Chapter Text
It wasn’t love.
No.
Love is just a disgusting little emotion.
Love is for lesser minds and idiots, for those that sink low enough to let themselves be shackled or guided or blinded by it.
Love is nothing but a lousy excuse for people that don’t have any other reason to be together or apart.
Love is something that should be too big to be put into four simple letters or three words, but humans dared to, anyway.
And it wasn’t that.
No.
There isn’t an actual word for love in Gallifreyan either, what it means can be written in many ways, and it was a little bit different for every Time Lord. Sometimes, it contained the words for two, forever, sunlight, red, soulmate or friend or everything, and sometimes none of that at all.
He had never written it down, never said it out loud.
Never needed to.
Never wanted to.
If he had, though, he was sure the words mine, blue, universe and fire should be part of it. They should stand in the very centre, with warm and cold syllables stretching around it.
They would merge together just as they would repel themselves in contradiction.
His word for it would be like a storm and would mean just the same.
But it wasn’t that.
Because it wasn’t love.
“Have you heard yet? Theta’s been crying in that shed all night again”, Torvic said to him once.
Koschei knew that. He knew why, too and would take care of that, get him out, like he always did. The last thing Theta needed was someone to call him out for it. Especially not Torvic. But he knew how these things usually go.
“And you’re telling me that, because…?”
“Oh, just, you know.” The other boy shrugged and grinned as he looked down on him. Koschei felt even smaller like this, crowded against the academy’s hallway, with a fist crumpling his robes right over his hearts, pressing him back against the wall. Trapping him. Keeping him. He couldn’t stand it. “Thought you wanted to hear. Since you two are just ever sooooooo cute together. Inseparable, the pair of you. Makes me want to gag every time I have to see you make heart-eyes at each other.”
Wrong.
It’s not ‘heart-eyes’.
Just the look that happens to be on your face when you find yourself staring back; when you find the one and only other being that understands you - like no one ever has and no one ever will.
So much, that it started to scare him to death at one point.
So much, that he started to despise it, too.
It didn’t help.
Koschei knew since the very first time he looked into Theta’s pretty, dumb eyes. Eyes, that held his entire universe. Less than a second and he knew. He knew.
But it wasn’t just love.
“No one’s making you look, Torvic. You could just- I don’t know? Leave us alone, maybe? That would be a start.”
“Nah. I’d still hear your dumb voice, though. Thete, Thete, Theeeete-! Really, what does he see in you? Love must make you so blind, it’s actually pat-”
When Torvic says it, it was like a weapon.
And it sounded like something laughable. Something frail. Something dumb. Something even less.
The words for sharp and bird and sword and jealousy and don’t were woven around the circles and the pronunciation was as mocking and hurtful and desirous as the clear intention behind it.
It wasn’t love, but it was a rhythm of one-two-three-four screaming at him, it was his forehead connecting harshly with Torvic’s nose, cutting him off from saying one more disgusting word, it was the feeling of skin breaking and he knew he would pay the price for that later.
He did. Always.
Another scolding from Borusa and his Father too, a crying Torvic holding his broken nose and pointing a finger at him, but smiling smugly when they were busy being disappointed at Gallifrey’s trouble-child.
(They were wrong, though. It was Theta who had the sharp tongue. It was Theta who couldn’t stay away from danger. It was Theta who broke rules and stuck his nose into forbidden things. It was Theta who enjoyed kicking up dust. So yes, they were wrong. Koschei didn’t blame them. They didn’t really know Theta. No one did, but him. Because it was Koschei who had the soft spot. It was Koschei who cleaned up after and picked up the pieces. It was Koschei who always got the blame for everything. It was Koschei that kept getting pulled into Theta’s orbit of chaos and down under. It was only Koschei who played by the rules. And it was Theta that made him question and ignore all of them, because Koschei was more than willing to get himself broken by a boy with stars in his eyes.)
And then, after the official part was done, he could only hold still and try not to make it worse when he was pushed face-down to the ground, to keep his knees close to his vital organs, when it was over, when feet would break his ribs after and fists would leave dark, purple bruises everywhere Torvic could reach.
“Stairs”, he’d say to Theta later, under the nights cover and the other boy would know not to ask and tend his broken body silently, like he always does. With clenched teeth and worry and a whispered ‘sorry’ underneath it all. It was as empty and miserable as he felt. He glanced up, while keeping still for him- and sometimes forgot he needed to blink.
He looked beautiful, lit up by starlight like that.
It wasn’t love, but it meant together, anyway.
Still, it was alright. He could take it. He had to, because Theta wasn’t as gentle as his hands felt at those times, when they ghosted over the side of him, over bruises and bites and cuts, to the back of his neck and through his hair. Even his soft lips where a decoy, when they pressed chaste little wishes against his own. They spoke of nothing but ownership and obsession and danger and desire through huffs and shared breaths and more.
It wasn’t love, but it meant mine and yours, anyway.
Koschei didn’t mind, because they were the same.
At some point blood and hope and river and scared joined the spelling of his word, when Torvic’s nails stopped breaking his skin, when that hand twitched once against the back of his skull, right after Koschei had decided to close his eyes underwater and stop fighting for air; then went completely slack- and he was forced to breathe again.
It wasn’t love, but it was a stone in Theta’s hands, and it wasn’t hate either, but he saw that expression of terror and fear and fury when he looked up to the other boy, blinking through his ripping coughs and burning tears that mixed with the water, salt and blood on his face.
One-two-three-four.
Time didn’t stop.
One-two-three-four.
His hearts did.
One-two-three-four.
Too far. You went too far Thete, he thought, fully aware of what Theta was capable and willing to do for him from the beginning.
He didn’t. Couldn’t.
Couldn’t look away either. Never.
Never again.
And so, pyre and death and promise became an unspoken part of it, too.
But it wasn’t love that was burning him up from the inside.
At this point, it was already too big for just that, anyway.
Koschei held onto his name and chose his path, he kept on chasing until death and violence and power and control became an ambition to him, to show Theta that it was okay.
Theta left his name at the river, and chose the opposite, he kept on running until life and cowardice and morals and adventure became a restriction to him, to show Koschei that it wasn’t.
It wasn’t hate, but the Doctor stopped looking at him after that. And it became harder and harder to get his attention. To keep it, too. They broke apart and he broke with it. Koschei knew that it was his own fault- for being stupid and weak.
It wasn’t love, but it was blood, hope, river and scared.
And he stopped wanting to die, he made sure that he would cling to his life with every ounce of his strength, so he wouldn’t need the Doctor’s help ever again.
Still, he held onto being just Koschei, until he was getting left behind, until he watched that back turning on him for good, until the Doctor’s stolen TARDIS faded into nothing without him and it felt like a black hole had opened in his stomach.
- Stay with me. -
He was alone.
And there was no point in keeping his name after that.
“You- oh. Oh. You really love him. You really, actually do.”
When Lucy says it, it was in equal parts wonder, disbelieve and genuine surprise.
She says it like a fact, like something clicked in her mind, like the pieces that didn’t fit before made sense now. She says it like it was something she couldn’t quite believe, but like it was the only logical thing left, here and in this universe.
Maybe she’d seen it in his face.
Or maybe it was just because Lucy was smart like that. His faithful companion. He’d seen the fierceness in her eyes, the first time he saw her, back when he still worked on his political career to set the stage for their game. Less than a second, and he knew.
He didn’t know how she came to that conclusion, though, or what made her say it.
But it was the first time he hit her pretty face.
- Break for me. -
It’s when he stopped caring about her, too.
Rassilon ripped the drums out of his mind the same way he had placed them there: without any care or conscience.
And the silence was the worst thing he had ever heard.
Alone.
Alone, alone, alone, alone, alone-
He didn’t-, he couldn’t-
Lost.
Between pacing his cell like a tiger, or not moving at all, between driving his fists into the walls until he saw bones through his crusted knuckles, biting his lip raw and tapping his fingertips on every surface just to hear something, was a void.
He was left with remembering the look on the Doctor’s face, remembering the short but terrifying moment he thought it wasn’t enough or too much this time, when he thought the Doctor couldn’t forgive him anymore and how a simple ‘Get out of the way’ made his insides burn high, bright and hot like wildfire, remembering the overly satisfying moment and the frantic beat of his hearts when they stood together and he electrified the very life out of their Lord President and-
It wasn’t love that made him hope, and it wasn’t hate that made the black hole in his stomach start to eat him alive when the Doctor returned to Gallifrey after the Time War- and it wasn’t for him.
(The city, nah, the whole planet would end up being burned to the ground if he had.)
Sure. Life and cowardice and morals and adventure.
It still hurt like hell.
“You are required.”
The Master only scoffed and looked back at the ceiling.
“Whatever for, oh Lord President, Sir?”
Took the other some time to answer. The Master didn’t have to look to feel the held-back disgust directed at him (at his current appearance, his sarcastic tone and the fact that he existed in the first place). Oh, but what a delight. Must have been quite the struggle- to fall so deep, so low to have to come to him like that.
“The Doctor has drawn a line.”
Ah. That made him actually laugh.
Laugh and laugh and he couldn’t stop. It was shaking, it sounded utterly mad and he got up from the bed to bow over and hold his belly.
“Did he now-! Hahaha! And what have you’ve done to him to deserve that, huh?”
Silence. His laughter slowly died out as the other didn’t answer.
“Well. Knowing your ways, I’m sure it was nice. Ah- Let me guess: You’ve sent a lot of people with guns and he didn’t talk to any of them.” Silence. Oh, bullseye. The Master stood up and made his way over. “And you think he will listen to me?”
Silence. Then-
“The Doctor had always been- bound to you. By love and worse.”
When Rassilon says it, it sounded like something foolish and shameful and useless. Like something only children would do or talk about, when they didn’t know better yet. He said it with the words for disgrace and below and disease woven into and it made the Master sick to his core, let his blood burn again.
It wasn’t love, but it was silence screaming in his head, it was a raging heartsbeat pulsing through his ears, wild, hungry and like a cheer and he surged forward, grabbing the woven metal bars and tainting them red. His ego hummed in satisfaction when the other jerked back (from the sudden, aggressive motion that had him turning into prey and the carnage and the murder in the Master’s expression).
“I won’t do shit.” No, it wasn’t love, but it made his voice drop to something just below a raspy whisper and just above a simple threat. “And when the Doctor throws you off his planet for whatever you did, and trust me, he will, oh, you better be fast and run as far as you can. Cause if I ever find you, I will rip your hearts out in return and watch you die over and over until you have no more spare life left in you.”
Silence.
He spat on the ground beneath Rassilon’s feet and that was that.
- Run for me. -
The Doctor was gone when the Master was finally out of that cell. Not that he expected anything else- but it was almost pathetic how much- how much he actually-
Yearned. Hoped. Hated. Hated. Hated. Hated. Hated. Hated. Hated.
Wanted.
Yes, utterly pathetic. So he did the only thing he was left with: Steal a TARDIS and run away.
And maybe find a nice planet to raze to the ground, just to get the frustration out of his system.
“He’s gonna do an explanation. That always takes a while”
Except it shouldn’t. There shouldn’t even be a need for it.
Because it only does take a while when you have to explain gravity and black holes and the passing of time to goldfish. Because it’s just a dumb side effect, a bad habit the Doctor picked up over the years. Because that’s what you get from choosing to put up with people that don’t have the same intellect as you.
“The months will fly by.”
Nine years, four months, two days, thirteen hours, twenty-eight minutes, fifty-two seconds.
Fucking hell. They didn’t fly by. They just dragged on at this point.
As much as he enjoyed his disguises and lying shamelessly, this was slowly wearing him out.
The Master smiled either way and Bill did the same, chuckling and blowing on her cup. The only thing that kept him going was the reward at the end. To see the Doctor’s face fall when he will finally tell him- when he would recognize- be seen-
Patience. Just a little longer.
The tea smelled good and he inhaled the sweet scent. He’d only ever make the bad one for her. Not that she’d notice. But he was at the point where he would need those small victories to get him through the day.
A companionable silence fell over them, and he let his eyes settle on the screen again. Nine goddamn years of this, Doctor. And you still didn’t come here for me.
“Have you always been alone? You know. Down here?”
And there it was. The stupid, meaningless talks and questions he had to deal with while playing this ‘friendship’. His head already started to hurt again. For a brief moment he let those nice, murderous thoughts wash over him, engulf him, and his mind invented a thousand creative ways to end Bill’s life as hurtful and lingering as possible. Time slowed as he lived through every single one. Then, he remembered he’s currently already working on the best of them- and he could breathe again.
“What do you mean?”
“There never been anyone? Like- a Missus Razor? Mister?”
Nine years, four months, two days, thirteen hours, forty-four minutes, seventeen seconds.
Bill used her hands to talk -a lot- and it was driving him insane.
“Ah. Ah, no. Just me. And work. Important work. No time.”
“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to-”
“No, not that, no. I have you. For company. Washing my socks.”
“Ew, no. I was talking about love, mate.”
When Bill says it, it was full of longing and yearning. Of something dear and something lost. It sounded like a could-have-been and why-didn’t-I and then he had to listen to a story about a girl and a puddle for the next fifty-two minutes.
And he didn’t even ask for the extended version of it. Got it anyway.
He didn’t care about a single word.
Really, Doctor. I’m doing you such a favour here, the Master thought, clenching his teeth together as he did his best impression of being invested, nodded from time to time in fake sympathy and understanding. It took a lot, almost everything he had, to not roll his eyes every time her voice got ever so soft and her eyes filled up with tears.
- Cry for me. -
In between his effort to ignore that and the utterly annoying hand-talking he glanced at the screen, at pretty grey curls, even greyer eyebrows, that dumb black coat (which was kind of an upgrade from the pinstripes, but still an affront to his eyes; no sense of fashion, really, it just looked like he was trying too hard), screwdriver still in the air while listening to a girl talk about stars, butterflies, fate, the possibility of love at first sight and other things she would never really understand the core or true meaning of, anyway.
And if his hearts started to hum, because of stars, butterflies, fate, the possibility of love at first sight- because of wide fields of red grass, of a warm hand grabbing his, holding tight, tighter until he felt so wrong and lost and meaningless without it, of stolen kisses in a shed and lingering touches, of promises and daffodils- well.
It was just that.
Frustrating.
But it wasn’t love.
And it didn’t mean anything.
(Maybe it did.)
“Oh, it must be love.”
When Clara says it, it sounded like pure sarcasm.
The mocking tone had Missy pressing her nails into her palm.
She scoffed.
“Ugh, don’t be disgusting. We’re Time Lords, not animals. Try, nano-brain, to rise above the reproductive frenzy of your noisy little food chain and contemplate friendship.”
Must be. Mustn’t be.
Is.
And yet.
And yet, she felt her loosing focus, drifting off.
“A friendship older than your civilisation and infinitely more…” Missy’s eyes found Clara’s, holding them for one, two, three, four seconds. Yes. That. Not Love. But the snogging had been nice. Oh, so nice, to have him shoved against that wall, nice to just take what was hers, that lips still parted in shock that were just as nice and soft as she remembered, the tense muscles under her fingers and- yeah. “…complex.”
The girl looked away. Hurt, maybe. A little bit? Hopefully. Anyway, Clara looked down and nodded her head, not in defeat, but with an intention that still meant something along the lines of whatever you say.
Gosh, her holier than thou-attitude was as bad as the Doctor’s.
“So the Doctor is your bezzie mate and I’m supposed to believe that you’ve turned good.”
Yes, just as bad.
She’d really picked a fun one, didn’t she? Missy couldn’t wait to make that pretty face scream, to pick her apart, bit for bit for bit for bit.
Ah, but for now-
“Good?”
For you. Just for you. Missy raised her eyebrows with a lopsided smile.
Oh. Oh, yes.
Press of a button. The joyful zip in her ears. The ever so addicting smell of vaporized flesh and bones and blood. The screams and shouts around her. The panicked, horrified look on Clara’s face.
- Smile for me. -
Utterly thrilling.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes-
This one was your very own fault, darling, and Missy could feel the buzz in her hearts.
The one that told her she was still alive.
< Hello, I’m the Doctor! We just met! >, said the new message- and that was how that started.
He had expected him to show up at MI6 sooner or later, though, there were several things the Master did, in fact, not expect.
One: He had not expected for it to be quite that soon, just half a year after he killed and replaced the original O, and he rushed all the way to C’s office.
Green eyes.
They looked back and up to where O opened the door with way too much force and he slipped, the documents and notes he was asked to deliver rustling to the floor rather comical, he was still more than a little breathless from running up the stairs, his glasses didn’t sit right; still- pretty green eyes, and they travelled up and down to take in O’s current appearance, with a slightly crooked head and a lanky body that made itself smaller, slouched across the chair, crossed legs and everything, with one eyebrow raised, like things finally got interesting enough to care; but those eyes- the curiosity in them, open and real, without millennia of bad history, with honest interest- that was two.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Yes, the irony. O gave himself the mental slap he needed to look away (bowtie and tweed, of all things, but he- he kinda pulled that look of. Questionable fashion sense, still, but- well. Still.) and bowed down to pick up his mess.
C just sighed, tired and exhausted, like he did every time.
The Master felt the urge to snap that neck nice and clean.
O stood back up, cleared his throat and delivered the files.
Took a lot of willpower not to inhale the Doctor’s scent in deep when he placed them on C’s desk, it’s been so long since- since- since-. He sniffed just a bit and got away with that, at least. They went on with their talk and C ignored him. The Doctor didn’t.
“Who made these?”, and the obvious amazement made O’s hearts skip a tiny beat.
Oh, well.
“What do you- Ah, no. Those aren’t part of the operation.” Another annoyed sigh. “Agent O likes to add his own theories and analyses- much to everyone’s dismay. I’m sorry, Doctor, I told him several times to stop that, since they’re just irrelevant and a waste of time and resources.”
“No. Those numbers check out, I was there. Definitely alien, they made me teach them thermodynamics for two months. Said I had the chin for it. Do I? Must have. Didn’t help with their internal dispute though, cause they understood me wrong. It was horn, not corn. That’s why I stay far away from peacocks. And finally- someone with common sense in here! You get it.” Green eyes on him again. “You’re really good. Good-good.”
And that- that was three.
Eleven seconds of silence.
“Hmh. Well. Don’t fall in love with this one, Doctor. Do yourself a favour. He means nothing but trouble and bad news whenever he shows up.”
When C says it, he means every word.
It sounded like something he wouldn’t expect anyway; and it wasn’t a warning, but more like a huff and said like a really bad joke.
O was used to it. His face fell anyway and it wasn’t part of his disguise, because he couldn’t even argue against it. The Master stopped the low, warning growl that had already formed in back of his throat.
No worries there, he wouldn’t anyway.
It still hurt. Oh, he will absolutely enjoy ending C’s life and he can’t wait till it’s time for it.
O looked down on the floor.
The Master swallowed the tingling bloodlust down. Patience.
“I find myself quite fond of trouble. And I will choose my own company. So- do yourself a favour, C, and shut up.”
Shit, there was four. The sharp dagger in the Doctor’s tone let the hair on his neck stand up, oh, goosebumps too, and he really, really, really did not expect him to use fear like that. This Doctor was as childish and ignorant as he was righteous scary- and wasn’t that quite a combination.
The seconds ticked by, eleven- and C (hard, edgy, untouchable C) swallowed visibly from the sudden coldness in the air. That, he only saw in the corner of his eye, because the Doctor’s gaze never left his. And if O’s pants got just a little too tight right there, right in this office and right under C’s judging stare- well. Couldn’t really blame him. That, he did expect.
The Doctor smiled, releasing the tension of the moment and drove his fingers back through is hair (which wasn’t as curly and grey and soft or spiky and chaotic and cute anymore, just a different kind of mess now, but O still wondered how it would feel if he- yeah. Really tight right now.)
He looked beautiful, tilting his head in ravening curiosity like that.
“What’s your opinion on custard, O?”
“Depends. What for?”
Five was how calm his own voice was, O expected it to be a little shaky (raspy and low didn’t count).
“Spoilers.”
The playfulness was back and he Doctor delivered that line with a flirty wink.
Six was how warm and demanding the Doctor’s hand was, and how perfectly those long fingers slid between his own to lead him out of the office, the building and down on the streets, steps surprisingly matched up with each other.
And if he was just O, he would never let go of them ever again.
Seven, and he found himself getting a bit too lost in green eyes and a whole day spend walking around, because the Doctor didn’t quite want to leave.
Yes, and eight? Eight was the fact that he could actually resist from grabbing that tweed jacket and push the body attached to it against the nearest wall, to pin him there, to kiss him senseless too, and rut against his thigh like a horny teenager in a back alley to deal with that problem. But he was too afraid that the Doctor would feel his very not-human pulse or smell him, that his whole plan would fail if he did (oh, and the paradox it would cause too, even though that might just be worth it) and even more afraid that he would probably just get a sympathetic rejection if he tried. This body wasn’t really the Doctor’s type, anyway.
Nine was that he could turn around and walk away, after he politely refused (four times) to step into the blue box and after the Doctor had put his number in O’s phone (and did that really cheap ‘call me’- motion with his hand for a goodbye).
< Yes, I know, you left a minute ago. Are you actually that desperate? >, said his answer- and that was how that started, too.
< Might just be. Indulge me? >
Oh, and he did.
Somewhere in between this, between swapping random facts (about sunflowers and sharks, about constellations and little shops and sunsets, music and pirates, Christmas and the moon and how Robin Hood was actually an okay guy to meet; about how long a body could survive with no air- and O held back on correcting some of them- just as much as he knew the Doctor’s ego could take), between never-ending questions (and he didn’t answer for a whole month when the Doctor had asked him about being a good man. Was fair though, because the Doctor took just as long to send a simple < thank you > back), pictures of nebulas and black holes and dying stars (one more beautiful and deadly than the other and O was absolutely sure the bastard was just trying to show off) and updates on their life (the < Got married!!!!!!!!!!!!!! > shouldn’t have felt like falling down a cliff, he already knew, but it did anyway, just as the Doctor’s offer to take down the whole MI6 after he got fired left him biting his lip) was a truth buried deep, and it hurt like hell every time the Doctor asked O to come with him.
Somewhere along the way, it had morphed into something that didn’t feel like his original plan anymore.
But he let it all happen.
The riddles and puzzles they made for each other kept him entertained along the way and he didn’t know how much he truly missed it, their friendship, them, – being with someone that could keep up- until he didn’t know how much of those texts were a lie anymore.
And when he got the very first voice-message late at night, filled with a story of loss and pain and tears and excitement and liberation just the same, when he send her two hearts, a clownfish and a flame-emoji back, that’s when the joy and happiness in her answer started to make the Master smile, too.
He understood – not that he could really tell her how much he truly did.
The voice-messages became some other thing after that, and when the Doctor ended one of them with ‘lo- uh, later!’, he knew that wasn’t what she wanted to say at all.
- Talk to me. -
It wasn’t love, but his hearts skipped a beat every time his phone lit up anyway.
“Did we win?”, the human, Yasmin, said with uncertain excitement, her eyes jumping as they followed the guests reactions to her throw.
“No”, he answered and somewhere in there was an irony to be found. He was sure.
“Didn’t know what I was doing anyway.”
The Master held back on biting his lip and let O smile sheepish as he rested his weight on the table while leaning into her. Just a little bit. Just a little more.
Doctor-
Conscious or not, the human – no - Yasmin, O corrected, leaned back into him and their shoulders pressed together. Soft. Friendly. Trusting.
Humans were ever so easy. So easy to manipulate. This one was.
And he had fun. The Master had fun.
O let a careful smile shine on his face while the Master rubbed his hands in barely held-back excitement.
Just a little more.
“You know what they say – lucky at dice, unlucky in love.”
Oh, but that doesn’t quite work, does it?
“Do they say that?”
“No”, he repeated and Yasmin chuckled at it. Her face did a thing there, a little, tiny thing. Something luminous. Something far away. Something vivid.
O didn’t care.
The Master did.
“What’s that face for?”
“Nothing. Just-”
A little motion with her arm. Nervous little move, but a cute one.
He waited. O was patient, after all.
“You know, I never really-. Before all this.” That hand gesture didn’t mean this party specifically, not even this day or particular moment, but more. Everything her life has become since she touched the Doctor (and had yet to be severely burned by it). “But- I’ve been thinking- Hmh…”
O waited for a few more seconds before raising his eyebrows a bit, like he cared about this conversation or the way she pressed her lips into a thin line.
“Thinking about what?”
“Love. Been on my mind, that. She’s been.”
“Ah.”
When Yasmin says it, it sounded like something new.
Something innocent. Something beautiful. Something easy and simple. When she says it, it’s filled with little tint of longing; with adventure and softness, and she smiles at it.
Honest. Pure.
O smiles back.
The Master doesn’t.
Something in the way she says it, thinks about it, about her, how the woman’s whole posture changes into something proud and happy and unguarded, how she lacks any sharp edge or sarcasm or murder or tears woven into the word, how she says it like it doesn’t hurt like hell and doesn’t mean everything, doesn’t mean I’ll burn it all down for you, everything and everyone, and leave you in the ruins of my revenge but an I like me better when I’m with you, and the audacity of it made his blood boil.
The sheer force of hate and murder and mine and for you, for you, for you, that washed over him caught him off guard and it almost made him loose his composure.
Shit.
No. Deep breath.
Count to four. Habit.
His teeth bit down on nothing, and it tasted like ash.
Another one of your earth girls falling head over heels for you, Doctor, he thought while his lips curled into a smile. Then a grin. This one would be quite fun to break. And he’d kill her first.
But the universe still hated him as much as he hated it back and the whole thing was over as quick as that little bubble of fake trust engulfed them.
For Yasmin, the moment broke with Barton walking by, and her attention drifted.
For the Master, the Moment broke with the Doctor walking by, and his attention drifted.
Flaring nostrils, the smell of smoke and rain and her, and he leaned in, close, close, closer in her direction when she passed him, eyes on her human pet.
And she didn’t look at him, didn’t see him.
Then again- why would she?
Oh, he missed it.
He did.
Just a little moment of weakness, of yearning and he sunk a bit deeper in the black hole that made home in his stomach. It felt like dying.
He did.
It wasn’t love, and his hatred became desperate, a beautiful, filthy obsession and it hurt so much that he wanted to scream, to drive his skull into the wall until he couldn’t feel himself anymore.
He did.
And he really missed it. Despised how raw and much, too.
The easier times, when it was just two kids and two suns, when the Doctor could still look at him without wanting- No. When she wasn’t scared of how far she’d go for him, if she’d only stopped to- No. When they could still touch and it wouldn’t burn them both to the ground, wouldn’t- No. When their crossfire didn’t end in bloodshed and tears and one of them dying, when- No.
No, he liked the last one.
Buzz. Fireflies.
Anything but be ignored.
Anything but be left behind again.
Anything but let her be hurt by someone else.
Anything.
Lies.
Everything. Just lies and regret and dust edged with betrayal and red, a promise and smoke and-.
And still, he wanted-
“Time for a chat”, the Doctor said while she walked by, but the Master didn’t quite hear it.
His eyes followed the way her blonde hair jumped with every move (it’s been so long since he felt the softness of it, ran his hands through the strands, brushed it, braided it, back when it was so much longer than right now cause Theta never cared much about that), the way her suit was a bit too big and didn’t fit her body right (still not used to it maybe, but then again, she really never cared much about that, did she?) the clenched fist that trembled just a little bit (in anticipation or thrill or excitement, no, all of it because yeah, that didn’t change - the sanctimonious bastard still got off on danger and trouble), the spring and force in her step (that changed, though. The dedication, control and calmness in it was something she didn’t quite possess before, when she- when he- when they both were-).
- Look at me. -
Oh.
Lump in his throat.
Ash.
Swallow.
The Master was sure there was an irony to be found in that, too.
( Anything but be left behind again.)
It still didn’t quite work.
It never did.
Lose-lose-lose.
The silver lady stopped – just stopped and he pulled his lip up, clacked his teeth together.
The Master already knew how this was going to go. Less than a second, and he knew. He knew.
And didn’t look forward to it.
“Don’t do this”, he said.
Don’t stop me. (I’m doing it for you.)
Don’t ruin this. (I have no other place in this universe.)
Don’t abandon me again. (I need you.)
Don’t play me. (It’s not a game anymore.)
Don’t lecture me. (We’re not the same.)
She did.
She did and he felt himself falling- down and down and down into the black hole in his stomach, deeper with every word out of her mouth.
The Doctor did her very best of explaining in great detail how brilliant she was, how she did it, how she was smarter and faster and better, and that is how they used to do this. Things change.
Things change.
And it just burned him up and it felt like looking out of an empty shell.
“Oh...”
He blinked the wetness out of his eyes, and scrunched the pain off his face.
“That’s your name. Don’t wear it out.”
The Doctor looked so proud of herself, she looked like did you see me? and that was fun! and tag, your turn! and let’s play again! and she smiled like the sun.
Yeah, this would never work. Bastard. Plan B, then.
Things change.
It wasn’t love, but this was how they did.
“Listen to her.”
- Kill me. -
He turned around to the Kasaavin that already stood behind him, their threatening whisper in his ears, arms hanging down on his sides.
But the lethal shockwave to end this didn’t come.
The change in the air did. The surprised shouting of the Doctor’s various pets did. The brutal knock into his shoulder that made him hit the ground did.
And the lightning bolt went straight through the Doctor’s hearts.
“Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“This.” The Master kicked the remains of the squid. It gave some tiny, pathetic screeches together with the wet sounds as the severed tentacle wringed over the floor. “It’s the sound of me not being impressed at all.”
The Doctor groaned.
Not only groaned, but he threw his hand up too (in defeat? Defiance? He looked annoyed, anyway) before he continued mopping the floor with what one could call passive-aggressive motivation.
“Sorry. I didn’t know it was their mating season.”
“Didn’t know it was their mating season!”
“Oi! Don’t you mock me in that tone!” A finger was being pointed at him. Rude. “And I said I’m sorry!”
He huffed at the apology.
“Sorry that you didn’t know how to deal with a swarm, sorry that you flew right into it anyway, or sorry that me cutting you free from a giant tentacle didn’t impress me much?”
“All of them, I guess.”
“Hmh. You have squid all over your TARDIS.”
“Yes. Already working on that.”
“I have squid on my suit.”
This time, it wasn’t just a finger, but the whole mop.
“Not working on that. Just take it off.”
The splashing sound it made as the Doctor left the conversation at that and continued to clean the floor with newfound vigour didn’t help at all.
“Wow. I know you’re a flirt, but that’s just bold.”
It was actually amazing to watch.
Took fourteen seconds for the Master’s words to sink in, and then another fourteen for the Doctor to think about why, and another for the red tint to spread on that face rather fast.
Amazing.
“I- no, I mean-.”
“Aw. You’re embarrassed. How adorable. You want me out of that suit?” His voice reached that mocking tone again. “Say, do you fancy me, Doctor?” Fluttering eyelashes, smoothing down his beard and he made sure to tilt his head the perfect angle, so that this one particular strand of black hair fell the right way into his left eye.
The Master just wanted to poke a bit. The Doctor owed him at least this one thing.
“Yes. Much. Lots.”
What he didn’t know was how to deal with the fact that these three words were said with 100% honesty.
Not taunting, or teasing or hurting. Not even playful. Honest. Just that.
He didn’t know what to do with the cold shiver that went down his spine just like that and without any warning, when the Doctor looked at him, really looked at him, and then blinked a few times - like he was surprised at himself.
“Huh.” Just that, and he let his arms rest on top of the mop, putting his weight onto it. “Apparently, I admit things like that now.”
Took fourteen seconds for the Doctor’s words to sink in, and then another fourteen for the Master to think about why, and another for the warmth to spread on his face rather fast.
Terrifying.
There it was again.
This.
New and utterly terrifying.
He felt his mind drifting back.
Having to- just wait, after he’d been thrown head first into the Doctor’s TARDIS, dragged along by the hem of his collar, while she left without another word to sort things out with her pets (‘fam’, as she’d called them, he still found that term rather pathetic) to say her farewell (probably) and clean things up (take care of his ship and his mess for once), dragged-on hours filled with pacing the room, getting zapped by the controls and the door (worth a try), pressing his palms into his eyes and trying to get the memories of the Doctor’s pained scream to stop- but they just kept on repeating over and over and- oh, it’s been torture.
He’d never felt more broken.
And when that door finally opened back up, when the Doctor stumbled through, hunched over and still grabbing on the mortal wound on her chest- he didn’t know what to say at all.
He watched her lean back after she closed it with more force than necessary through ragged breaths, and their eyes locked.
She was beautiful, furious like this.
It felt like the calmness right before a storm. And he really kicked one up, this time.
The TARDIS’ soft hums flowed around them, the orange lights tainting them both.
It felt like forever, his personal hell, but at the end of it, the Doctor jumped forward, face as dark as one could get and the Master jerked with her approach, suddenly feeling very much like prey, retreating until his back hit one of the pillars behind him. He had her finger poking into the vulnerable spot under his chin before he could stop any of that.
“YOU!”, she said, shouted, yelled, and the anger in her voice made him recoil even more.
He couldn’t answer, she couldn’t continue and if he could freeze this moment in time, he would.
“You IDIOT, do you know- do you have any idea what you did-? Do you know what I-?”
“Ah. I can explain-”
“Oh-, oh you better can, because I just had one hell of a goodbye-talk.”
Tired. He was oh so tired of this.
Time dragged on again.
He let his head fall back. Looked to the side. Bit down his lip. Curled his hands into fists. Blank expression on his face. Said nothing.
It wasn’t love, but that was as close to an apology as he could get. She got it, anyway.
“Don’t do this”, she said.
Don’t stop me. (I’m doing it for you.)
Don’t ruin this. (I have no other place in this universe.)
Don’t abandon me again. (I need you.)
Don’t play me. (It’s not a game anymore.)
Don’t lecture me. (We’re not the same.)
He did.
He did and her eyes widened. It was what finally made her stumble back with a groan when she couldn’t hold it back anymore. Golden lights engulf her, and for a moment, she looked like she was made out of stars.
She was beautiful, burning like this.
It wasn’t love, but he watched her regenerate, not blinking once.
It was only when the artron had faded away, that he could. Blink. He did, too.
And the face that stared back at him now was something entirely impossible.
Lesson one: nothing is impossible with the Doctor.
“Hold up. No. That’s- I know these teeth.”
Still blinking.
The Doctor started to lick his lips, pat down on his face, his hair, his chest, bowtie, hips and thighs, his ass too, did a twirl, kicked one foot up behind him to look at the sole of his shoe.
It was cute. It was unsettling. And the Master had never felt this taken aback in his entire life (which included a lot of weird things happening) and he couldn’t stop his mouth from going slack.
“What?”, he said, the Doctor perked up at that- and then- and then he was getting grabbed by the shoulder, shaken softly- a second later their noses were so close they were almost tip-to-tip (this one never had any sense of personal space) and the Doctor was pointing a finger at his new-old face.
“Is this what I think it is? Am I- back?”
The Master let his eyes travel over it. The wide, brown eyes. The utter mess of spiky hair. The freckles. The open expression, and-
“Yes.” He swallowed. “Apparently.”
“Why-? Why would I-?”
“The hell should I know?! For a bad joke?”
“No, pfft.”
A snort, and it was cute.
Really cute, and the Doctor didn’t stop staring back at him. And they were still close, so close that the Master could smell the new life still prickling on that skin.
Maybe that face came back to haunt him. Because this felt just exactly like that. Maybe the Doctor finally did something out of spite, too. Maybe-
He was beautiful, smiling like that.
Maybe that’s what made him draw his eyebrows together, and tilt his head in confusion. He remembered the time he saw it last- and all the emotions he’d been through since came crashing over him at once.
It was too much. He couldn’t take it anymore.
“What?”, the Master said, lost for a second time, because the Doctor didn’t stop looking at him like that.
“You.”, the Doctor answered. “Hi.”
It wasn’t love but he forgot how to breathe for a minute.
And because this one was also twitchy as hell, the Doctor jumped back after dropping that (and after what felt like the longest moment the Master ever lived through), looked around his TARDIS, let his hands run softly over her controls, as if to say hello to her, too.
The little spin was back after that, and the Doctor rolled his shoulders and hips, straining the black, rumpled suit that was a great deal too short now.
“Oh, I really need to get some new clothes. Those panties are tight. Be right back!”
And if the Master weren’t still completely stunned, he would find something other to do than to give into weak knees, drop down the pillar slowly and just sit there in silence.
The black hole in his stomach shivered and quaked.
Five days, fourteen minutes and seven seconds later, he had to watch the Doctor doing a ‘guess that’s that’- motion with his whole body before he continued to get the floor squid-free.
Five days filled with him not being able to look away whenever they ran into each other (which happened a lot, voluntarily and not) because his eyes kept locking onto the Doctor like a magnet (they always did if he was being honest, and he had expected that it would be pinstripes again. But- It wasn’t that the Doctor came back to him in. It was in a white shirt, grey tie, vest and pants with purple pattern on brown. Magnetic, yes, and he did keep some of the earrings), with the Doctor’s expression doing a lot of things (most of them being going soft and sappy and somewhat longing, and they didn’t change even when the Master had caught him staring), with breakfasts (coffee for him, cereals for the Doctor, and he found himself listening with his head rested on a propped up arm on the counter, when the other talked enthusiastically about nothing and everything while he kept silent), with half a trip and the most beautiful and violent star-birth he had ever seen (he would never forget the tiny squeak of pure happiness beside him, neither the matter of stones and dust getting pressed together and exploding in radiant swirls of blue, red and purple against the blackness of space) and sleepless nights (even though the TARDIS had made him a room, but he just stared at the constellations she put on the ceiling of it).
It wasn’t love, but it was driving him mad, when the Doctor would lean into him whenever they were close, then started to hum and tilt his head, as if he just realised what he was doing happened on automatic. The little lick of lips that followed in honesty and zero regrets anyway made the black hole in his stomach burn a little in desire and need, longing and yearning, with mine, blue, universe, fire, blood, hope, river and scared. The hand that stopped, right before he could feel the pressure of it and-
- Touch me. -
Five days, and he couldn’t find his rage anymore.
The coexistence they settled on rather quickly made him shake his head, made him grab his hair in growing despair and fear and hunger instead, because it felt like a swarm of burning fireflies ravaging right through his whole body and he didn’t know what to do with it all.
It felt like the promise they made as kids but less broken, like the silence they had on the Valiant but less spiteful, like the hope they had in the vault but less in vain, like the connection they had through their phones but less like a lie, like the fire they had in Paris but less violent.
The Doctor didn’t ask him to stay.
The Master didn’t answer with a yes.
Neither had to.
He was long since over the whole ‘I’d rather die than be kept by you’, and the Doctor was over his ‘I’ll chain you up to fix you’ recently.
Five days, and he was still picking pieces of himself back up.
Five days and he could breathe a bit better, but it still felt like being burned alive.
For better or worse, he wasn’t sure yet.