Doctor/Master fic: Stars Go Out
Title: “Stars Go Out”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG
Timeline: post-The Voyage of the Damned (spoilers for Season 3 finale)
Summary: “What are you going to do now? Come on, Doctor! Heal me! Justify your name!” [vague Ten/Master] Please R&R!
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. And I’m… not the BBC. Too bad.
A/N: This is a little piece of angst that I felt compelled to write. I can’t help it: I love these characters)))
STARS GO OUT
They often come here. Out of every timeline, every corner of the universe the Doctor has chosen this. The end. The darkness. This endless pit of space where the stars have long since burned out; not even a speck of stardust remains.
Ah, these stars, how they used to blaze! Like fire across the universe - all gone out! The Master hates this bleak nothingness, but he can’t argue with the man at the steering wheel.
The Doctor lands the TARDIS on some godforsaken shard of asteroid and watches the space in silence.
The first time they arrive into the future the Master refuses even to look at it. He sits on the floor, hands on his knees, pouting like a stubborn schoolboy. The Doctor cannot risk leaving him alone in the console room (for all he knows, the other Time Lord is looking forward to the opportunity to highjack the machine and run off to wreak havoc elsewhere), so he lowers himself next to his prisoner and tries to crack a joke. Much to his surprise, the Master remains silent.
The second, the third and the fourth times are exactly the same. The fifth finally makes the Master lose his patience.
“What exactly do you have in mind, I wonder?” he grumbles. “Looks like Sunday school to me. Am I supposed to learn something?”
“Just enjoy the show,” the Doctor replies cryptically.
Next time the Master gives in. It takes him ages to pluck up his resolve and approach the doorway. He paces in front of it like a wild animal, peeking cautiously out for a glimpse of lifeless blackness, before he finally seats himself next to the Doctor.
Strictly speaking, there is no show. There is nothing. It smokes before them in the rectangular cut of the TARDIS’s doorway, intangible, majestic and so empty. Not nearly as frightening as the time vortex - yet it rolls right through the Master, leaving him quavering and devastated. He flinches, rises abruptly and retires as far into the living quarters as possible. The Doctor stares at the space a bit longer, then shuts the door, and the TARDIS takes off.
They return in what seems to be a few days, settle comfortably on the asteroid (the Master could swear it is the same bloody asteroid!) and resume their pointless contemplation. The Master feels stupid. Every time, every single time he hopes for a star. One little star, drawing a gleaming line across the blackness.
“Close it,” he says once nothing comes again. “Close it, Doctor! Close the bloody door!”
The Doctor doesn’t move. The Master squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth as the noise in his head grows louder. His fingers strum an anxious beat upon the floor.
“Uh-oh, I think I’ll venture a guess now. You are trying to unteach me!” The Doctor merely arches his eyebrows in the most innocent way imaginable. “Look at you; you’re like a missionary from stars, trying to reform me by showing me the error of my ways through these scary pictures!” He makes a face - a malevolent parody for tenderness - and bursts out laughing. “You don’t have to try so hard, Doctor. You’re still my number two favourite Time Lord!”
It sounds both childish (really, who can beat the Master in the Master’s own top chart?) and painful (what kind of a top chart holds only two positions?). The Doctor hems thoughtfully.
“When I destroy, I create,” the Master whispers huskily. His hand freezes for a moment, hovers over the floor and drops gently. “There is chaos, there is fear, there is fun! Now where’s the fun in this?”
“You wanted peace,” the Doctor reminds him all of a sudden.
“Ah, but there is no peace! There can never be peace!”
The Doctor silences him with a simple ‘shh,’ whispered in a barely audible voice. He only has time to frown, but before he can demand what the true meaning of this is, the Doctor stands up, towers over him and places his fingers on the Master’s temples. The Master chortles and remarks challengingly:
“What are you going to do now? Come on, Doctor! Heal me! Justify your name!”
The Doctor’s touch is warm and oddly soothing. A lot has transpired between them - the touch is vaguely reminiscent of everything. The good, the bad, the frightful and the forgotten. The Doctor presses gently on his temples; the pads of his fingers glide softly across the Master’s skin; his thoughts are but a warm whisper inside the Master’s head.
He can see things. The Doctor knows he can see them, and he knows that the Doctor knows - it is infinite like a projection of images reflected in their eyes.
He can see Gallifrey. For a moment he can’t tell whether it is his memory or the Doctor’s. They are one, for better or worse, the last living ghosts of a mighty civilization, willingly stranded on the edge of a dying universe under the faded stars.
The drums keep going in his head. He looks up into the darkness of the Doctor’s eyes and the Doctor’s mind… he sees a boy running… and wonders why he hadn’t done the same thing.
Louder. Louder. Louder.
Stopped.
The Master shivers and exhales shakily. Listens. Listens. But there is nothing.
“Better, isn’t it?” the Doctor’s mildly teasing voice breaks through to him. The Master stares at him, shocked.
“You did it.” His lips tremble. “You bloody did it! You made them go away.”
“Told you I’d do it at some point.”
The Master pushes at him, struggling to breathe past the choking sobs of half-laughter. “All this time you could just do it! But no! Huh! I think I could kiss you right now!”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, reveling in the sweet silence around him. Too good to be true. And the Doctor promptly disillusions him.
“It’s not permanent. I only shut them out. They will come back. And when they do, I’ll be there to help.”
The Master takes him in at an icy glance.
“You made me… need you.” His eyes grow wide at the excruciating revelation. His voice is laced with such venom and disgust that he wonders that perhaps that alone would be enough to destroy the Doctor. But the Doctor remains impassive, and the Master lets out a relaxed chuckle. “And they call me evil.”
“What can I say?” the Doctor grins perkily. “I’m brilliant!”
The Master gets up, their bodies only inches apart, almost touching, and for some reason it makes both of his hearts race. He has to admit this youngish incarnation has a certain charm, what with that skinny build and puppy-dog eyes.
“Well,” he whispers mischievously, “guess it’s not such a bad deal after all.”
The Doctor shakes his head. It wouldn’t bad at all…
…if only the Master was really here.
His phantom melts away, the snarky smirk and the playfully squinted eyes fading like smoke. The Doctor lowers his head and turns to cast a final glance at the space. He comes here to watch the dying stars every few days. They die peacefully because their time has come - nothing like his home planet that went out in flames and agony. It gives him something to think about.
Maybe it’s time to stop carrying around the ghosts of people he couldn’t save. Maybe he could try to live again…
After all, the Master would understand it like no other.
August 21-31, 2008
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG
Timeline: post-The Voyage of the Damned (spoilers for Season 3 finale)
Summary: “What are you going to do now? Come on, Doctor! Heal me! Justify your name!” [vague Ten/Master] Please R&R!
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. And I’m… not the BBC. Too bad.
A/N: This is a little piece of angst that I felt compelled to write. I can’t help it: I love these characters)))
STARS GO OUT
They often come here. Out of every timeline, every corner of the universe the Doctor has chosen this. The end. The darkness. This endless pit of space where the stars have long since burned out; not even a speck of stardust remains.
Ah, these stars, how they used to blaze! Like fire across the universe - all gone out! The Master hates this bleak nothingness, but he can’t argue with the man at the steering wheel.
The Doctor lands the TARDIS on some godforsaken shard of asteroid and watches the space in silence.
The first time they arrive into the future the Master refuses even to look at it. He sits on the floor, hands on his knees, pouting like a stubborn schoolboy. The Doctor cannot risk leaving him alone in the console room (for all he knows, the other Time Lord is looking forward to the opportunity to highjack the machine and run off to wreak havoc elsewhere), so he lowers himself next to his prisoner and tries to crack a joke. Much to his surprise, the Master remains silent.
The second, the third and the fourth times are exactly the same. The fifth finally makes the Master lose his patience.
“What exactly do you have in mind, I wonder?” he grumbles. “Looks like Sunday school to me. Am I supposed to learn something?”
“Just enjoy the show,” the Doctor replies cryptically.
Next time the Master gives in. It takes him ages to pluck up his resolve and approach the doorway. He paces in front of it like a wild animal, peeking cautiously out for a glimpse of lifeless blackness, before he finally seats himself next to the Doctor.
Strictly speaking, there is no show. There is nothing. It smokes before them in the rectangular cut of the TARDIS’s doorway, intangible, majestic and so empty. Not nearly as frightening as the time vortex - yet it rolls right through the Master, leaving him quavering and devastated. He flinches, rises abruptly and retires as far into the living quarters as possible. The Doctor stares at the space a bit longer, then shuts the door, and the TARDIS takes off.
They return in what seems to be a few days, settle comfortably on the asteroid (the Master could swear it is the same bloody asteroid!) and resume their pointless contemplation. The Master feels stupid. Every time, every single time he hopes for a star. One little star, drawing a gleaming line across the blackness.
“Close it,” he says once nothing comes again. “Close it, Doctor! Close the bloody door!”
The Doctor doesn’t move. The Master squeezes his eyes shut, grits his teeth as the noise in his head grows louder. His fingers strum an anxious beat upon the floor.
“Uh-oh, I think I’ll venture a guess now. You are trying to unteach me!” The Doctor merely arches his eyebrows in the most innocent way imaginable. “Look at you; you’re like a missionary from stars, trying to reform me by showing me the error of my ways through these scary pictures!” He makes a face - a malevolent parody for tenderness - and bursts out laughing. “You don’t have to try so hard, Doctor. You’re still my number two favourite Time Lord!”
It sounds both childish (really, who can beat the Master in the Master’s own top chart?) and painful (what kind of a top chart holds only two positions?). The Doctor hems thoughtfully.
“When I destroy, I create,” the Master whispers huskily. His hand freezes for a moment, hovers over the floor and drops gently. “There is chaos, there is fear, there is fun! Now where’s the fun in this?”
“You wanted peace,” the Doctor reminds him all of a sudden.
“Ah, but there is no peace! There can never be peace!”
The Doctor silences him with a simple ‘shh,’ whispered in a barely audible voice. He only has time to frown, but before he can demand what the true meaning of this is, the Doctor stands up, towers over him and places his fingers on the Master’s temples. The Master chortles and remarks challengingly:
“What are you going to do now? Come on, Doctor! Heal me! Justify your name!”
The Doctor’s touch is warm and oddly soothing. A lot has transpired between them - the touch is vaguely reminiscent of everything. The good, the bad, the frightful and the forgotten. The Doctor presses gently on his temples; the pads of his fingers glide softly across the Master’s skin; his thoughts are but a warm whisper inside the Master’s head.
He can see things. The Doctor knows he can see them, and he knows that the Doctor knows - it is infinite like a projection of images reflected in their eyes.
He can see Gallifrey. For a moment he can’t tell whether it is his memory or the Doctor’s. They are one, for better or worse, the last living ghosts of a mighty civilization, willingly stranded on the edge of a dying universe under the faded stars.
The drums keep going in his head. He looks up into the darkness of the Doctor’s eyes and the Doctor’s mind… he sees a boy running… and wonders why he hadn’t done the same thing.
Louder. Louder. Louder.
Stopped.
The Master shivers and exhales shakily. Listens. Listens. But there is nothing.
“Better, isn’t it?” the Doctor’s mildly teasing voice breaks through to him. The Master stares at him, shocked.
“You did it.” His lips tremble. “You bloody did it! You made them go away.”
“Told you I’d do it at some point.”
The Master pushes at him, struggling to breathe past the choking sobs of half-laughter. “All this time you could just do it! But no! Huh! I think I could kiss you right now!”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, reveling in the sweet silence around him. Too good to be true. And the Doctor promptly disillusions him.
“It’s not permanent. I only shut them out. They will come back. And when they do, I’ll be there to help.”
The Master takes him in at an icy glance.
“You made me… need you.” His eyes grow wide at the excruciating revelation. His voice is laced with such venom and disgust that he wonders that perhaps that alone would be enough to destroy the Doctor. But the Doctor remains impassive, and the Master lets out a relaxed chuckle. “And they call me evil.”
“What can I say?” the Doctor grins perkily. “I’m brilliant!”
The Master gets up, their bodies only inches apart, almost touching, and for some reason it makes both of his hearts race. He has to admit this youngish incarnation has a certain charm, what with that skinny build and puppy-dog eyes.
“Well,” he whispers mischievously, “guess it’s not such a bad deal after all.”
The Doctor shakes his head. It wouldn’t bad at all…
…if only the Master was really here.
His phantom melts away, the snarky smirk and the playfully squinted eyes fading like smoke. The Doctor lowers his head and turns to cast a final glance at the space. He comes here to watch the dying stars every few days. They die peacefully because their time has come - nothing like his home planet that went out in flames and agony. It gives him something to think about.
Maybe it’s time to stop carrying around the ghosts of people he couldn’t save. Maybe he could try to live again…
After all, the Master would understand it like no other.
August 21-31, 2008