Tap the Rhythm
Rating: R
Prompt: #034 - Too Much
Claim: The Time War
Table: Here
Spoilers: Season 3 Finale
Warning: violence, mention of torture and rape
Characters/Pairing: Simm!Master/Doctor (10), (Jack/Doctor)
Summary: The Master's drums have always been with him - or haven't they? Close to the end of the year that never was he begins to wonder.
“The beautiful thing about this,“ the Master says, "is the finality of it. This is my work. This is what I did to this planet, to its people.” He ‘s looking out of the window, down onto his world, his wasteland. “It’s the glory of the destruction. The destruction of glory. The power.”
No one is listening to him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Lucy, wearing a bright blue dress and jewellery, all hollow eyes and empty smiles he painted on her face. A walking piece of art. She’s watching him from the other side of the room, too far away to make out his words. Too far away to understand.
Somewhere down there Martha Jones is walking the Earth, trying to find a weapon. Somewhere down there Martha Jones has received his message. The Master smiles. His plans are nearing completion. The drums whisper through his head and he finds himself tapping their rhythm against the thick glass of the window. Softly. Softly. There’s still so much to be done. He can’t rest yet.
The servants and the soldiers are gone, elsewhere. They don’t come to him unless he calls them. His slaves. The Master smiles.
Turning away from the windows he looks at the Doctor, all tiny and wrinkled and unrecognizable for anyone only watching through eyes. He’s not paying attention - curled up in his birdcage like a cat, sleeping, resting. In the silence the Master can hear breaths that are a little too fast, slightly wheezing. Somewhere in that tiny chest two tiny hearts are struggling against age and the Master wonders how he’d look had he given him his true age and not settled for the nine hundred years the Doctor likes to give to the unsuspecting.
But he is fragile enough like this. The Master doesn’t want to kill him.
Lately all he seems to do is sleep. Time Lords don’t need much rest but the Doctor’s ancient body is aching and exhausted, the effort of staying alive draining his strength. He can’t survive like this, not for long, but then this isn’t a permanent solution. For now, though, the Master likes keeping him in a cage.
He walks around it, eyes it from all directions. Bored, he considers waking the other Time Lord, but he wouldn’t know what to do with him. He’s already spend some time with the human freak this day, and the planet below is in a pathetic state - if he kills any more inhabitants there won’t be enough left to witness the great day that is approaching.
But he has to do something. Has to destroy, to hurt, to defeat. Defeat. The drums are urging him, driving him. They’re never satisfied, not before every enemy is vanquished. He’s restless. There are no enemies here. Just victims.
Impatiently tapping the rhythm against his leg the Master wonders how he ever has managed to follow his plans with such infinite patience, once. How he could wait and watch without his own need for violence and destruction getting in his way all the time. He must haw been much better at fighting the drums back them, yet he can’t remember how he did it.
The Master doesn’t dwell on this often - it makes him feel even more restless, and his thoughts slip easily. The drums have been with him ever since he looked into the untempered schism as a child. He remembers always having heard them but if he looks back he can’t fit them into his memory.
Not before the war. Not before they resurrected him to fight their battles. If he looks back, beyond the drumbeat painted over his past, the Master remembers a man who’d never risk his life actively fighting in a war. Someone for whom violence was a means to an end, not the end in itself.
And for a moment he feels like he isn’t in control of his own mind. The drums get louder, screaming at him, and the Master, in rage, screams at the Doctor, startling him, and then he kicks the little cage, makes it jumps. The Doctor is thrown around inside, grasping the bars with his tiny little hands while the cage wildly swings back and forth.
“What the hell have they done to me?” the Master yells. “What did they do? What did you do?”
The Doctor is looking at him through impossibly large eyes, like a newborn kitten. He’s trying to speak, but his voice is failing him. The Master reads his question in his confused expression.
“The drums!” he clarifies, enraged. “They gave them to me, didn’t they? They made me yearn for battle so I would fight their war for them! The manipulated me, took my free will, and you knew it!”
The Doctor shakes his hairless head, opens his mouth for an answer, but the Master kicks at the cage again, and again. Has he always lost control this easily? He knows he did but his memory tells of things that would have been impossible if he had.
The thought fuels his anger further. He prepares to attack the cage again, the Doctor taking the blame of the high council in their absence, but then he stops, manages to hold himself back. Inside the cage the Doctor isn’t holding on to the bars anymore. The Master stills its swinging with his hands but the Doctor isn’t getting up.
A rush of icy fear dulls the rage - the other Time Lord is vulnerable in this state. What if he’s broken him?
The thought that he could have killed him doesn’t cross the Master’s mind. He still feels the Doctor’s presence. Looking at this creature he recognizes it as the Doctor in a way that has nothing to do with its appearance. If he was dead all that would be gone and the Master would be left with nothing but the drumbeat.
Still the Doctor could be hurt badly. He could be dying. The Master’s hands don’t shake when he opens the cage and lifts the Doctor out of it, but he’s holding his breath. Places the brittle, weightless body on the ground and presses his fingers against his chest to feel for his heartbeats. There is one, faintly. The Master’s touch is light so he doesn’t break any ribs.
Without any further thought he takes out his laser screwdriver, adjusts the setting and aims at the Doctor. A shadow falls on him, cast by Lucy and two soldiers that might have been alerted by his yelling, but they’re still metres away, not daring to step closer. They won’t interfere with anything he does. The Master ignores them.
The de-aging takes time. Nine hundred years are running by in the wrong direction. There are no screams this time and no twitching, but when the Master finally stops the Doctor is awake and gasping helplessly in the aftershocks of unbelievable agony. He’s shivering and naked, his dwarfish clothes having been torn by his growing body. When he turns onto his side and curls up the Master kicks him into the stomach, not willing to give him a moment of rest. Now he knows it’s save to hurt him the anger takes over again, and the Master kicks and punches in blind rage until the Doctor finally finds his voice again and cries out in pain.
He’s out of breath when he stops but the drums are satisfied, for now.
Neither of them speaks while the Doctor gathers his strength and slowly pushes himself into a sitting position. There’s blood running down the side of his face, his body is bruised and the Master is sure he’s broken some ribs but that won’t matter. The moment he manipulates the other’s age again all that will be gone and broken bones will be the least of his worries.
Two months ago the Master returned the Doctor’s body to its original state. He restrained him and left him alone for a week, while giving his soldiers permission to do with him whatever they liked. Behind the scenes the Master still watched, still controlled everything while men that didn’t even know he was in their heads had their fun with the Doctor. The other man was injured, weak and ill when he finally came back to send everyone away and released him from his suffering, but he somehow failed to see the Master as his saviour, just stared at him in silent accusation and refused to speak until the Master lost his patience and turned him back into an old man.
The old wounds are gone now, erased. The look in his eyes though is almost the same, but when the Master tosses him his jacket he takes it willingly to wrap it around his trembling shoulders.
His voice is not trembling when he says:
“What was that about?”
He doesn’t understand. Like Lucy he’s too far away.
The Master orders his soldiers to pull him to his feet and the Doctor sways in their grip. Injuries heal whenever his DNA is manipulated but the exhaustion remains. The past year has demanded a lot of his body and the Master is suddenly scared that he won’t last much longer.
“Take him to my rooms,” he commands. Before the soldiers can move, however, the Doctor slips out of their grip, takes a few steps back. He flinches away further when one of them reaches for him and they still under the force of his glare. The Master is reminded of what they have done to him and the Doctor remembers as well. It’s not a surprise he’s not keen on getting touched by any of them, but the glare doesn’t spare him either.
“I have no interest of going to your rooms,” he growls. Rescuing him from the abuse of the evil soldiers has already proven to the Master that even after all the time he’s spend on Earth the Doctor is still very much immune to Stockholm.
He sighs mildly.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises. “All you’ll get is a soft bed, some food - maybe a cuddle? You still like to cuddle, don’t you?”
“After what you did to Earth, to my friends, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten feet pole,” the Doctor declares, making the Master scold him:
“You’re taking it personally again.”
“This is personal! You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me, would you?”
“Don’t be difficult! I only have your best interests in mind. Now go, and get some sleep before you drop dead!”
“I’d rather sleep in the cage.” The Doctor’s voice is cold - he means it. The Master frowns in irritation, takes the laser screwdriver again and aims.
“It wasn’t a request,” he states and fires. One of the soldiers drops to the ground.
“No!” the Doctor yells. “What the hell are you doing?” So predictable.
“Disobedience is followed by punishment,” the Master reminds him.
“But he’s done nothing wrong!”
“You did.” He aims again, at the other soldier. The Doctor moves between him and the weapon, stares at the Master, at the dead body - and walks away. Allowing himself a satisfied smile the Master follows.
Only when they reach the Master’s rooms does the Doctor speak.
“I can help you,” he says, quietly. “I think you’re right - the Time Lords did something to you. Yon have changed.”
“For the better?” the Master asks, somewhere between a leer and a snarl.
“No. You were megalomaniac before, and ruthless, but never like this. And your drums - you have never mentioned them. There was no indication of their existence.”
The door snaps shut behind them. The Doctor turns to look at the Master and the Master feels his fury rising but also desperation and something he’s come to recognize as madness. He’s known. He thought getting a confirmation would help.
When the Doctor looks at his face he must see insecurity and helplessness. Weakness.
“Let me help!” he urges. “If they put the drums into your head I can get them out! You’ll be back to your old self. Back like I knew you.”
There’s anger in the Master’s chuckle.
“I had to kill someone to get you into my bedroom but you’re oh so willing to heal me! Heal the villain, the evil one, the killer of mankind! Are you so alone, so desperate? You want to help me! Just because I’m the only Time Lord left.” He presses his palm flat against the Doctor’s chest where two hearts are beating steadily behind cracked ribs and the Doctor shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “Because I can.”
“Tempting.” The Master turns abruptly, taps his finger against his lips. “But I think I’ll keep them.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Why not? They have driven me this far! See what I gained because of them!”
His back is turned to the Doctor but he can see his reflection in the glass of the window, can see the slump of his shoulders.
“I only see what you have lost.”
“It’s a matter of perspective.”
“No, it isn’t. A few minutes you were out of your mind with rage because of them. You’re not in control.”
The rage is getting stronger, but for now it’s turned into a snort. The Master knows the Doctor is right. He hates it when he’s right. He hates not being in control, is terrified by it. The drums are trying to stop him thinking. In the end he turns back around and punches the Doctor in the face. He stumbles backwards, falls against the door.
“If you say another word inside this room,” the Master decides, “I’ll kill your freaky friend. Again.”
The Doctor gives him a glare of fury and despair and remains silent.
“Oh, don’t be like that!” the Master teases. “It’s not like I’d cause any lasting damage.” He laughs at his own words, but the Doctor remains quiet and doesn’t resist when he’s pulled toward the bed.
The Master pushes him onto the covers and then leaves him alone, disappearing into the kitchen. When he returns two minutes later with a large cup the Doctor has crawled beneath the blanket and pulled it up to his chest. He’s still shivering but the Master suspects the sheet is serving more as protection than anything else. His jacket has been dropped to the floor.
“Drink this!” he orders, handing over the steaming hot drink and the Doctor drowns it without hesitation even though it has to be scalding his throat. He hands back the empty cup and the Master actually returns it to the kitchen. He’s not in a hurry. By the time he comes back the Doctor has dropped to the mattress, struggling to remain awake. There’s resignation in his eyes as well as something resembling fear. He doesn’t have the strength to get away when the Master lies down beside him and pulls him close. Strokes his hair.
Five minutes later the Doctor is sleeping soundly in his arms and the Master is staring at the ceiling, taking some time to think about what exactly he’s doing here.
-
An hour later the Master leaves his sleeping friend. He’s drugged him because he knows the Doctor would never have relaxed enough with him around, no matter how much in need of rest he was. To himself the Master can admit that his exhaustion was merely an excuse for getting him to sleep in his arms, to feel the cool body against his own, peaceful and defenceless, but he doesn’t like to - this one he cannot blame on the drums.
It’s surprisingly easy to leave, because he has to do something and it won’t let him rest. This aren’t the drums either, it’s just him. A part of his nature that has always been there.
He sends everyone away before he enters the cell of the freak. The captain - self-proclaimed, the Master assumes - frowns at him, and then he glares and then he sneers. Always wanting everything at once. The Master chuckles, and shivers at the same time. Harkness makes his skin crawl and his yaw clench, for different reasons.
The Master considers killing him by way of greeting. He does that a lot, sometimes out of fun, out of boredom, out of sadistic curiosity, sometimes out of a cold, empty hatred in the vain hope that maybe this time he’ll stay dead.
For once the man can stay alive, because the Master doesn’t want to waste any time waiting for him to wake up. He’s come to talk.
“Before you speak just listen and watch,” he orders, preventing any comment from his prisoner. On most days there’s no threat except for the Doctor’s safety that can make Harkness shut up but this time he seems to sense the mood the Master is in and stays silent, watching him wearily as he comes closer. In his hand the Time Lord is holding a number of photographs, enlarged, high quality. Showing every detail. He’s kept them for the right moment and this moment is perfect.
“Okay, I changed my mind,” he suddenly says. “You may speak to answer me one question: How do you feel about the Doctor being all tiny and ancient?”
His prisoner just stares at him for a moment, darkly and impotent. Then he says:
“I’m glad.”
It’s not the answer the Master has expected. It raises his curiosity but he doesn’t like it.
“Why is that?”
“Because when he is like this you leave him alone,” the captain snarls at him. “I know you don’t want him to die yet, and while he’s small and fragile you won’t give him to your soldiers for torture and rape.” When the Master says nothing he adds: “Don’t think I wouldn’t know it was you who made them do it!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the Time Lord smiles. “I was the one who gave you that screen, so you can watch, after all. Did you like it, by the way? I never asked.”
Harkness pulls on his chains in empty fury, but this time they won’t buckle.
“I hate you!” he states.
“Yes, I think we’ve been there.” A raised hand when the human wants to say more. “No, talking time is over. Now it’s time for you to watch and listen.”
The other man’s face shows confusion and worry when the Master shows him the first picture, but no horror yet. The Master isn’t surprised - it takes some time to find the face in the frazzled human remains shown on the picture. He waits patiently, and only when all colour drains from the freak’s face does he show the second picture, which is more instantly recognizable, if no less gory.
Weather it’s due to the Master’s order or out of horror, Harkness doesn’t make a sound until all four photos have been shown and discarded.
“These are old,” the Time Lord informs him when he is done. “Almost a year. I didn’t do it.”
“Of course you did, you sick…”
“No, I didn’t. But naturally I ordered it. I ordered it even before I was voted Prime Minister.”
“Why? What have they ever done to you?” There are tears of rage in the human’s eyes. The Master quite likes the sight.
“They were your friends. That’s enough. Anyway.” He stops, thinks for a second. Taps the rhythm onto his lips once. “They’re not lost yet, of course.”
The captain says nothing, confirming the Master’s suspicion that he knew.
“As you are apparently aware everything done in the last year will be undone should the Paradox Machine be destroyed.”
“What’s the point?” Harkness asks with a hint of hopelessness. “Who would destroy it?”
The Master snorts - he can’t help it.
“Who? The Doctor, of course! I wouldn’t for one second believe that he doesn’t have a plan, and even if he hadn’t - one days he’ll get the chance to do it.”
“Because you’re not going to kill him,” the human realises.
“And if that happens,” the Master continues, ignoring his words, “I’ll die.”
“Good!”
The Time Lord smiles sweetly.
“Isn’t it nice how simple words can make you happy?”
“Quite. But the Doctor doesn’t…” Harkness stops, maybe realising he’s saying too much. But the Master already knows.
“He doesn’t want to kill me? Doesn’t matter.” He knows what will happen. He’ll even make sure that it does. “I’ll die anyway. And you won’t.”
“I think we already figured that out, yes. You tested it often enough.”
“And never came to a satisfying result.” Suddenly the Master becomes serious, and the smile is gone from his face when Harkness asks:
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to do something for me.”
An angry snort. “Your wish is my command…” Oh, sarcasm. How nice.
The Master doesn’t smile.
“When I’m gone and you are all free again, you’re going to leave him.”
“Like hell!” the human snarls.
“Oh, you will!” The Master picks up the photos again, waves them around. “Because this is what happens if you don’t!”
“I thought you’ve already decided to be dead!”
“And I already told you that I’ve ordered this long ago. If I die the order is not erased. It’ll still be executed - if you stay with him.”
“How can you change orders you’ve given more than a year ago if you’re not alive to do it? Because it would have to be before the paradox, or it would be erased with everything else.” Harkness is trying to sound arrogant but he’s failing. Fearing that Master might be cleverer than that. The only reply he gets is:
“My orders have layers.”
Silence while the human thinks.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then don’t.” The Master shrugs, disinterested. “They’ll kill the police woman first. If you’re still with him one week later the doctor dies. Next is…”
“Why?” Harkness interrupts him.
“Because he’ll be devastated when I die.” The Master almost giggles at the thought. Too bad he won’t be around to see that. But he’ll make it up to himself later. “Perfect moment to leave him all alone.”
“Why?” Harkness asks again. And the Master loses control over himself without warning, throwing the pictures to the floor and yelling:
“Because you don’t die! You never, ever die! You’ll always be there!” He realises he’s breathing hard, making a fool of himself. This happens too often lately, he needs to get rid of the drums. Needs to get back in control. But he’d be damned if he let the Doctor have this victory!
“I’m the only constant in his life!” he hisses, and turns to go. When he opens the door the human calls after him.
“I still don’t believe you,” he states. The Master smiles thinly and leaves.
-
The Doctor has always surrounded himself with other people but the Master has never cared for them - ephemeral as they were they provided little more than short distractions. But the freak will always be there the Master hates him for it. The Doctor might get used to his presence. Might begin to depend on it, even though a mere human could never replace a Time Lord. He’ll be around when the Master isn’t.
He won’t allow that.
The Doctor is still sleeping when he quietly steps into his bedroom. The effect of the drug will wear off in two hours but maybe his own exhaustion will keep him unconscious a little longer. Once the Master decides he’s gotten enough rest he’ll wake him up with the pain of being aged nine hundred years in one minute.
Just two more days before his Toclafane leave this planet to conquer to universe, the Master muses as he climbs back into bed and takes the Doctor in his arms, relishing the feeling of being close to another Time Lord after the numbing block to the flow of time that is Captain Harkness.
Gallifrey is gone with all its children, but the Master hardly feels the loss. There is no hole in his mind as the Doctor is still there to fill it. It’s all he needs.
But the power the other is holding over him is scaring him. In a way the Doctor is worse than the drums, and him he cannot blame on the high council.
In the end, though, it’s the Master who will win one way or another. In all the lifetimes they have known each other this is the first time the Doctor really needs him. And this knowledge is all the Master needs to win this particular game of theirs. He won’t let himself be owned. He won’t be defeated.
Smiling softly to himself he gently strokes the Doctor’s hair and thinks about the future.
March 26, 2008
Prompt: #034 - Too Much
Claim: The Time War
Table: Here
Spoilers: Season 3 Finale
Warning: violence, mention of torture and rape
Characters/Pairing: Simm!Master/Doctor (10), (Jack/Doctor)
Summary: The Master's drums have always been with him - or haven't they? Close to the end of the year that never was he begins to wonder.
“The beautiful thing about this,“ the Master says, "is the finality of it. This is my work. This is what I did to this planet, to its people.” He ‘s looking out of the window, down onto his world, his wasteland. “It’s the glory of the destruction. The destruction of glory. The power.”
No one is listening to him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Lucy, wearing a bright blue dress and jewellery, all hollow eyes and empty smiles he painted on her face. A walking piece of art. She’s watching him from the other side of the room, too far away to make out his words. Too far away to understand.
Somewhere down there Martha Jones is walking the Earth, trying to find a weapon. Somewhere down there Martha Jones has received his message. The Master smiles. His plans are nearing completion. The drums whisper through his head and he finds himself tapping their rhythm against the thick glass of the window. Softly. Softly. There’s still so much to be done. He can’t rest yet.
The servants and the soldiers are gone, elsewhere. They don’t come to him unless he calls them. His slaves. The Master smiles.
Turning away from the windows he looks at the Doctor, all tiny and wrinkled and unrecognizable for anyone only watching through eyes. He’s not paying attention - curled up in his birdcage like a cat, sleeping, resting. In the silence the Master can hear breaths that are a little too fast, slightly wheezing. Somewhere in that tiny chest two tiny hearts are struggling against age and the Master wonders how he’d look had he given him his true age and not settled for the nine hundred years the Doctor likes to give to the unsuspecting.
But he is fragile enough like this. The Master doesn’t want to kill him.
Lately all he seems to do is sleep. Time Lords don’t need much rest but the Doctor’s ancient body is aching and exhausted, the effort of staying alive draining his strength. He can’t survive like this, not for long, but then this isn’t a permanent solution. For now, though, the Master likes keeping him in a cage.
He walks around it, eyes it from all directions. Bored, he considers waking the other Time Lord, but he wouldn’t know what to do with him. He’s already spend some time with the human freak this day, and the planet below is in a pathetic state - if he kills any more inhabitants there won’t be enough left to witness the great day that is approaching.
But he has to do something. Has to destroy, to hurt, to defeat. Defeat. The drums are urging him, driving him. They’re never satisfied, not before every enemy is vanquished. He’s restless. There are no enemies here. Just victims.
Impatiently tapping the rhythm against his leg the Master wonders how he ever has managed to follow his plans with such infinite patience, once. How he could wait and watch without his own need for violence and destruction getting in his way all the time. He must haw been much better at fighting the drums back them, yet he can’t remember how he did it.
The Master doesn’t dwell on this often - it makes him feel even more restless, and his thoughts slip easily. The drums have been with him ever since he looked into the untempered schism as a child. He remembers always having heard them but if he looks back he can’t fit them into his memory.
Not before the war. Not before they resurrected him to fight their battles. If he looks back, beyond the drumbeat painted over his past, the Master remembers a man who’d never risk his life actively fighting in a war. Someone for whom violence was a means to an end, not the end in itself.
And for a moment he feels like he isn’t in control of his own mind. The drums get louder, screaming at him, and the Master, in rage, screams at the Doctor, startling him, and then he kicks the little cage, makes it jumps. The Doctor is thrown around inside, grasping the bars with his tiny little hands while the cage wildly swings back and forth.
“What the hell have they done to me?” the Master yells. “What did they do? What did you do?”
The Doctor is looking at him through impossibly large eyes, like a newborn kitten. He’s trying to speak, but his voice is failing him. The Master reads his question in his confused expression.
“The drums!” he clarifies, enraged. “They gave them to me, didn’t they? They made me yearn for battle so I would fight their war for them! The manipulated me, took my free will, and you knew it!”
The Doctor shakes his hairless head, opens his mouth for an answer, but the Master kicks at the cage again, and again. Has he always lost control this easily? He knows he did but his memory tells of things that would have been impossible if he had.
The thought fuels his anger further. He prepares to attack the cage again, the Doctor taking the blame of the high council in their absence, but then he stops, manages to hold himself back. Inside the cage the Doctor isn’t holding on to the bars anymore. The Master stills its swinging with his hands but the Doctor isn’t getting up.
A rush of icy fear dulls the rage - the other Time Lord is vulnerable in this state. What if he’s broken him?
The thought that he could have killed him doesn’t cross the Master’s mind. He still feels the Doctor’s presence. Looking at this creature he recognizes it as the Doctor in a way that has nothing to do with its appearance. If he was dead all that would be gone and the Master would be left with nothing but the drumbeat.
Still the Doctor could be hurt badly. He could be dying. The Master’s hands don’t shake when he opens the cage and lifts the Doctor out of it, but he’s holding his breath. Places the brittle, weightless body on the ground and presses his fingers against his chest to feel for his heartbeats. There is one, faintly. The Master’s touch is light so he doesn’t break any ribs.
Without any further thought he takes out his laser screwdriver, adjusts the setting and aims at the Doctor. A shadow falls on him, cast by Lucy and two soldiers that might have been alerted by his yelling, but they’re still metres away, not daring to step closer. They won’t interfere with anything he does. The Master ignores them.
The de-aging takes time. Nine hundred years are running by in the wrong direction. There are no screams this time and no twitching, but when the Master finally stops the Doctor is awake and gasping helplessly in the aftershocks of unbelievable agony. He’s shivering and naked, his dwarfish clothes having been torn by his growing body. When he turns onto his side and curls up the Master kicks him into the stomach, not willing to give him a moment of rest. Now he knows it’s save to hurt him the anger takes over again, and the Master kicks and punches in blind rage until the Doctor finally finds his voice again and cries out in pain.
He’s out of breath when he stops but the drums are satisfied, for now.
Neither of them speaks while the Doctor gathers his strength and slowly pushes himself into a sitting position. There’s blood running down the side of his face, his body is bruised and the Master is sure he’s broken some ribs but that won’t matter. The moment he manipulates the other’s age again all that will be gone and broken bones will be the least of his worries.
Two months ago the Master returned the Doctor’s body to its original state. He restrained him and left him alone for a week, while giving his soldiers permission to do with him whatever they liked. Behind the scenes the Master still watched, still controlled everything while men that didn’t even know he was in their heads had their fun with the Doctor. The other man was injured, weak and ill when he finally came back to send everyone away and released him from his suffering, but he somehow failed to see the Master as his saviour, just stared at him in silent accusation and refused to speak until the Master lost his patience and turned him back into an old man.
The old wounds are gone now, erased. The look in his eyes though is almost the same, but when the Master tosses him his jacket he takes it willingly to wrap it around his trembling shoulders.
His voice is not trembling when he says:
“What was that about?”
He doesn’t understand. Like Lucy he’s too far away.
The Master orders his soldiers to pull him to his feet and the Doctor sways in their grip. Injuries heal whenever his DNA is manipulated but the exhaustion remains. The past year has demanded a lot of his body and the Master is suddenly scared that he won’t last much longer.
“Take him to my rooms,” he commands. Before the soldiers can move, however, the Doctor slips out of their grip, takes a few steps back. He flinches away further when one of them reaches for him and they still under the force of his glare. The Master is reminded of what they have done to him and the Doctor remembers as well. It’s not a surprise he’s not keen on getting touched by any of them, but the glare doesn’t spare him either.
“I have no interest of going to your rooms,” he growls. Rescuing him from the abuse of the evil soldiers has already proven to the Master that even after all the time he’s spend on Earth the Doctor is still very much immune to Stockholm.
He sighs mildly.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promises. “All you’ll get is a soft bed, some food - maybe a cuddle? You still like to cuddle, don’t you?”
“After what you did to Earth, to my friends, I wouldn’t touch you with a ten feet pole,” the Doctor declares, making the Master scold him:
“You’re taking it personally again.”
“This is personal! You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me, would you?”
“Don’t be difficult! I only have your best interests in mind. Now go, and get some sleep before you drop dead!”
“I’d rather sleep in the cage.” The Doctor’s voice is cold - he means it. The Master frowns in irritation, takes the laser screwdriver again and aims.
“It wasn’t a request,” he states and fires. One of the soldiers drops to the ground.
“No!” the Doctor yells. “What the hell are you doing?” So predictable.
“Disobedience is followed by punishment,” the Master reminds him.
“But he’s done nothing wrong!”
“You did.” He aims again, at the other soldier. The Doctor moves between him and the weapon, stares at the Master, at the dead body - and walks away. Allowing himself a satisfied smile the Master follows.
Only when they reach the Master’s rooms does the Doctor speak.
“I can help you,” he says, quietly. “I think you’re right - the Time Lords did something to you. Yon have changed.”
“For the better?” the Master asks, somewhere between a leer and a snarl.
“No. You were megalomaniac before, and ruthless, but never like this. And your drums - you have never mentioned them. There was no indication of their existence.”
The door snaps shut behind them. The Doctor turns to look at the Master and the Master feels his fury rising but also desperation and something he’s come to recognize as madness. He’s known. He thought getting a confirmation would help.
When the Doctor looks at his face he must see insecurity and helplessness. Weakness.
“Let me help!” he urges. “If they put the drums into your head I can get them out! You’ll be back to your old self. Back like I knew you.”
There’s anger in the Master’s chuckle.
“I had to kill someone to get you into my bedroom but you’re oh so willing to heal me! Heal the villain, the evil one, the killer of mankind! Are you so alone, so desperate? You want to help me! Just because I’m the only Time Lord left.” He presses his palm flat against the Doctor’s chest where two hearts are beating steadily behind cracked ribs and the Doctor shakes his head.
“No,” he says. “Because I can.”
“Tempting.” The Master turns abruptly, taps his finger against his lips. “But I think I’ll keep them.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Why not? They have driven me this far! See what I gained because of them!”
His back is turned to the Doctor but he can see his reflection in the glass of the window, can see the slump of his shoulders.
“I only see what you have lost.”
“It’s a matter of perspective.”
“No, it isn’t. A few minutes you were out of your mind with rage because of them. You’re not in control.”
The rage is getting stronger, but for now it’s turned into a snort. The Master knows the Doctor is right. He hates it when he’s right. He hates not being in control, is terrified by it. The drums are trying to stop him thinking. In the end he turns back around and punches the Doctor in the face. He stumbles backwards, falls against the door.
“If you say another word inside this room,” the Master decides, “I’ll kill your freaky friend. Again.”
The Doctor gives him a glare of fury and despair and remains silent.
“Oh, don’t be like that!” the Master teases. “It’s not like I’d cause any lasting damage.” He laughs at his own words, but the Doctor remains quiet and doesn’t resist when he’s pulled toward the bed.
The Master pushes him onto the covers and then leaves him alone, disappearing into the kitchen. When he returns two minutes later with a large cup the Doctor has crawled beneath the blanket and pulled it up to his chest. He’s still shivering but the Master suspects the sheet is serving more as protection than anything else. His jacket has been dropped to the floor.
“Drink this!” he orders, handing over the steaming hot drink and the Doctor drowns it without hesitation even though it has to be scalding his throat. He hands back the empty cup and the Master actually returns it to the kitchen. He’s not in a hurry. By the time he comes back the Doctor has dropped to the mattress, struggling to remain awake. There’s resignation in his eyes as well as something resembling fear. He doesn’t have the strength to get away when the Master lies down beside him and pulls him close. Strokes his hair.
Five minutes later the Doctor is sleeping soundly in his arms and the Master is staring at the ceiling, taking some time to think about what exactly he’s doing here.
-
An hour later the Master leaves his sleeping friend. He’s drugged him because he knows the Doctor would never have relaxed enough with him around, no matter how much in need of rest he was. To himself the Master can admit that his exhaustion was merely an excuse for getting him to sleep in his arms, to feel the cool body against his own, peaceful and defenceless, but he doesn’t like to - this one he cannot blame on the drums.
It’s surprisingly easy to leave, because he has to do something and it won’t let him rest. This aren’t the drums either, it’s just him. A part of his nature that has always been there.
He sends everyone away before he enters the cell of the freak. The captain - self-proclaimed, the Master assumes - frowns at him, and then he glares and then he sneers. Always wanting everything at once. The Master chuckles, and shivers at the same time. Harkness makes his skin crawl and his yaw clench, for different reasons.
The Master considers killing him by way of greeting. He does that a lot, sometimes out of fun, out of boredom, out of sadistic curiosity, sometimes out of a cold, empty hatred in the vain hope that maybe this time he’ll stay dead.
For once the man can stay alive, because the Master doesn’t want to waste any time waiting for him to wake up. He’s come to talk.
“Before you speak just listen and watch,” he orders, preventing any comment from his prisoner. On most days there’s no threat except for the Doctor’s safety that can make Harkness shut up but this time he seems to sense the mood the Master is in and stays silent, watching him wearily as he comes closer. In his hand the Time Lord is holding a number of photographs, enlarged, high quality. Showing every detail. He’s kept them for the right moment and this moment is perfect.
“Okay, I changed my mind,” he suddenly says. “You may speak to answer me one question: How do you feel about the Doctor being all tiny and ancient?”
His prisoner just stares at him for a moment, darkly and impotent. Then he says:
“I’m glad.”
It’s not the answer the Master has expected. It raises his curiosity but he doesn’t like it.
“Why is that?”
“Because when he is like this you leave him alone,” the captain snarls at him. “I know you don’t want him to die yet, and while he’s small and fragile you won’t give him to your soldiers for torture and rape.” When the Master says nothing he adds: “Don’t think I wouldn’t know it was you who made them do it!”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” the Time Lord smiles. “I was the one who gave you that screen, so you can watch, after all. Did you like it, by the way? I never asked.”
Harkness pulls on his chains in empty fury, but this time they won’t buckle.
“I hate you!” he states.
“Yes, I think we’ve been there.” A raised hand when the human wants to say more. “No, talking time is over. Now it’s time for you to watch and listen.”
The other man’s face shows confusion and worry when the Master shows him the first picture, but no horror yet. The Master isn’t surprised - it takes some time to find the face in the frazzled human remains shown on the picture. He waits patiently, and only when all colour drains from the freak’s face does he show the second picture, which is more instantly recognizable, if no less gory.
Weather it’s due to the Master’s order or out of horror, Harkness doesn’t make a sound until all four photos have been shown and discarded.
“These are old,” the Time Lord informs him when he is done. “Almost a year. I didn’t do it.”
“Of course you did, you sick…”
“No, I didn’t. But naturally I ordered it. I ordered it even before I was voted Prime Minister.”
“Why? What have they ever done to you?” There are tears of rage in the human’s eyes. The Master quite likes the sight.
“They were your friends. That’s enough. Anyway.” He stops, thinks for a second. Taps the rhythm onto his lips once. “They’re not lost yet, of course.”
The captain says nothing, confirming the Master’s suspicion that he knew.
“As you are apparently aware everything done in the last year will be undone should the Paradox Machine be destroyed.”
“What’s the point?” Harkness asks with a hint of hopelessness. “Who would destroy it?”
The Master snorts - he can’t help it.
“Who? The Doctor, of course! I wouldn’t for one second believe that he doesn’t have a plan, and even if he hadn’t - one days he’ll get the chance to do it.”
“Because you’re not going to kill him,” the human realises.
“And if that happens,” the Master continues, ignoring his words, “I’ll die.”
“Good!”
The Time Lord smiles sweetly.
“Isn’t it nice how simple words can make you happy?”
“Quite. But the Doctor doesn’t…” Harkness stops, maybe realising he’s saying too much. But the Master already knows.
“He doesn’t want to kill me? Doesn’t matter.” He knows what will happen. He’ll even make sure that it does. “I’ll die anyway. And you won’t.”
“I think we already figured that out, yes. You tested it often enough.”
“And never came to a satisfying result.” Suddenly the Master becomes serious, and the smile is gone from his face when Harkness asks:
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to do something for me.”
An angry snort. “Your wish is my command…” Oh, sarcasm. How nice.
The Master doesn’t smile.
“When I’m gone and you are all free again, you’re going to leave him.”
“Like hell!” the human snarls.
“Oh, you will!” The Master picks up the photos again, waves them around. “Because this is what happens if you don’t!”
“I thought you’ve already decided to be dead!”
“And I already told you that I’ve ordered this long ago. If I die the order is not erased. It’ll still be executed - if you stay with him.”
“How can you change orders you’ve given more than a year ago if you’re not alive to do it? Because it would have to be before the paradox, or it would be erased with everything else.” Harkness is trying to sound arrogant but he’s failing. Fearing that Master might be cleverer than that. The only reply he gets is:
“My orders have layers.”
Silence while the human thinks.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then don’t.” The Master shrugs, disinterested. “They’ll kill the police woman first. If you’re still with him one week later the doctor dies. Next is…”
“Why?” Harkness interrupts him.
“Because he’ll be devastated when I die.” The Master almost giggles at the thought. Too bad he won’t be around to see that. But he’ll make it up to himself later. “Perfect moment to leave him all alone.”
“Why?” Harkness asks again. And the Master loses control over himself without warning, throwing the pictures to the floor and yelling:
“Because you don’t die! You never, ever die! You’ll always be there!” He realises he’s breathing hard, making a fool of himself. This happens too often lately, he needs to get rid of the drums. Needs to get back in control. But he’d be damned if he let the Doctor have this victory!
“I’m the only constant in his life!” he hisses, and turns to go. When he opens the door the human calls after him.
“I still don’t believe you,” he states. The Master smiles thinly and leaves.
-
The Doctor has always surrounded himself with other people but the Master has never cared for them - ephemeral as they were they provided little more than short distractions. But the freak will always be there the Master hates him for it. The Doctor might get used to his presence. Might begin to depend on it, even though a mere human could never replace a Time Lord. He’ll be around when the Master isn’t.
He won’t allow that.
The Doctor is still sleeping when he quietly steps into his bedroom. The effect of the drug will wear off in two hours but maybe his own exhaustion will keep him unconscious a little longer. Once the Master decides he’s gotten enough rest he’ll wake him up with the pain of being aged nine hundred years in one minute.
Just two more days before his Toclafane leave this planet to conquer to universe, the Master muses as he climbs back into bed and takes the Doctor in his arms, relishing the feeling of being close to another Time Lord after the numbing block to the flow of time that is Captain Harkness.
Gallifrey is gone with all its children, but the Master hardly feels the loss. There is no hole in his mind as the Doctor is still there to fill it. It’s all he needs.
But the power the other is holding over him is scaring him. In a way the Doctor is worse than the drums, and him he cannot blame on the high council.
In the end, though, it’s the Master who will win one way or another. In all the lifetimes they have known each other this is the first time the Doctor really needs him. And this knowledge is all the Master needs to win this particular game of theirs. He won’t let himself be owned. He won’t be defeated.
Smiling softly to himself he gently strokes the Doctor’s hair and thinks about the future.
March 26, 2008