(no subject)
Shadow in Plain Sight the Master and implied Ten/Rose, PG-13
Oh but it’s simply marvellous how the Doctor loses her. Rose Tyler is on the list of the dead and he makes certain to attend each and every one of the memorial services. It’s good for his image - dear Harold Saxon who is rising in the polls every day, so sympathetic to those who have lost loved ones in the wake of this terrible, AWFUL tragedy... 3,043
“I’ve been watching you, you know.”
The Doctor is silent and as inscrutable as ever. Not even a flicker of recognition to show that he’s listening. But the Master knows, he knows that there is little he hates more than sitting still and silent and ooh doesn’t it just burn him to sit there and be so utterly defeated? He thrills a little at the thought.
“I have,” he continues idly. “Closed Circuit Television - such fascinatingly primitive technology isn’t it Doctor? But invaluable for spying on people who don’t want to be seen. Or just the sort of people who are too clumsy to cover their own tracks...”
Nothing. But he’s listening. How could he not? Oh yes. He’s listening.
Listen, listen.
And if he’s listening then that means he is wondering. He is thinking. He is working over and over and over his words in that colossally thick brain of his like a towel inside a tumble dryer.
How long has he been watching? How much does he know? Is he lying? Is it an empty threat, a promise, a statement of fact?
He leaves it at that. Moves on to other things.
He will return to it later.
It’s all too easy really. Setting up a fake past and forging documents is all but child’s play for a Time Lord - even with the limited technology he has on hand. Setting himself up in politics takes some time, he’ll admit that. But he just shines as the Minister of Defence, working with Torchwood to refine the alien weapons they’ve amassed. Developing the Archangel Network as his own little side project with the Prime Ministers blessing.
Why, the pieces fall into place with alarming ease.
Finding the Doctor takes longer than he anticipated though. The problem being that the damned coot rarely returns to the same place twice. And you can’t rely on just any blasted human to be able to look past a perception filter and see the TARDIS. He bullies some idiot called Roderick King, one of the junior cabinet members, into becoming his own personal Doctor watching department but keeps little hope that he will actually find anything.
You can imagine his surprise when the call comes in that there have been recurring, almost regular sightings of an old fashioned Police Box, all around a particular section of South London. The CCTV network, however primitive it may be, quickly becomes the Masters greatest ally and he exploits it to the fullest capacity.
With time, Roderick begins to piece together a rough timeline, including an intriguing run in with former MP for Flydale North, now Prime Minister Harriet Jones. At least two different regenerations are observed in and around the same areas of London within a twelve month period, both of them in the company of one particularly blonde, human creature.
It’s a sight that never fails to make the Masters mouth water. She means something to the Doctor, this girl. He’s always with her, always holding her hand, always happy. He brings her home to visit her mother and do her washing. He even crosses his own timeline to see her, the fool.
He can use her. Oh yes, he can use her.
They start a file on her, compiling birth certificates, school reports, even a picture from the local paper from when she won some sort of demented medal. It turns out that this Rose Marion Tyler person is depressingly uninteresting; single parent household, a high school dropout with an abusive ex-boyfriend. A no-hoper of the worst possible kind.
It figures that the Doctor would pick up the most pathetic specimen of humanity he could find and cling to it. He’s almost disappointed. Except, she lives in this slum which has such a dreadful crime rate. This means CCTV cameras and surveillance footage and the Doctor just keeps on bringing her back there.
It’s such an absurdly useful way to keep track of his movements.
“Tell me about her.”
The Doctor says nothing and the Master lolls in his chair, halfway bored already.
“Oh go on,” he drawls. “You know which one I mean don’t you? Not Martha Jones. The one who wore too much makeup. Peroxide girl. What was her name again?”
And oh - would you look at that! He’s finally gotten a reaction! Splendid! The eyes have snapped up to him, blazing quietly away.
“Was it Daisy?” he ponders, privately delighting in the weary, barely disguised contempt being shot at him. “Lily? Iris? Some horrendous Earth flower. No? Yes? Am I getting warmer?” he launches himself from the chair and leans against the table, hands clasped decorously in his lap. “What about those weeds, the ones that grow the yellow flowers? You know the ones - like Chrysanthemums.”
Ah. A tremor, ever so slight, runs through the Doctor’s slumped body. It’s hardly noticeable, even for a Time Lord. So something to do with Chrysanthemums then too. Or perhaps just the word. A syllable in there that has hit that painful knife-twist spot...
“Delphineum.” He continues after a moment, tapping an idle finger on his thigh. Tap-tap tap-tap. Tap-tap tap-tap. He has to move carefully now. He must push just the right, exquisite amount to send him tipping over the edge into oblivion. “Gerbera, Marigold...”
The Doctor all but thrums with the tension. Such an insufferable know-it-all. He’s always felt this absurd need to correct people when they’re wrong.
The Master is counting on it.
He watches for the longest time but does not move in for the kill. Not yet. It would not do to give the game up before he’s quite ready.
All too soon human Christmas arrives, bountiful with good cheer and joy as well as a marauding alien force that requires elimination. The Prime Minister turns to him and he is all too happy to oblige her with the recommendation of the best and most destructive of Torchwoods weapons.
As the ash from the Sycorax ship turns the world grey and the government begins to crumble, the Master settles down with the latest, grainy surveillance footage of the Powell Estate in order to celebrate and is met with a double surprise. The Doctor he met at the end of the universe finally seems to have appeared in earnest - tall, wiry and distinct. And quite early post-regeneration if the hijinks he’s getting up to is any indication.
It seems that he may owe the Doctor a thank you for clearing the pitch for him. Really, he’s done him a favour by getting Harriet Jones out of the way. Oh she’ll be gone soon enough, he’s been privy to politics too many times to pretend otherwise. And what a pity that he’s just such a perfect candidate to take her place...
“Prime Minister Saxon,” he muses, swirling his glass so that the red wine momentarily becomes an angry burgundy whirlpool. He smirks as it lingers and then settles. “What do you think about that darling?”
Lucy’s eyes glow bright as she toasts him. Such a perfect companion. Not bright perhaps, but clever enough to know whose side to take. And so well dressed - he makes sure of that. Not like the hoodlums that the Doctor consorts with.
The Master knocks back his glass and dwells on something very close to happiness.
He throws flower names about for days, waiting. In between running the planet and hunting for Martha Jones and all the other very important evil things he happens to be up to at the moment he’ll throw one out at him, as though asking approval.
He never says the right one. The Doctor never answers him. It’s like two children in the back seat of a car on a trip to nowhere, one playing the endless game of lists whilst the other prays and prays and prays for deliverance.
“Orchid? No? Snapdragon...”
“Rose.”
He might have been expecting it but it’s still such a delightful surprise when it finally comes. The terseness, the gritting of teeth; the gratifyingly arrogant annoyance because he knows full well that he knew what her name was and he still said it. He still said it!
“I’m sorry what?” he cups his ear, leans in so close that the Doctor shies away from him in turn. “What was that? Was that a Rose that by any other name would smell as sweet?”
He is ignoring him now. (He is kicking himself for having succumbed. He is kicking himself for allowing his voice to crack on the name. He is kicking himself for speaking at all. Words have so much power in this game, they pave the way for exploitation in the form of thoughts.)
“Oh go on,” the Master goads. “Not like you’ve got anything better to do right?”
And oh, he’s being properly ignored now. Studiously even.
He will not get the same response again next time. No. Now that he has steeled himself against it, the Doctor will be much more resilient. He must find another way.
Harold Saxon is happily in the middle of lying and cheating and backstabbing his way up in the world of politics when he is rudely interrupted by Canary Wharf. And just like that the Doctor disappears.
“Find him!” he howls at Roderick and his team. He is beginning to sense how very close he is to their timelines merging and to think that he might have missed it... “He can’t have just disappeared! He always comes back, always.”
But it seems that he is gone, lost along with his girl. In the wake of the Masters fury, Roderick takes it upon himself to personally track the final journey of the Doctor and Rose Tyler, and what he discovers on the shattered remains of Torchwood One’s surveillance footage leaves the Master all but cackling with glee.
All this past long year he’s been wondering, sort of idly, when it happened. When the blonde companion left and had her place taken by the Martha Jones creature who accompanied the Doctor to the end of the world. (Roderick’s team has been watching her too, in her comings and goings from University and her flat and the family home. She too is remarkably boring, another broken family and a modestly human life - but at least she’s clever enough for higher education.)
Oh but it’s simply marvellous how the Doctor loses her. Rose Tyler is on the list of the dead and he makes certain to attend each and every one of the memorial services. It’s good for his image - dear Harold Saxon who is rising in the polls every day, so sympathetic to those who have lost loved ones in the wake of this terrible, awful tragedy...
The Doctor doesn’t come. But no matter. As the Master lays traps and develops new projects and runs electoral campaigns he begins to truly anticipate the sparring that is yet to come.
“That Rose,” he tries for a conversational tone as he licks his fingers clean of the jam from his morning toast. “You dragged her along with you for how long?”
Silence and stillness. Oh as always.
“How about I tell you what I know?” the Master suggests, settling himself in before the Doctor can protest. He presses all the right buttons consistently and consecutively, insulting and degrading her memory in turn. Because she died didn’t she? At Canary Wharf? How hard that must have been for him, losing a companion in such a way. Tut, tut. Such a shame...
Nothing. Just more of that slow burning resolve that has been there for weeks. Just what is it about this girl that keeps him so resilient? He hasn’t breathed a word since he said her name, not about anything.
He is almost surprised by what finally sets him off.
“What was it? Hmmn? What was it about the stupid human ape that...”
The Doctor is on his feet, furiously self righteous for one glorious moment before he crumbles, still twitching from the after effects of the laser screwdriver. He has missed the wheelchair, quite painfully it seems, and the Master gives a mocking wince.
“Poor thing,” he tuts over a sip of tea. “Let me help you up.”
He takes his time, sauntering over and hauling him up by the suit jacket just enough to stop the Doctor missing the wheelchair again. It rolls gently away until it hits the desk and he is breathing hard and heavy on the floor where he has been dumped like a bundle of flesh.
“Well,” the Master says with some amount of satisfaction. Toying with the Doctor, as endlessly amusing as it can be, is much more fun when he actually gets a reaction out of him. And he hasn’t gotten anything for some time now. Well, nothing of any substance. He’s hardly even had a flinch or a glare for days now.
It’s been a little disheartening to say the least.
He flicks the screwdriver out, plays with the settings, puts it back into standby again. He paces around the Doctor and just for fun, gives him another go with it before squatting down and regarding him. His curiosity is not just for show, to torture the Doctor with questions that he doesn’t want to answer. He is honestly curious about what he saw in this uninteresting little Earth girl.
And so he asks about her again.
The day that Royal Hope hospital is stolen by the Judoon and medical student Martha Jones goes missing after a family birthday party the Master springs into action. He moves with frenzied speed now, attacking her family, tightening the noose. It’s only a matter of time before the Doctor comes back in order to challenge him. And as if destroying his beloved Earth wasn’t enough, he also has other methods of sweet, quiet torture that he can employ on him.
He re-watches the footage from Torchwood on a sickening, giddy loop and waits.
It is the final straw. Months now of torment. Of abuse of the most exquisite kind and the Master is really no closer to finding out what the Doctor is up to. (Because he’s always up to something. He’s thinking up a way to flout his plans as always. He knows he is.) He has no idea how much damage he has done to him, isn’t even sure he’s done much at all. He’s angry. He’s waiting for the breakdown of walls, the impassioned speeches, something that never comes.
No matter which angle he comes in from, the Doctor is resilient to the last.
And so, one day, he doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t even hint at what he is to do. He just stands up in the middle of a meeting, drags the Doctor out of his kennel by the scruff of the neck, slams his hand to his temple and forces his way inside.
He has strong mental barriers - stronger than the Master would have thought all things considered. But he’s so shocked by the sudden invasion of his mind that a barrage of images still manages to escape the firewall before he has a chance to lock everything down.
The Master picks through the memories eagerly as they assault him - a flurry of blonde hair and mile wide smiles. He recoils from it all - from the sheer force behind the emotion - but can’t quite let it go. The Doctor grunts as he finally manages to close his mind down but the damage is done.
They separate abruptly, panting and the Doctor meets his gaze steadily. Proudly. Defiant.
Sweet Rassillon but he just doesn’t even give a damn does he?
“You fool,” the Master says finally, coldly. “You old, stupid fool. You-?”
He leaves it hanging in disbelief but the gaze doesn’t waver and that is answer enough. Sneering, the Master turns away.
“I ought to have known. Sentimental, human loving...”
“You have a wife.”
Lucy seems to prick up her ears from across the room at that and the Master feels a rush of annoyance.
“A human wife.”
It’s more than he’s said in weeks. Months. And the Doctor is completely in control of their conversation. The Master grits his teeth.
“But,” he finishes softly. “You’ll never have what I had with R-”
The Master explodes, laser screwdriver fizzling and cracking with energy as he pumps jolt after painful jolt of electricity into the frail body before him. “You think I want that filth? You think I need it? What use do I have for it? You think you can pity me? How dare you pity me! Look at me! I have the whole of Earth at my disposal. You’re living like a mongrel dog! Less than that! You have nothing! I have everything.”
He spits, a vulgar gesture that he can’t quite hold back but the Doctor just shakes his head up at him. He feels sorry for him. He feels sorry for him.
It’s enough to make his blood boil.
And to add insult to injury, he will not be able to delve into the Doctor’s mind so easily again. He has lost his one chance to snoop around in there and find out anything of importance.
When Lucy suggests trying to catch him off guard again he knocks her into the wall unthinkingly. It’s the first time he has raised a hand to her and the livid bruise and memory of her squawk of pain are enough to excite him. To make him forget.
From there it’s not much a stretch. Well, it isn’t hard to imagine that she’s Rose is it? Blonde hair, brown eyes...it isn’t hard to pretend that every time he kisses her the Doctor is seething with jealousy and brimming with pain. It’s just delicious enough for him to get by. To regain the upper hand and all previous arrogance. It’s a demented kind of logic but if it keeps him on top and the Doctor quietly broken...
As a final insult he plays the footage from Torchwood for him and provides popcorn. Although the Doctor watches stoically the Master is certain that somewhere within him there is pain to watch it and he is truly, briefly content.
Oh but I know all the best ways to break you Doctor...
Oh but it’s simply marvellous how the Doctor loses her. Rose Tyler is on the list of the dead and he makes certain to attend each and every one of the memorial services. It’s good for his image - dear Harold Saxon who is rising in the polls every day, so sympathetic to those who have lost loved ones in the wake of this terrible, AWFUL tragedy... 3,043
“I’ve been watching you, you know.”
The Doctor is silent and as inscrutable as ever. Not even a flicker of recognition to show that he’s listening. But the Master knows, he knows that there is little he hates more than sitting still and silent and ooh doesn’t it just burn him to sit there and be so utterly defeated? He thrills a little at the thought.
“I have,” he continues idly. “Closed Circuit Television - such fascinatingly primitive technology isn’t it Doctor? But invaluable for spying on people who don’t want to be seen. Or just the sort of people who are too clumsy to cover their own tracks...”
Nothing. But he’s listening. How could he not? Oh yes. He’s listening.
Listen, listen.
And if he’s listening then that means he is wondering. He is thinking. He is working over and over and over his words in that colossally thick brain of his like a towel inside a tumble dryer.
How long has he been watching? How much does he know? Is he lying? Is it an empty threat, a promise, a statement of fact?
He leaves it at that. Moves on to other things.
He will return to it later.
It’s all too easy really. Setting up a fake past and forging documents is all but child’s play for a Time Lord - even with the limited technology he has on hand. Setting himself up in politics takes some time, he’ll admit that. But he just shines as the Minister of Defence, working with Torchwood to refine the alien weapons they’ve amassed. Developing the Archangel Network as his own little side project with the Prime Ministers blessing.
Why, the pieces fall into place with alarming ease.
Finding the Doctor takes longer than he anticipated though. The problem being that the damned coot rarely returns to the same place twice. And you can’t rely on just any blasted human to be able to look past a perception filter and see the TARDIS. He bullies some idiot called Roderick King, one of the junior cabinet members, into becoming his own personal Doctor watching department but keeps little hope that he will actually find anything.
You can imagine his surprise when the call comes in that there have been recurring, almost regular sightings of an old fashioned Police Box, all around a particular section of South London. The CCTV network, however primitive it may be, quickly becomes the Masters greatest ally and he exploits it to the fullest capacity.
With time, Roderick begins to piece together a rough timeline, including an intriguing run in with former MP for Flydale North, now Prime Minister Harriet Jones. At least two different regenerations are observed in and around the same areas of London within a twelve month period, both of them in the company of one particularly blonde, human creature.
It’s a sight that never fails to make the Masters mouth water. She means something to the Doctor, this girl. He’s always with her, always holding her hand, always happy. He brings her home to visit her mother and do her washing. He even crosses his own timeline to see her, the fool.
He can use her. Oh yes, he can use her.
They start a file on her, compiling birth certificates, school reports, even a picture from the local paper from when she won some sort of demented medal. It turns out that this Rose Marion Tyler person is depressingly uninteresting; single parent household, a high school dropout with an abusive ex-boyfriend. A no-hoper of the worst possible kind.
It figures that the Doctor would pick up the most pathetic specimen of humanity he could find and cling to it. He’s almost disappointed. Except, she lives in this slum which has such a dreadful crime rate. This means CCTV cameras and surveillance footage and the Doctor just keeps on bringing her back there.
It’s such an absurdly useful way to keep track of his movements.
“Tell me about her.”
The Doctor says nothing and the Master lolls in his chair, halfway bored already.
“Oh go on,” he drawls. “You know which one I mean don’t you? Not Martha Jones. The one who wore too much makeup. Peroxide girl. What was her name again?”
And oh - would you look at that! He’s finally gotten a reaction! Splendid! The eyes have snapped up to him, blazing quietly away.
“Was it Daisy?” he ponders, privately delighting in the weary, barely disguised contempt being shot at him. “Lily? Iris? Some horrendous Earth flower. No? Yes? Am I getting warmer?” he launches himself from the chair and leans against the table, hands clasped decorously in his lap. “What about those weeds, the ones that grow the yellow flowers? You know the ones - like Chrysanthemums.”
Ah. A tremor, ever so slight, runs through the Doctor’s slumped body. It’s hardly noticeable, even for a Time Lord. So something to do with Chrysanthemums then too. Or perhaps just the word. A syllable in there that has hit that painful knife-twist spot...
“Delphineum.” He continues after a moment, tapping an idle finger on his thigh. Tap-tap tap-tap. Tap-tap tap-tap. He has to move carefully now. He must push just the right, exquisite amount to send him tipping over the edge into oblivion. “Gerbera, Marigold...”
The Doctor all but thrums with the tension. Such an insufferable know-it-all. He’s always felt this absurd need to correct people when they’re wrong.
The Master is counting on it.
He watches for the longest time but does not move in for the kill. Not yet. It would not do to give the game up before he’s quite ready.
All too soon human Christmas arrives, bountiful with good cheer and joy as well as a marauding alien force that requires elimination. The Prime Minister turns to him and he is all too happy to oblige her with the recommendation of the best and most destructive of Torchwoods weapons.
As the ash from the Sycorax ship turns the world grey and the government begins to crumble, the Master settles down with the latest, grainy surveillance footage of the Powell Estate in order to celebrate and is met with a double surprise. The Doctor he met at the end of the universe finally seems to have appeared in earnest - tall, wiry and distinct. And quite early post-regeneration if the hijinks he’s getting up to is any indication.
It seems that he may owe the Doctor a thank you for clearing the pitch for him. Really, he’s done him a favour by getting Harriet Jones out of the way. Oh she’ll be gone soon enough, he’s been privy to politics too many times to pretend otherwise. And what a pity that he’s just such a perfect candidate to take her place...
“Prime Minister Saxon,” he muses, swirling his glass so that the red wine momentarily becomes an angry burgundy whirlpool. He smirks as it lingers and then settles. “What do you think about that darling?”
Lucy’s eyes glow bright as she toasts him. Such a perfect companion. Not bright perhaps, but clever enough to know whose side to take. And so well dressed - he makes sure of that. Not like the hoodlums that the Doctor consorts with.
The Master knocks back his glass and dwells on something very close to happiness.
He throws flower names about for days, waiting. In between running the planet and hunting for Martha Jones and all the other very important evil things he happens to be up to at the moment he’ll throw one out at him, as though asking approval.
He never says the right one. The Doctor never answers him. It’s like two children in the back seat of a car on a trip to nowhere, one playing the endless game of lists whilst the other prays and prays and prays for deliverance.
“Orchid? No? Snapdragon...”
“Rose.”
He might have been expecting it but it’s still such a delightful surprise when it finally comes. The terseness, the gritting of teeth; the gratifyingly arrogant annoyance because he knows full well that he knew what her name was and he still said it. He still said it!
“I’m sorry what?” he cups his ear, leans in so close that the Doctor shies away from him in turn. “What was that? Was that a Rose that by any other name would smell as sweet?”
He is ignoring him now. (He is kicking himself for having succumbed. He is kicking himself for allowing his voice to crack on the name. He is kicking himself for speaking at all. Words have so much power in this game, they pave the way for exploitation in the form of thoughts.)
“Oh go on,” the Master goads. “Not like you’ve got anything better to do right?”
And oh, he’s being properly ignored now. Studiously even.
He will not get the same response again next time. No. Now that he has steeled himself against it, the Doctor will be much more resilient. He must find another way.
Harold Saxon is happily in the middle of lying and cheating and backstabbing his way up in the world of politics when he is rudely interrupted by Canary Wharf. And just like that the Doctor disappears.
“Find him!” he howls at Roderick and his team. He is beginning to sense how very close he is to their timelines merging and to think that he might have missed it... “He can’t have just disappeared! He always comes back, always.”
But it seems that he is gone, lost along with his girl. In the wake of the Masters fury, Roderick takes it upon himself to personally track the final journey of the Doctor and Rose Tyler, and what he discovers on the shattered remains of Torchwood One’s surveillance footage leaves the Master all but cackling with glee.
All this past long year he’s been wondering, sort of idly, when it happened. When the blonde companion left and had her place taken by the Martha Jones creature who accompanied the Doctor to the end of the world. (Roderick’s team has been watching her too, in her comings and goings from University and her flat and the family home. She too is remarkably boring, another broken family and a modestly human life - but at least she’s clever enough for higher education.)
Oh but it’s simply marvellous how the Doctor loses her. Rose Tyler is on the list of the dead and he makes certain to attend each and every one of the memorial services. It’s good for his image - dear Harold Saxon who is rising in the polls every day, so sympathetic to those who have lost loved ones in the wake of this terrible, awful tragedy...
The Doctor doesn’t come. But no matter. As the Master lays traps and develops new projects and runs electoral campaigns he begins to truly anticipate the sparring that is yet to come.
“That Rose,” he tries for a conversational tone as he licks his fingers clean of the jam from his morning toast. “You dragged her along with you for how long?”
Silence and stillness. Oh as always.
“How about I tell you what I know?” the Master suggests, settling himself in before the Doctor can protest. He presses all the right buttons consistently and consecutively, insulting and degrading her memory in turn. Because she died didn’t she? At Canary Wharf? How hard that must have been for him, losing a companion in such a way. Tut, tut. Such a shame...
Nothing. Just more of that slow burning resolve that has been there for weeks. Just what is it about this girl that keeps him so resilient? He hasn’t breathed a word since he said her name, not about anything.
He is almost surprised by what finally sets him off.
“What was it? Hmmn? What was it about the stupid human ape that...”
The Doctor is on his feet, furiously self righteous for one glorious moment before he crumbles, still twitching from the after effects of the laser screwdriver. He has missed the wheelchair, quite painfully it seems, and the Master gives a mocking wince.
“Poor thing,” he tuts over a sip of tea. “Let me help you up.”
He takes his time, sauntering over and hauling him up by the suit jacket just enough to stop the Doctor missing the wheelchair again. It rolls gently away until it hits the desk and he is breathing hard and heavy on the floor where he has been dumped like a bundle of flesh.
“Well,” the Master says with some amount of satisfaction. Toying with the Doctor, as endlessly amusing as it can be, is much more fun when he actually gets a reaction out of him. And he hasn’t gotten anything for some time now. Well, nothing of any substance. He’s hardly even had a flinch or a glare for days now.
It’s been a little disheartening to say the least.
He flicks the screwdriver out, plays with the settings, puts it back into standby again. He paces around the Doctor and just for fun, gives him another go with it before squatting down and regarding him. His curiosity is not just for show, to torture the Doctor with questions that he doesn’t want to answer. He is honestly curious about what he saw in this uninteresting little Earth girl.
And so he asks about her again.
The day that Royal Hope hospital is stolen by the Judoon and medical student Martha Jones goes missing after a family birthday party the Master springs into action. He moves with frenzied speed now, attacking her family, tightening the noose. It’s only a matter of time before the Doctor comes back in order to challenge him. And as if destroying his beloved Earth wasn’t enough, he also has other methods of sweet, quiet torture that he can employ on him.
He re-watches the footage from Torchwood on a sickening, giddy loop and waits.
It is the final straw. Months now of torment. Of abuse of the most exquisite kind and the Master is really no closer to finding out what the Doctor is up to. (Because he’s always up to something. He’s thinking up a way to flout his plans as always. He knows he is.) He has no idea how much damage he has done to him, isn’t even sure he’s done much at all. He’s angry. He’s waiting for the breakdown of walls, the impassioned speeches, something that never comes.
No matter which angle he comes in from, the Doctor is resilient to the last.
And so, one day, he doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t even hint at what he is to do. He just stands up in the middle of a meeting, drags the Doctor out of his kennel by the scruff of the neck, slams his hand to his temple and forces his way inside.
He has strong mental barriers - stronger than the Master would have thought all things considered. But he’s so shocked by the sudden invasion of his mind that a barrage of images still manages to escape the firewall before he has a chance to lock everything down.
The Master picks through the memories eagerly as they assault him - a flurry of blonde hair and mile wide smiles. He recoils from it all - from the sheer force behind the emotion - but can’t quite let it go. The Doctor grunts as he finally manages to close his mind down but the damage is done.
They separate abruptly, panting and the Doctor meets his gaze steadily. Proudly. Defiant.
Sweet Rassillon but he just doesn’t even give a damn does he?
“You fool,” the Master says finally, coldly. “You old, stupid fool. You-?”
He leaves it hanging in disbelief but the gaze doesn’t waver and that is answer enough. Sneering, the Master turns away.
“I ought to have known. Sentimental, human loving...”
“You have a wife.”
Lucy seems to prick up her ears from across the room at that and the Master feels a rush of annoyance.
“A human wife.”
It’s more than he’s said in weeks. Months. And the Doctor is completely in control of their conversation. The Master grits his teeth.
“But,” he finishes softly. “You’ll never have what I had with R-”
The Master explodes, laser screwdriver fizzling and cracking with energy as he pumps jolt after painful jolt of electricity into the frail body before him. “You think I want that filth? You think I need it? What use do I have for it? You think you can pity me? How dare you pity me! Look at me! I have the whole of Earth at my disposal. You’re living like a mongrel dog! Less than that! You have nothing! I have everything.”
He spits, a vulgar gesture that he can’t quite hold back but the Doctor just shakes his head up at him. He feels sorry for him. He feels sorry for him.
It’s enough to make his blood boil.
And to add insult to injury, he will not be able to delve into the Doctor’s mind so easily again. He has lost his one chance to snoop around in there and find out anything of importance.
When Lucy suggests trying to catch him off guard again he knocks her into the wall unthinkingly. It’s the first time he has raised a hand to her and the livid bruise and memory of her squawk of pain are enough to excite him. To make him forget.
From there it’s not much a stretch. Well, it isn’t hard to imagine that she’s Rose is it? Blonde hair, brown eyes...it isn’t hard to pretend that every time he kisses her the Doctor is seething with jealousy and brimming with pain. It’s just delicious enough for him to get by. To regain the upper hand and all previous arrogance. It’s a demented kind of logic but if it keeps him on top and the Doctor quietly broken...
As a final insult he plays the footage from Torchwood for him and provides popcorn. Although the Doctor watches stoically the Master is certain that somewhere within him there is pain to watch it and he is truly, briefly content.
Oh but I know all the best ways to break you Doctor...