as likely because he was actually starting to feel better. Nothing like a kick of adrenaline against the old brain to drive away frustration and exhaustion. And Russian roulette with the Master never quite lost its thrill. It had been a long time since they'd actually played with loaded guns. Was the laser really armed, or had the Master just tampered with the controls to make it look that way?
"I take it you've lost your memory," he said, his voice pressed but steady.
"I wouldn't say that, no. Lost sounds so much like accidentally misplaced. I don't accidentally misplace things, Doctor. But maybe someone took it from me. It would be rather easy, I suspect, considering that much of my recent memory seems to be stored within this android brain of mine. Familiar handiwork, by the way."
"I should think so. You helped me construct it."
The Master loosened his grip, but the Doctor knew his tactics and stayed perfectly still. Trying to escape now would only end painfully. So he licked his lips, catching his breath and waiting for the Master's next words. "I can't leave the TARDIS, Doctor."
"Ah. You noticed that as well. No, you can't. It was one of our conditions. What do you remember?"
"Dying." A flat, monosyllabic reply. It made the Doctor frown, because it lacked theatricality. But then, the Master tended to forget that thin, significant line between play and serious business.
"Which time?" You had to ask, with the Master. It wouldn't do if they were following different scripts.
"I fell into the Eye of Harmony." The Master hesitated, and his hands flexed involuntarily, causing the Doctor to wince and draw in a startled breath of pain. "I was... alive."
The Event Horizon of a black hole. After that first time describing it, the Master had never volunteered any more information. They avoided some topics in their mutual history, and this was one of them.
"What is this, Doctor? Us?" Now the Master sounded brittle and strained. At the limit of his... sanity, the Doctor supposed. He swallowed. Pretending that this was a game looked more and more like wishful thinking. Damn. Had something gone wrong with the Master's memory circuits? "What am I doing here?"
"I saved you. We built this body for you. We have a," truce, he was going to say. But that was at least a lie of omission, of understatement. And the Master, amnesiac or not, was very much a man for overstatements. "We're friends again."
The Master apparently put two and two together, arriving at one-and-a-half. "We're sleeping with each other."
There were sane ways in which to ask for attention or point out the need to talk to each other, the Doctor was sure. The Master just didn't know any. Still. So what was it he wanted to hear from the Doctor? It didn't really matter if the Master was amnesiac or not. The Doctor's side of the equation, the things he could say, remained unchanged, and thus the things the Master needed to hear.
"Left to your own devices, could you scheme your way out of this box?" the Doctor asked. If the Master was playacting, then now the Doctor had turned tables on him: now it was he who had to tell an uncomfortable truth if he wanted to keep up the act. They both knew that the Master could get out if he tried hard enough - somehow, he'd find a way. They both tried not to admit it, because it would complicate things.
But the Master's answer came readily and arrogantly, "Obviously I could. With you out of the way."
"The laws of robotics,” the Doctor said after a short pause in which he gathered his wits. Oh, it had been a while since he'd come up with a speech for the Master's benefit. “Incidentally, also a good manual for slave owners. I would certainly keep them in mind, if a slave owner was what I wanted to be." He caught his breath, his hearts jumping for a second of doubt. Did it matter what he wanted to be? The Master had - incongruous with his pragmatic side - always favoured intention over method, and often over result when it came to decisions. But then, the Master should not be his standard. The Doctor knew that the Master's thoughts were running parallel to his right now through the maze of moral implications and knowing that he had company energised him to the point of elation. It wasn't his usual kind of speech. This one wasn't meant to distract or confuse, this one was meant to convince himself as well as his critical audience. Whether this had been a game to begin with no longer mattered - if he said the wrong thing, it would hurt him. He smiled, breathing in deeply and a little shakily. "How does the first law go again? ‘A robot may not harm his owner, or, through inaction, allow him to come to harm’?" A bastardisation of the original, but more to the point.
The conversational turn seemed to baffle the Master, but only for a moment. Then he whirled the Doctor around. They stared at each other, face to face for the first time. The Doctor studied the hungry look in the Master's eyes, but could divine nothing except that raw intensity, alive to the point of devouring itself, the thing he loved and feared the most about the Master. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, and with a tense, ironic smile nodded at the Master.
It happened faster than the Doctor could follow, a twist, a crack, the Master's eyes widening with sheer lust, the gun dropping to the floor, and suddenly the Doctor sat on the bed, cradling a broken arm. Through clenched teeth, but still, somehow, smiling, the Doctor finished proving his point by managing a strangled but exhilarated, "I love you."
With two brisk steps, the Master was by the bed, and sat down in one fluid motion, tilting the Doctor's chin towards him and kissing him. A kiss just as brisk as his motions, all economy, all power. It melted briefly into something gentler, at the end, and the Doctor released a small moan of pain into the soft parting of their lips.
"I forgive you," the Master said in one shuddering breath. It took the Doctor a few pain-hazy seconds to recognise their safe-word.
With a curse, the Doctor let himself drop into a curl on the bed, still cradling his arm. He rubbed his sweaty face against the cool linen and squirmed against the pain. "Get a damn bone regenerator, I can't do anything like this."
Not surprisingly, the Master had one ready. Was he so predictable, the Doctor wondered, or had the Master simply prepared for all eventualities? The Master ran the bone regenerator over the Doctor’s arm with the calm, relaxed expression of a cat licking its fur after a bowl of cream. A few times a different expression slipped over his features, clouding his dark eyes, but he seemed to have it almost under control now. He'd never quite lost his control, the Doctor realised, or he wouldn't have ended the scene when he was afraid of losing it. As the efficient little tool did its work on his arm, the Doctor slowly relaxed on the bed, stretching out into a sprawl. Prickling heat spread through his limbs. The Master's free hand rubbed his side in small, not entirely innocent circles. This was mad, but the ways in which they were bent somehow fit into each other like puzzle pieces, and so the Doctor basked in the perfect moment of complicity. He didn't think he had gone too far with his little demonstration of faith in the Master. Too far was exactly the right distance for them. He made an encouraging murmur and moved into the touch. The Master raised an inquisitive brow.
"Oddly enough," the Doctor said playfully, "I'm in the mood now."