'prove to me that i am not'- eight/jacobi!master, pg
Title: Prove To Me That I Am Not
Wordcount: About 1,900
Rating: PG
Pairing: Eight/Jacobi!Master
Summary: During the War, the Doctor pays a visit to his oldest friend.
Disclaimer: I own nothing! Who belongs to itself, as the Master and the Doctor do to Derek Jacobi and Paul McGann, etc etc. This is only for my own twisted pleasure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They both know where the Master is situated, where the Time Lords have stationed him, a slave in the guise of a grand general of war. Aboard the Cruciform, not so very far from Gallifrey, but at very knot where the fighting is thickest. Grand general he may be, and the Time Lords may have resurrected him to win their war for them, but they have no great care for his life; if the Master dies, no-one will mourn.
The Doctor is there now, too, though his duty calls him elsewhere. He's dressed in this regeneration's favoured costume, the velvet frock coat and Victorian waistcoat and cravat, though they seem to hang wrongly on him now, like a man wearing fancy dress. Too often now the Doctor is clad as a soldier, amid the mud and blood and death of the planets which have got in the way of the Daleks and their war, fighting uselessly to save the lives of the natives who have little defence. But he's wearing his own clothes now, on this visit with his oldest of friends. Enmity is buried under more important things as the Master welcomes him- he himself wearing brocade and a high collar- draws him into what passes for a kitchen, offers him a cup of tea. The Doctor thanks him, looking haggard as he inhales the steam, and then slumps back in his chair. Strain weighs heavy on his shoulders, his long face pale and drained as his exhaustion settles into him.
'Arcadia?' The Master speaks after a moment, and the Doctor looks up at him, too tired for the moment to be sharp.
'Surely you've heard. I imagine you're at the centre of communications here; must be getting all the breaking news.'
'It fell,' supplies the Master, and there's no particular emotion in his voice about the fall of Arcadia, just the faintest hint of wry expectation.
'It fell,' the Doctor echoes, and takes a slow sip of his tea. 'And I nearly fell with it.'
The Master exhales a soft breath, fingertips tapping absently against the tabletop as he ruminates over his own tea, eyes unflinchingly on the Doctor. 'Arcadia, and before that Omphalos, and Freytus, and Ing'thre, and Kastropheria... You can see it, Doctor, surely.' And though his voice is soft, it's a tone that will not brook avoidance. The Doctor doesn't answer, though, just swirls his teaspoon through the steaming liquid in his cup; the delicate sound of the spoon clinking against china seems improbably loud over the humming of the station's engines.
'They're losing.' He doesn't say we, despite the fact that he's on the front lines for the Time Lords. 'They waited too long to mount an offense, trusted too much in their stagnant powers. You knew that, Doctor. Did you think the Time Lords would have brought me back if they weren't truly desperate? If they thought there was no other chance but one vested in a renegade, a so-called madman-'
'Of course I did!' The Doctor snaps, cutting the Master off before he can begin orating proper. There's anger there in his face, and pain, but the pain of honesty, because it's true, painfully so. He's fighting a losing battle, and he fully expects to die in the process. He sighs, thin lips pressing together, and he takes refuge once again in his tea. 'How could I not?' But it's not like the Doctor to say that, to admit a battle's lost before it's even been started, and so he's fought, oh yes, he's fought valiantly, and the Master has seen the many planets reclaimed by his efforts, the Dalek fleets stopped in space, hurled into the Vortex, where Time itself might rip them apart. But it's worn on him, turned him into a dead man fighting a dead race's battle, and it's that, perhaps, which makes the silence stick in the Master's throat, hanging heavy in the air between them.
'Come with me,' says the Master suddenly, and it's an invitation he hasn't made in a long, long time. Not since they were both young, and the Doctor exiled to Earth. He wouldn't have dared in the years following, wouldn't even have felt the impulse to ask, but things are different now; he's a new man, of sorts, and the two of them bound together in war the way they hadn't been before.
The Doctor arches an eyebrow. 'Come with you where?'
'Anywhere!' It's crisp, disdainful almost, though the Master's tone rings off the cold impersonality of the walls and table. Their destination, it would seem, is not the important thing. 'Leave the Time Lords to their war; it was never ours. We could destroy them all, the Daleks and Time Lords alike, oh, Doctor, it would be simple. Destroy them and cleanse the universe of them and their battle once and for all, or else choose another universe entirely, leave this one behind for something better.'
It's not pleading in his voice, but ardour, and his blue eyes glitter, powerful and compelling. It's not cowardice to flee this battle, it's wisdom, and for several long moments, the Master almost thinks that the Doctor understands. Surely it must be tempting, and why martyr himself for a people who had rejected him so very many times? The Master provides a way out, provides something the Doctor must have wanted for so very long; he can see it there in his clear eyes, so old in his new, young face. The Master could touch him now, reach across the table, slide a hand over one cheekbone, pull him close for a kiss and echo words from long ago. The two of them, Gallifrey's bastard children, the best and the brightest, and they have better things to do now than sacrifice themselves as nameless soldiers. He could, and the Doctor would melt to his touch, greedily taste of his mouth and clutch at his hair, and the Master would give without hesitation, knowing what it meant.
But then he shakes his head, the temptation to acquiesce huffing out of him along with a breath, and the eye contact breaks.
'Master...' He shakes his head, looking almost guilty. 'I can't. You know I can't.'
On the table, the Master's fingers curl quietly into a fist, the strain splintering white around the knuckles, but the rest of him remains perfectly collected. He's regained much of his skill at self-composure in this body, one that is truly his- the Trakenite form he'd worn for so long had often made that difficult, more prone to both emotional and physical reactions that didn't always want to be contained. 'No,' he bites out, all elegance and venom. 'You wouldn't, would you. I shall never understand your compulsion to play the hero at whatever cost. It's a wonder you've held onto your regenerations as long as you have.'
The familiar jibe makes it easy to ignore the sour something curling in his stomach that feels almost like regret. He's used to the Doctor's refusals, of course, but this one is nothing short of idiocy; the War will end him, and he doesn't have so very many regenerations left- or indeed the willpower to survive- that he might last beyond it. The Master could, of course, always hit him over the head and drag him off into his TARDIS, save his sorry skin that way, but he has more dignity than that.
The Doctor's returned to his earlier weighed-upon weariness, but he manages a crooked little smile for the Master, and it's painfully like a recognition. He knows exactly what the Master's covering up, and he's sorry for it. 'It is a wonder,' he agrees mildly. 'I suppose I can only call myself fortunate.'
'Well, let us hope you remain so. I hardly imagine it'll be long before the War claims this latest pretty face.'
The implications are clear in his tone, and the Doctor grimaces, setting his teacup back in its saucer with a dissonant click. He doesn't particularly seem to want to leave, and certainly not under such circumstances, but unless he's planning on changing his mind, there are few other available courses of action. So he pushes his chair back with a muffled scrape, rising to smooth out the wrinkles that have collected in his trousers and meeting the Master's eyes across the table. 'I would hate to overstay my welcome,' he says coolly. 'And I imagine we both have things to do.'
The Master stands too, swallowing down the urge to say something unforgivably stupid, something to force the Doctor to listen to reason. 'I imagine so,' he concedes crisply. 'No rest for the wicked, as they say.'
He's something of a gentleman this time around, and so the Master walks the Doctor back to his TARDIS, where it stands in the middle of a corridor, looking entirely out of place. Before they can part, the Doctor turns impulsively and grasps the Master's hand in both of his, his face earnest and young, and the Master stiffens. 'Until next time,' he urges, and the Master sees it as the plea it is. 'Old friend.'
The Doctor's hand steals up to rest against his cheek for the briefest of stolen moments, before he disappears into his TARDIS, and the Master is left alone.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Doctor is on a visit to the Capitol when they recieve a live feed, announcing that the Dalek army has taken control of the Cruciform. Next to him, Romana gasps as the image flickers up onto the screen at the head of the Council Room, the Dalek Emperor in his black and gold announcing in a screeching staccato the terms that must be followed precisely should they wish the return of what remains of the station's crew alive. The gasp soon turns into a thin scowl, and her hands curl in her robes. Around the table there is complete silence, and a horrible, sinking feeling descends on the room as the video patches out.
The silence doesn't last for long, though, and grave-faced Time Lords dressed even now in ceremonial robes turn to each other, a low murmur filling the room, by turns furious or panicky. The Doctor just feels blank.
Romana turns to him, laying a small hand atop his, and her expression is pained. 'The Master, Doctor, I know-'
A thin, mirthless little laugh fights its way up from his throat, and the Doctor shakes his head, facing the Lady President with a wry, tired curl to his lips. 'He wasn't there.'
'What?'
'The Master. He wasn't there. No need to worry about him, Romana.'
'I wasn't,' she corrects wryly after a slightly confused pause, even though it's clear she doesn't know what he's talking about, and the Doctor's lips twitch, just faintly. His eyes are very faraway.
The High Council falls to silence as Romana turns to address them in carrying tones, and the Doctor looks down just for a moment, his hands twisting in his lap. There are other things to worry about now. The War goes on.
Wordcount: About 1,900
Rating: PG
Pairing: Eight/Jacobi!Master
Summary: During the War, the Doctor pays a visit to his oldest friend.
Disclaimer: I own nothing! Who belongs to itself, as the Master and the Doctor do to Derek Jacobi and Paul McGann, etc etc. This is only for my own twisted pleasure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They both know where the Master is situated, where the Time Lords have stationed him, a slave in the guise of a grand general of war. Aboard the Cruciform, not so very far from Gallifrey, but at very knot where the fighting is thickest. Grand general he may be, and the Time Lords may have resurrected him to win their war for them, but they have no great care for his life; if the Master dies, no-one will mourn.
The Doctor is there now, too, though his duty calls him elsewhere. He's dressed in this regeneration's favoured costume, the velvet frock coat and Victorian waistcoat and cravat, though they seem to hang wrongly on him now, like a man wearing fancy dress. Too often now the Doctor is clad as a soldier, amid the mud and blood and death of the planets which have got in the way of the Daleks and their war, fighting uselessly to save the lives of the natives who have little defence. But he's wearing his own clothes now, on this visit with his oldest of friends. Enmity is buried under more important things as the Master welcomes him- he himself wearing brocade and a high collar- draws him into what passes for a kitchen, offers him a cup of tea. The Doctor thanks him, looking haggard as he inhales the steam, and then slumps back in his chair. Strain weighs heavy on his shoulders, his long face pale and drained as his exhaustion settles into him.
'Arcadia?' The Master speaks after a moment, and the Doctor looks up at him, too tired for the moment to be sharp.
'Surely you've heard. I imagine you're at the centre of communications here; must be getting all the breaking news.'
'It fell,' supplies the Master, and there's no particular emotion in his voice about the fall of Arcadia, just the faintest hint of wry expectation.
'It fell,' the Doctor echoes, and takes a slow sip of his tea. 'And I nearly fell with it.'
The Master exhales a soft breath, fingertips tapping absently against the tabletop as he ruminates over his own tea, eyes unflinchingly on the Doctor. 'Arcadia, and before that Omphalos, and Freytus, and Ing'thre, and Kastropheria... You can see it, Doctor, surely.' And though his voice is soft, it's a tone that will not brook avoidance. The Doctor doesn't answer, though, just swirls his teaspoon through the steaming liquid in his cup; the delicate sound of the spoon clinking against china seems improbably loud over the humming of the station's engines.
'They're losing.' He doesn't say we, despite the fact that he's on the front lines for the Time Lords. 'They waited too long to mount an offense, trusted too much in their stagnant powers. You knew that, Doctor. Did you think the Time Lords would have brought me back if they weren't truly desperate? If they thought there was no other chance but one vested in a renegade, a so-called madman-'
'Of course I did!' The Doctor snaps, cutting the Master off before he can begin orating proper. There's anger there in his face, and pain, but the pain of honesty, because it's true, painfully so. He's fighting a losing battle, and he fully expects to die in the process. He sighs, thin lips pressing together, and he takes refuge once again in his tea. 'How could I not?' But it's not like the Doctor to say that, to admit a battle's lost before it's even been started, and so he's fought, oh yes, he's fought valiantly, and the Master has seen the many planets reclaimed by his efforts, the Dalek fleets stopped in space, hurled into the Vortex, where Time itself might rip them apart. But it's worn on him, turned him into a dead man fighting a dead race's battle, and it's that, perhaps, which makes the silence stick in the Master's throat, hanging heavy in the air between them.
'Come with me,' says the Master suddenly, and it's an invitation he hasn't made in a long, long time. Not since they were both young, and the Doctor exiled to Earth. He wouldn't have dared in the years following, wouldn't even have felt the impulse to ask, but things are different now; he's a new man, of sorts, and the two of them bound together in war the way they hadn't been before.
The Doctor arches an eyebrow. 'Come with you where?'
'Anywhere!' It's crisp, disdainful almost, though the Master's tone rings off the cold impersonality of the walls and table. Their destination, it would seem, is not the important thing. 'Leave the Time Lords to their war; it was never ours. We could destroy them all, the Daleks and Time Lords alike, oh, Doctor, it would be simple. Destroy them and cleanse the universe of them and their battle once and for all, or else choose another universe entirely, leave this one behind for something better.'
It's not pleading in his voice, but ardour, and his blue eyes glitter, powerful and compelling. It's not cowardice to flee this battle, it's wisdom, and for several long moments, the Master almost thinks that the Doctor understands. Surely it must be tempting, and why martyr himself for a people who had rejected him so very many times? The Master provides a way out, provides something the Doctor must have wanted for so very long; he can see it there in his clear eyes, so old in his new, young face. The Master could touch him now, reach across the table, slide a hand over one cheekbone, pull him close for a kiss and echo words from long ago. The two of them, Gallifrey's bastard children, the best and the brightest, and they have better things to do now than sacrifice themselves as nameless soldiers. He could, and the Doctor would melt to his touch, greedily taste of his mouth and clutch at his hair, and the Master would give without hesitation, knowing what it meant.
But then he shakes his head, the temptation to acquiesce huffing out of him along with a breath, and the eye contact breaks.
'Master...' He shakes his head, looking almost guilty. 'I can't. You know I can't.'
On the table, the Master's fingers curl quietly into a fist, the strain splintering white around the knuckles, but the rest of him remains perfectly collected. He's regained much of his skill at self-composure in this body, one that is truly his- the Trakenite form he'd worn for so long had often made that difficult, more prone to both emotional and physical reactions that didn't always want to be contained. 'No,' he bites out, all elegance and venom. 'You wouldn't, would you. I shall never understand your compulsion to play the hero at whatever cost. It's a wonder you've held onto your regenerations as long as you have.'
The familiar jibe makes it easy to ignore the sour something curling in his stomach that feels almost like regret. He's used to the Doctor's refusals, of course, but this one is nothing short of idiocy; the War will end him, and he doesn't have so very many regenerations left- or indeed the willpower to survive- that he might last beyond it. The Master could, of course, always hit him over the head and drag him off into his TARDIS, save his sorry skin that way, but he has more dignity than that.
The Doctor's returned to his earlier weighed-upon weariness, but he manages a crooked little smile for the Master, and it's painfully like a recognition. He knows exactly what the Master's covering up, and he's sorry for it. 'It is a wonder,' he agrees mildly. 'I suppose I can only call myself fortunate.'
'Well, let us hope you remain so. I hardly imagine it'll be long before the War claims this latest pretty face.'
The implications are clear in his tone, and the Doctor grimaces, setting his teacup back in its saucer with a dissonant click. He doesn't particularly seem to want to leave, and certainly not under such circumstances, but unless he's planning on changing his mind, there are few other available courses of action. So he pushes his chair back with a muffled scrape, rising to smooth out the wrinkles that have collected in his trousers and meeting the Master's eyes across the table. 'I would hate to overstay my welcome,' he says coolly. 'And I imagine we both have things to do.'
The Master stands too, swallowing down the urge to say something unforgivably stupid, something to force the Doctor to listen to reason. 'I imagine so,' he concedes crisply. 'No rest for the wicked, as they say.'
He's something of a gentleman this time around, and so the Master walks the Doctor back to his TARDIS, where it stands in the middle of a corridor, looking entirely out of place. Before they can part, the Doctor turns impulsively and grasps the Master's hand in both of his, his face earnest and young, and the Master stiffens. 'Until next time,' he urges, and the Master sees it as the plea it is. 'Old friend.'
The Doctor's hand steals up to rest against his cheek for the briefest of stolen moments, before he disappears into his TARDIS, and the Master is left alone.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Doctor is on a visit to the Capitol when they recieve a live feed, announcing that the Dalek army has taken control of the Cruciform. Next to him, Romana gasps as the image flickers up onto the screen at the head of the Council Room, the Dalek Emperor in his black and gold announcing in a screeching staccato the terms that must be followed precisely should they wish the return of what remains of the station's crew alive. The gasp soon turns into a thin scowl, and her hands curl in her robes. Around the table there is complete silence, and a horrible, sinking feeling descends on the room as the video patches out.
The silence doesn't last for long, though, and grave-faced Time Lords dressed even now in ceremonial robes turn to each other, a low murmur filling the room, by turns furious or panicky. The Doctor just feels blank.
Romana turns to him, laying a small hand atop his, and her expression is pained. 'The Master, Doctor, I know-'
A thin, mirthless little laugh fights its way up from his throat, and the Doctor shakes his head, facing the Lady President with a wry, tired curl to his lips. 'He wasn't there.'
'What?'
'The Master. He wasn't there. No need to worry about him, Romana.'
'I wasn't,' she corrects wryly after a slightly confused pause, even though it's clear she doesn't know what he's talking about, and the Doctor's lips twitch, just faintly. His eyes are very faraway.
The High Council falls to silence as Romana turns to address them in carrying tones, and the Doctor looks down just for a moment, his hands twisting in his lap. There are other things to worry about now. The War goes on.