Fic repost: Cataracts and Cascades
Cataracts and Cascades
Doctor Who
Rating: NC-17
(explicit sex)
Characters: Seven/Ainley!Master
Wordcount: 3,100ish
Summary: There are some things that can never be wiped clean completely.
A/N: Originally posted here. Part VI of the unanoning mission!
The Master could feel his mind slowly ebbing away. He growled out loud as he clawed at his thoughts, trying to maintain some semblance of mental integrity. More and more frequently he was obsessed with the idea of the hunt, of running back into the fields of dying worlds. They called to him. While he pretended to be irked by the Doctor's insistence on keeping him on the TARDIS while he searched for a cure, in truth the Master was rather grateful that the outer doors remained obstinately closed. It prevented the repetition of the scene that had occurred when the Doctor had returned, sans companion, to rescue the Master from the Cheetah planet.
The Master was worryingly certain that he'd do more than claw up the Doctor's jumper this time.
So, instead of thinking up a decent escape attempt, or trying to kill the Doctor, or seizing control of the TARDIS, or doing anything worthwhile, the Master sat, and shook, and tried to ignore the fact that the once unnoticeable freckles on his arms were slowly growing into full-fledged spots and markings.
He was doing so in one of the back corridors when the Doctor walked through, muttering to himself. The Master tried to pretend he hadn't seen him, but the man had the gall to pat him on the shoulder, in an awkward, distracted way. The Master's head snapped up and he stared after the Doctor, who was already halfway down the corridor.
The Doctor's clothes were rumpled, as if he had either slept in them or not slept at all. He still hadn't bothered to replace his savaged jumper, and his shirt was untucked. The Master stared at the white tails as the Doctor disappeared from view.
Some new urge began to stir inside of him, and he tamped it down immediately. All of his impulses were suspect at the moment. The Master groaned and covered his eyes as the urge coiled in his stomach, making him feel tense and nauseous. The Doctor had better figure out how to fix this.
---
Two days later, the Doctor still hadn't stopped by with a ridiculous miracle panacea, or a cobbled-together technological marvel, or anything at all. The Master had taken to waiting in the TARDIS' meadows, hoping that would at least ease the animalistic longing, but nothing seemed to be slowing the process. He got up, wobbling on legs that no longer seemed to be the right shape, and stalked off to find the Doctor.
The TARDIS guided the Master to the labs without much fuss. The Master could feel her concern wrapping around him, but he shook it off, irritably. The Doctor would know what to do. The Doctor.
The Doctor was standing in front of one of the large stainless steel tables, pouring liquid from one beaker into another. The mixture hissed and spat, and a few drops landed on the Doctor's hand. He set the empty beaker down and rubbed idly at the drops, smearing them into long streaks of discoloration.
Such stains covered his skin and his clothes. He was still wearing the same shirt the Master had seen him in days before, but now only patches of it were white. The back of the Doctor's neck was covered in some kind of black substance, which confused the Master until he watched the Doctor wipe his hands on an oily rag and then rub his nape, apparently frustrated.
The new, odd urge sprang up again. The Master fisted his hands and closed his eyes, trying to ignore it. He was not going to fall prey to some sort of ridiculous grooming instinct. He shuffled his feet a little, working out the sick energy of the need.
He felt the Doctor turn around, and his eyes opened.
"Master? Are you alright? Did you need something?" The Doctor took a step toward the Master, and then stopped. The Master supposed he must look a sight.
"Merely checking up on your progress, Doctor." The syllables felt thick in the Master's mouth. He forced them between his canines, and hoped they didn't sound too wrong.
"Ah. Yes." The Doctor looked up, and then down, anywhere but at the Master. "I'm afraid it hasn't been going too well. The main problem is that I can't quite identify what's even causing the change. You should have been released after we left the planet, but instead the mutation seems to be accelerating, and-"
The Master started to lose his concentration. He tried to pull his attention back to the Doctor's explanation, but the words kept slipping away, replaced by simple details. The Doctor's hair was sticking up. He had a smear of dirt on his nose. One of his eyebrows had gone a bit wild, ruffed the wrong way.
The Master could tell, dimly, that he was breathing faster. The Doctor came forward, hesitantly.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Everything's fine." The Master backed out of the room. "Tell me if you find anything."
The door closed, and the Master leant on the wall of the corridor and yearned.
---
The next day, the Doctor came to him. The Master was in one of the bathrooms, the one with the generously-sized bath and shower. He'd had some half-formed notion that water would keep the cat at bay, but that didn't seem to be working out. Perhaps Cheetahs swam. Now he simply sat under the stream from the showerhead, shivering. Naked - he was still self-aware enough to not want to ruin his coat - he could see that the spots were forming patterns, spreading from the light blotches on his stomach to the darker prints on his arms and legs. In the mirrored walls of the bath, he could see the black lines coming down from his eyes and framing his nose, which seemed flatter than it had been. He hardly looked himself. Perhaps that was what had made the Doctor pause, before.
The Master tipped his head back and imagined that the water could wash all this away.
The Doctor opened the door to the shower and leaned in. The Master, startled, cracked his head against the back wall.
"Oh, I am sorry." The Doctor darted a hand out to steady the Master, and his sleeve got soaked. "Everything alright?"
"What," the Master growled, and then he caught himself, forced his voice back into his normal tones. Something approaching normal, anyway. "What do you want?"
"You asked me to tell you if I found anything out. I have." The Doctor did one of his up-down looks, and the stopped, just above the Master's waistline. His eyes fixed on the Master's left ear instead. "You're still infected because the Cheetah virus is using you as a carrier. Your hybrid physiology is strong enough to sustain a strain of the virus that isn't dependent on the planet or the pack's existence."
"So?" The Master perked up. The Doctor had found out what was happening. The Doctor could fix it.
"Now that I know exactly what's going on, I can give samples of the Cheetah virus to any sufficiently advanced research hospital, and they should be able to synthesize a vaccine. That's important because I could treat the symptoms now, but I won't be able to prevent a reoccurrence without help from your immune system." The Doctor was slowing his explanation down. He could probably tell that the Master was having trouble processing the information. "Do you understand? I've set a course to Dalmar IV. You're going to be fine."
"Yes." The Master understood. He was safe, now. He didn't have to fight so hard. He was going to be fine.
The Doctor looked so messy.
The Master surged up and grabbed the Doctor by his collar. The Doctor caught at his hands, but the Master ignored him, carefully undoing each button of the Doctor's shirt.
"What are you doing?" The Doctor sounded frantic and a little afraid.
"Doctor," the Master purred the word, trying to reassure him. "Thank you."
"Yes, of course, but what are you doing?" The Doctor struggled a little bit as the Master pushed the shirt off his shoulders, but the Master pressed him back against the open shower door, using his greater height and enhanced strength.
"You can't go to the hospital like this," the Master reasoned. He fought for the words, trying to form them into an argument the Doctor would accept. "You need a shower and a rest. Come in with me." He nuzzled at the Doctor's collarbone and undid the Doctor's belt.
"I- I- Really, Master." The Doctor's voice was high-pitched, but he didn't sound scared anymore. The Master laughed with triumph, letting the sound be muffled by the Doctor's skin. Giving into his urges felt so good.
The Doctor's trousers slid to the floor, followed by his boxers. The Master pulled him into the bath, closing the door behind them.
"Is this another manifestation of the virus? What are you feeling?" The Doctor's questions continued, but the Master let them float over the surface of his mind, unanswered. He was much more interested in the way that water was beginning to drip down the Doctor's forehead, collecting on his chin.
He pinned the Doctor to the wall and began to lap at the water, letting the rough of his tongue scrape against the Doctor's stubble. The Doctor tasted of chemicals and stale sweat and oil and clean, clean water. The Master felt something within him settle, and he rumbled in his throat as he moved on to groom behind the Doctor's ear.
The Doctor wriggled briefly, then relaxed as he realized what the Master was doing. The Master continued, unperturbed. He used his fingers to comb through the Doctor's hair, and then straightened the tangles with short drags of his tongue. Some of the hair caught in his mouth, and he coughed before moving on to the Doctor's shoulders and neck.
The Doctor made a strange noise as the Master lapped at his throat. The Master supposed this felt good for him as well. He'd wanted to do this for as long as he could remember. Forever, maybe.
He could tell that he was losing coherence the more he indulged himself. But that was fine, the Doctor knew how to fix him, and this was right. It was the Master's fault the Doctor hadn't been taking care of himself. It was his responsibility to make sure the Doctor was clean.
The Master closed his eyes and worked his way down the Doctor's chest, almost incidentally scraping one of his nipples, first with his nails, then with his tongue. The Doctor moaned and tried to grab at the Master, but the Master kept him still against the wall. The Doctor calmed down when the Master moved on, anyway.
The Doctor's stomach tasted like water and sweat and arousal. The Master opened his eyes, intrigued by the new element. The Doctor was hard in front of him and, looking up, his mouth was open and he was breathing heavily. The Master considered him.
"Don't." said the Doctor, coming back to himself. "This isn't right. You're not in control of yourself."
"I want to," said the Master. He rose from his crouch and kissed the Doctor, nipping at his lip.
"You don't know what you want," said the Doctor. He was sad-eyed and sopping wet, and he pushed the Master away, gently. "I've had my shower. Let's go to the hospital, shall we?"
"No," said the Master. He did know what he wanted. He wanted the Doctor, he wanted this. "Doctor, please." He pressed back into the Doctor, willing him to understand.
"Ah!" The Doctor's breath hitched as the Master bit carefully at the line of his chin, and his hands held tight to the Master's shoulders.
He didn't push him away again.
"Master, pay attention. Wait." The Doctor brought one of his hands up to the Master's temple, and the Master felt him probing at his mind. A bit of clarity wormed its way into the Master's thoughts, and he straightened up to look into the Doctor's gray-blue eyes.
"If we do this, you'll come to the hospital, won't you?"
"Yes," said the Master. Of course he would. The Doctor would take him to the hospital and he would be fixed.
"And you really do want to do this? It's not just the virus?"
"I want to," said the Master. He smiled, close-lipped to hide his teeth. The Doctor went further into his mind, chasing the truth of the matter, and then withdrew.
"Well. Go ahead, then." The Doctor released the Master.
The Master kissed him again, swiping his tongue across the Doctor's lips. Then he dropped back down and brought the Doctor's erection into his mouth.
Some instinct told him that the Doctor probably wouldn't appreciate his rough tongue now. Instead the Master concentrated on sucking, then swallowing the Doctor's cock. His throat worked, and he let the water carry away the saliva that was drooling from between his lips. The Doctor was silent at first, but he soon began to babble praise, switching indiscriminately between the Master's title and his childhood name. The Master purred, appreciatively, and the Doctor bucked into the vibration. His hands settled into the Master's hair, and the Master arched up into the contact.
The Doctor was making short little thrusts now, and the Master reached down to fist his own erection, letting the Doctor take more control.
"Master, oh, I'm very close-"
The Master purred harder and the Doctor came with a cry. The Master swallowed, then pulled off of the Doctor and coughed wetly.
The Doctor stroked his hair, and then folded down into a puddle of knees. He kissed the Master and covered the Master's hand with his, helping him stroke himself into completion. The Master moaned into the Doctor's mouth. After a moment, the water washed away the evidence of his own orgasm.
They sat together for a while, and then the Doctor shut off the spray.
"Up we get," he said. "Towels, clothes, and hospital. Maybe a nap first." The Doctor yawned and stood up.
"Mm. Yes." The Master levered himself up as well, using the wall for support. "Good."
The Doctor pushed open the door and stepped out. The Master followed, only to be enveloped in a large towel the Doctor had pulled from one of the cupboards. The Master wrapped it around himself, suddenly cold. The clarity the Doctor had given him was starting to fade away, and he didn't want to be like this anymore. He didn't want the Doctor to question him. He wanted the certainty back.
The Doctor turned, and smiled. He slung his own towel over his shoulder and strode out, still dripping, into the corridors of the TARDIS. The Master stood for a moment, trying to think.
Everything was going to be fine. Wasn't it? But he could remember being certain, and he could remember what he was certain about. He wouldn't be content to stay here with the Doctor. There were whole worlds out there, calling out to be ruled.
The Master concentrated, feeling as if he were on the edge of something. If the Cheetah virus wasn't controlling him, he would go back to his old life. Killing people. Toppling governments. Taking mastery.
That sounded fine. But somehow he couldn't imagine the Doctor agreeing.
"Don't just stand there." The Doctor was back, fully dressed now. His panama hat covered his wet hair. "Your clothes are on the rack behind you. Get ready, we're already landed."
"Yes." The Master dressed, mechanically. "Doctor?"
"Hmm?"
"What happens after? After I'm fixed?" The Master shrugged on his coat, and stared directly at the Doctor.
The Doctor wouldn't meet his eyes.
"We'll cross that quandary when we come to it. Let's go."
The Master slicked back his hair with a swipe of his hand. He followed the Doctor out.
---
The Master lay on the hospital bed, watching the saline solution drip from the bag down into his veins. He felt weak and blank after the treatment, but he also felt gloriously free of the Cheetah taint. He grinned and didn't have to hide any fangs.
"Of course, you'll come back to the TARDIS with me," said the Doctor. "Can't exactly leave you here, not all on your own. We'll find your TARDIS and then- well, we'll see."
"So we shall, my dear Doctor." The words came easily, without having to push down a growl. The Master grinned again.
"Right," said the Doctor. "Right. So, why don't I just go and get you discharged? Would you like a wheelchair? I always wanted to push one."
"If you like," said the Master, magnanimously. He watched the Doctor hurry nervously out, and then waited a moment. Once he was sure the Doctor was gone, he pulled the drip out of his arm and tottered out of bed. The Doctor had gone down to the left, to the nurses' station - the Master went to the right, to the security desk.
The guard was asleep. The Master shook him, and then grabbed at his thoughts as soon as he became conscious.
"Listen to me. I am a patient. There is a man trying to abduct me." The Master impressed an image of the Doctor into the guard's mind. "Go and detain him. He is at the nurses’ station. Now."
The guard got up and began to walk down the hall, reaching for his stun gun. The Master stopped him, as an after-thought.
"Incidentally, do you have any extra uniforms?"
Patient's gowns were fine for lying in beds, but for walking around they were more than a little drafty.
---
Three hours later, the Master was the proud possessor of a stolen space shuttle, bound for worlds unknown. The Doctor had no means of tracking him, since the ship was off autopilot. The Master intended to land on the first sufficiently advanced planet he came across and summon his TARDIS.
He felt a brief pang of regret for the possibilities he'd left behind, but he shoved it away. He wouldn't be kept by the Doctor, not when he no longer needed his help. Perhaps in a month or so, once he was properly settled, he'd seek the Doctor out again. Just for the sake of rivalry, of course. And perhaps something else.
The Master hummed, remembering the taste of water and the Doctor on his tongue.
Doctor Who
Rating: NC-17
(explicit sex)
Characters: Seven/Ainley!Master
Wordcount: 3,100ish
Summary: There are some things that can never be wiped clean completely.
A/N: Originally posted here. Part VI of the unanoning mission!
The Master could feel his mind slowly ebbing away. He growled out loud as he clawed at his thoughts, trying to maintain some semblance of mental integrity. More and more frequently he was obsessed with the idea of the hunt, of running back into the fields of dying worlds. They called to him. While he pretended to be irked by the Doctor's insistence on keeping him on the TARDIS while he searched for a cure, in truth the Master was rather grateful that the outer doors remained obstinately closed. It prevented the repetition of the scene that had occurred when the Doctor had returned, sans companion, to rescue the Master from the Cheetah planet.
The Master was worryingly certain that he'd do more than claw up the Doctor's jumper this time.
So, instead of thinking up a decent escape attempt, or trying to kill the Doctor, or seizing control of the TARDIS, or doing anything worthwhile, the Master sat, and shook, and tried to ignore the fact that the once unnoticeable freckles on his arms were slowly growing into full-fledged spots and markings.
He was doing so in one of the back corridors when the Doctor walked through, muttering to himself. The Master tried to pretend he hadn't seen him, but the man had the gall to pat him on the shoulder, in an awkward, distracted way. The Master's head snapped up and he stared after the Doctor, who was already halfway down the corridor.
The Doctor's clothes were rumpled, as if he had either slept in them or not slept at all. He still hadn't bothered to replace his savaged jumper, and his shirt was untucked. The Master stared at the white tails as the Doctor disappeared from view.
Some new urge began to stir inside of him, and he tamped it down immediately. All of his impulses were suspect at the moment. The Master groaned and covered his eyes as the urge coiled in his stomach, making him feel tense and nauseous. The Doctor had better figure out how to fix this.
---
Two days later, the Doctor still hadn't stopped by with a ridiculous miracle panacea, or a cobbled-together technological marvel, or anything at all. The Master had taken to waiting in the TARDIS' meadows, hoping that would at least ease the animalistic longing, but nothing seemed to be slowing the process. He got up, wobbling on legs that no longer seemed to be the right shape, and stalked off to find the Doctor.
The TARDIS guided the Master to the labs without much fuss. The Master could feel her concern wrapping around him, but he shook it off, irritably. The Doctor would know what to do. The Doctor.
The Doctor was standing in front of one of the large stainless steel tables, pouring liquid from one beaker into another. The mixture hissed and spat, and a few drops landed on the Doctor's hand. He set the empty beaker down and rubbed idly at the drops, smearing them into long streaks of discoloration.
Such stains covered his skin and his clothes. He was still wearing the same shirt the Master had seen him in days before, but now only patches of it were white. The back of the Doctor's neck was covered in some kind of black substance, which confused the Master until he watched the Doctor wipe his hands on an oily rag and then rub his nape, apparently frustrated.
The new, odd urge sprang up again. The Master fisted his hands and closed his eyes, trying to ignore it. He was not going to fall prey to some sort of ridiculous grooming instinct. He shuffled his feet a little, working out the sick energy of the need.
He felt the Doctor turn around, and his eyes opened.
"Master? Are you alright? Did you need something?" The Doctor took a step toward the Master, and then stopped. The Master supposed he must look a sight.
"Merely checking up on your progress, Doctor." The syllables felt thick in the Master's mouth. He forced them between his canines, and hoped they didn't sound too wrong.
"Ah. Yes." The Doctor looked up, and then down, anywhere but at the Master. "I'm afraid it hasn't been going too well. The main problem is that I can't quite identify what's even causing the change. You should have been released after we left the planet, but instead the mutation seems to be accelerating, and-"
The Master started to lose his concentration. He tried to pull his attention back to the Doctor's explanation, but the words kept slipping away, replaced by simple details. The Doctor's hair was sticking up. He had a smear of dirt on his nose. One of his eyebrows had gone a bit wild, ruffed the wrong way.
The Master could tell, dimly, that he was breathing faster. The Doctor came forward, hesitantly.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Everything's fine." The Master backed out of the room. "Tell me if you find anything."
The door closed, and the Master leant on the wall of the corridor and yearned.
---
The next day, the Doctor came to him. The Master was in one of the bathrooms, the one with the generously-sized bath and shower. He'd had some half-formed notion that water would keep the cat at bay, but that didn't seem to be working out. Perhaps Cheetahs swam. Now he simply sat under the stream from the showerhead, shivering. Naked - he was still self-aware enough to not want to ruin his coat - he could see that the spots were forming patterns, spreading from the light blotches on his stomach to the darker prints on his arms and legs. In the mirrored walls of the bath, he could see the black lines coming down from his eyes and framing his nose, which seemed flatter than it had been. He hardly looked himself. Perhaps that was what had made the Doctor pause, before.
The Master tipped his head back and imagined that the water could wash all this away.
The Doctor opened the door to the shower and leaned in. The Master, startled, cracked his head against the back wall.
"Oh, I am sorry." The Doctor darted a hand out to steady the Master, and his sleeve got soaked. "Everything alright?"
"What," the Master growled, and then he caught himself, forced his voice back into his normal tones. Something approaching normal, anyway. "What do you want?"
"You asked me to tell you if I found anything out. I have." The Doctor did one of his up-down looks, and the stopped, just above the Master's waistline. His eyes fixed on the Master's left ear instead. "You're still infected because the Cheetah virus is using you as a carrier. Your hybrid physiology is strong enough to sustain a strain of the virus that isn't dependent on the planet or the pack's existence."
"So?" The Master perked up. The Doctor had found out what was happening. The Doctor could fix it.
"Now that I know exactly what's going on, I can give samples of the Cheetah virus to any sufficiently advanced research hospital, and they should be able to synthesize a vaccine. That's important because I could treat the symptoms now, but I won't be able to prevent a reoccurrence without help from your immune system." The Doctor was slowing his explanation down. He could probably tell that the Master was having trouble processing the information. "Do you understand? I've set a course to Dalmar IV. You're going to be fine."
"Yes." The Master understood. He was safe, now. He didn't have to fight so hard. He was going to be fine.
The Doctor looked so messy.
The Master surged up and grabbed the Doctor by his collar. The Doctor caught at his hands, but the Master ignored him, carefully undoing each button of the Doctor's shirt.
"What are you doing?" The Doctor sounded frantic and a little afraid.
"Doctor," the Master purred the word, trying to reassure him. "Thank you."
"Yes, of course, but what are you doing?" The Doctor struggled a little bit as the Master pushed the shirt off his shoulders, but the Master pressed him back against the open shower door, using his greater height and enhanced strength.
"You can't go to the hospital like this," the Master reasoned. He fought for the words, trying to form them into an argument the Doctor would accept. "You need a shower and a rest. Come in with me." He nuzzled at the Doctor's collarbone and undid the Doctor's belt.
"I- I- Really, Master." The Doctor's voice was high-pitched, but he didn't sound scared anymore. The Master laughed with triumph, letting the sound be muffled by the Doctor's skin. Giving into his urges felt so good.
The Doctor's trousers slid to the floor, followed by his boxers. The Master pulled him into the bath, closing the door behind them.
"Is this another manifestation of the virus? What are you feeling?" The Doctor's questions continued, but the Master let them float over the surface of his mind, unanswered. He was much more interested in the way that water was beginning to drip down the Doctor's forehead, collecting on his chin.
He pinned the Doctor to the wall and began to lap at the water, letting the rough of his tongue scrape against the Doctor's stubble. The Doctor tasted of chemicals and stale sweat and oil and clean, clean water. The Master felt something within him settle, and he rumbled in his throat as he moved on to groom behind the Doctor's ear.
The Doctor wriggled briefly, then relaxed as he realized what the Master was doing. The Master continued, unperturbed. He used his fingers to comb through the Doctor's hair, and then straightened the tangles with short drags of his tongue. Some of the hair caught in his mouth, and he coughed before moving on to the Doctor's shoulders and neck.
The Doctor made a strange noise as the Master lapped at his throat. The Master supposed this felt good for him as well. He'd wanted to do this for as long as he could remember. Forever, maybe.
He could tell that he was losing coherence the more he indulged himself. But that was fine, the Doctor knew how to fix him, and this was right. It was the Master's fault the Doctor hadn't been taking care of himself. It was his responsibility to make sure the Doctor was clean.
The Master closed his eyes and worked his way down the Doctor's chest, almost incidentally scraping one of his nipples, first with his nails, then with his tongue. The Doctor moaned and tried to grab at the Master, but the Master kept him still against the wall. The Doctor calmed down when the Master moved on, anyway.
The Doctor's stomach tasted like water and sweat and arousal. The Master opened his eyes, intrigued by the new element. The Doctor was hard in front of him and, looking up, his mouth was open and he was breathing heavily. The Master considered him.
"Don't." said the Doctor, coming back to himself. "This isn't right. You're not in control of yourself."
"I want to," said the Master. He rose from his crouch and kissed the Doctor, nipping at his lip.
"You don't know what you want," said the Doctor. He was sad-eyed and sopping wet, and he pushed the Master away, gently. "I've had my shower. Let's go to the hospital, shall we?"
"No," said the Master. He did know what he wanted. He wanted the Doctor, he wanted this. "Doctor, please." He pressed back into the Doctor, willing him to understand.
"Ah!" The Doctor's breath hitched as the Master bit carefully at the line of his chin, and his hands held tight to the Master's shoulders.
He didn't push him away again.
"Master, pay attention. Wait." The Doctor brought one of his hands up to the Master's temple, and the Master felt him probing at his mind. A bit of clarity wormed its way into the Master's thoughts, and he straightened up to look into the Doctor's gray-blue eyes.
"If we do this, you'll come to the hospital, won't you?"
"Yes," said the Master. Of course he would. The Doctor would take him to the hospital and he would be fixed.
"And you really do want to do this? It's not just the virus?"
"I want to," said the Master. He smiled, close-lipped to hide his teeth. The Doctor went further into his mind, chasing the truth of the matter, and then withdrew.
"Well. Go ahead, then." The Doctor released the Master.
The Master kissed him again, swiping his tongue across the Doctor's lips. Then he dropped back down and brought the Doctor's erection into his mouth.
Some instinct told him that the Doctor probably wouldn't appreciate his rough tongue now. Instead the Master concentrated on sucking, then swallowing the Doctor's cock. His throat worked, and he let the water carry away the saliva that was drooling from between his lips. The Doctor was silent at first, but he soon began to babble praise, switching indiscriminately between the Master's title and his childhood name. The Master purred, appreciatively, and the Doctor bucked into the vibration. His hands settled into the Master's hair, and the Master arched up into the contact.
The Doctor was making short little thrusts now, and the Master reached down to fist his own erection, letting the Doctor take more control.
"Master, oh, I'm very close-"
The Master purred harder and the Doctor came with a cry. The Master swallowed, then pulled off of the Doctor and coughed wetly.
The Doctor stroked his hair, and then folded down into a puddle of knees. He kissed the Master and covered the Master's hand with his, helping him stroke himself into completion. The Master moaned into the Doctor's mouth. After a moment, the water washed away the evidence of his own orgasm.
They sat together for a while, and then the Doctor shut off the spray.
"Up we get," he said. "Towels, clothes, and hospital. Maybe a nap first." The Doctor yawned and stood up.
"Mm. Yes." The Master levered himself up as well, using the wall for support. "Good."
The Doctor pushed open the door and stepped out. The Master followed, only to be enveloped in a large towel the Doctor had pulled from one of the cupboards. The Master wrapped it around himself, suddenly cold. The clarity the Doctor had given him was starting to fade away, and he didn't want to be like this anymore. He didn't want the Doctor to question him. He wanted the certainty back.
The Doctor turned, and smiled. He slung his own towel over his shoulder and strode out, still dripping, into the corridors of the TARDIS. The Master stood for a moment, trying to think.
Everything was going to be fine. Wasn't it? But he could remember being certain, and he could remember what he was certain about. He wouldn't be content to stay here with the Doctor. There were whole worlds out there, calling out to be ruled.
The Master concentrated, feeling as if he were on the edge of something. If the Cheetah virus wasn't controlling him, he would go back to his old life. Killing people. Toppling governments. Taking mastery.
That sounded fine. But somehow he couldn't imagine the Doctor agreeing.
"Don't just stand there." The Doctor was back, fully dressed now. His panama hat covered his wet hair. "Your clothes are on the rack behind you. Get ready, we're already landed."
"Yes." The Master dressed, mechanically. "Doctor?"
"Hmm?"
"What happens after? After I'm fixed?" The Master shrugged on his coat, and stared directly at the Doctor.
The Doctor wouldn't meet his eyes.
"We'll cross that quandary when we come to it. Let's go."
The Master slicked back his hair with a swipe of his hand. He followed the Doctor out.
---
The Master lay on the hospital bed, watching the saline solution drip from the bag down into his veins. He felt weak and blank after the treatment, but he also felt gloriously free of the Cheetah taint. He grinned and didn't have to hide any fangs.
"Of course, you'll come back to the TARDIS with me," said the Doctor. "Can't exactly leave you here, not all on your own. We'll find your TARDIS and then- well, we'll see."
"So we shall, my dear Doctor." The words came easily, without having to push down a growl. The Master grinned again.
"Right," said the Doctor. "Right. So, why don't I just go and get you discharged? Would you like a wheelchair? I always wanted to push one."
"If you like," said the Master, magnanimously. He watched the Doctor hurry nervously out, and then waited a moment. Once he was sure the Doctor was gone, he pulled the drip out of his arm and tottered out of bed. The Doctor had gone down to the left, to the nurses' station - the Master went to the right, to the security desk.
The guard was asleep. The Master shook him, and then grabbed at his thoughts as soon as he became conscious.
"Listen to me. I am a patient. There is a man trying to abduct me." The Master impressed an image of the Doctor into the guard's mind. "Go and detain him. He is at the nurses’ station. Now."
The guard got up and began to walk down the hall, reaching for his stun gun. The Master stopped him, as an after-thought.
"Incidentally, do you have any extra uniforms?"
Patient's gowns were fine for lying in beds, but for walking around they were more than a little drafty.
---
Three hours later, the Master was the proud possessor of a stolen space shuttle, bound for worlds unknown. The Doctor had no means of tracking him, since the ship was off autopilot. The Master intended to land on the first sufficiently advanced planet he came across and summon his TARDIS.
He felt a brief pang of regret for the possibilities he'd left behind, but he shoved it away. He wouldn't be kept by the Doctor, not when he no longer needed his help. Perhaps in a month or so, once he was properly settled, he'd seek the Doctor out again. Just for the sake of rivalry, of course. And perhaps something else.
The Master hummed, remembering the taste of water and the Doctor on his tongue.