Darkness. Darkness swirling in a whirlpool of thoughts and reminisces, stalking and tainting those held dear to the psyche. Oh, the center may be bright, but every child knows the more magnificent the spectacle in space, the deadlier.
One child of Time, older than the beauty of space, is huddled in a cobwebbed corner, knobby knees tucked under his chin, grime-speckled hands cradling a heavy head that seems determined to suck him into the whirlpool as well.
It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.
He's alone now, but for the throbbing in his chest. It resounds in melancholic fire, determined and grieving. It cries out with the needy ardor he cannot, sending messages into the nebulae.
"Doctor…" Why?
"Bastard." Where are you?
"I'm here, Master." He lifts his head to glower at the man in the pinstriped suit, stagnant as the machine they reside in. The Doctor doesn't even have the grace to look worried.
"I know that, idiot. I wasn't—" The Master's face crumbles into despair and he returns his head to its resting place.
Why aren't you with me?
Ephemeral mutterings, that's all. Nothingness centered in the whorl of an ear. Everything dependent on one man, who let it disintegrate. Let his one true companion, his only friend, dissipate into madness.
His chest aches with disregard and pounds away at conceit he'd been growing in the back of his mind, exterminating the weed.
Exterminate.
It hurts, it hurts.
Burning, everything burning in passion alone, burning out his hearts, hollowing out the prejudiced cities he'd grown up in. He'd hated them. He loved in them.
Theta, you're no warrior.
NEG-A-TIVE. Ridiculous voices coerce a simultaneous laugh and sob out of him, and he decides it's been long enough. It's been centuries since he was burnt alive, even if his chest aches as if it were a stranger to time.
"I need you." He doesn't dare raise his head in fear of a myriad of contempt and smugness clouding his Doctor's eyes. He doesn't need a husband. He doesn't need an apology. He needs a healer.
Pregnant silence charges the walls with electricity, even as his ribs throb with emptiness. He feels it the moment the Doctor's legs strain to move, runs his hands over threaded pinstripes, clenches that bloody stupid tie as both a noose and a beckon.
Or, he wants to. Veined hands clutch at the tattered remains of cloth around his calves, sealing the desire further inside himself.
He's almost shocked at how cold the Doctor's hands are when they press at his temple, begging admission. Then he feels the calloused indents on the Doctor's fingers and the Master has to remind himself they're not from clutching a weapon, but switching gears on his TARDIS. He'd forgotten machines could sense the void as well. Everything pulsing in life has it in themselves to mourn death.
"Go on," he hears himself muttering. "Force your way in. You did it so well as a child."
"I…" The Doctor swallows and looks away. Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, he musters the strength to be irritated and opens his eyes just so he can roll them.
That strength dissipates upon seeing the complete terror in the Doctor's eyes.
It hurts.
The tears threatening to escape his eyes throb worse than the Master's personal singularity.
"You're afraid of me."
The Doctor finally has the grace to look ashamed. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." A surge of energy and the Master's clutching at the Doctor's hand like a lifeline, his own trembling appendage snaking its way around the Doctor's neck and threading itself in his spiked hair. "Don't be scared. Just listen."
"But I—"
"Shh. Listen." He pushes their heads together, foreheads meeting at the apex of the darkness, luring his Doctor into his psyche.
"I don't hear anything!" The cry betrays the Doctor's true feelings as thoughts flood into their shared minds.
Deranged, Koschei, never truly sane, never mine, he's always been gone-
Pain. You don't hear it because it's not there. Don't you see? It was never a drumming of the head.
Blood-shot chestnut eyes seek his, and the Master moves his hand from behind the Doctor's head to cradle his freckled cheek.
"I have this pain in my chest, and it won't go away." Can you fix it for me?
The Doctor lets out a hearts-breaking sob and fights his way out of the Master's grasp, shaking his head.
"I can't fix that. I can't even fix it in myself."
"What do you mean?" The words spring out of his teeth as jagged, strangled edges.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Master!" The Doctor runs the hand rescued from the Master's grip through his hair, and averts his eyes when they shine with guilt. "I didn't mean—Gallifrey—"
"What does Gallifrey have to do with this?" the Master hisses, raging in his sinking despair.
The Doctor's eyes meet his again in desolate confirmation. "You know what it means. Don't make me say it."
"Doctor!"
He cringes. "You're suffering for what I did. That ache, in your hearts, I have it too. It's agony, isn't it? That's the sensation of an entire race gone, of every 'extermination' felt, of the Citadel collapsing every moment, from now until forever. And I'm so, so very sorry, Master, but I can't fix it. Not this time."
A child of Time, cowering in a cobwebbed corner, hiding from the sight of his home dying in the squalor of war. Two men in a constant conflict of love and loathe, needing each other helplessly, to no effect. Nothing.
"Get out." Help me.
"I—"
"Get out!" Save me.
It hurts, it stings, it boils.
Out, out, out.
A/N: Right, so. I hope that filled your daily angst quota. I wrote this as a companion (har-har) to my friend's drawing on deviantART, "Don't Be Scared", in which there is lovely eye contact, Tenny looks a little bit terrified, and Simmy is begging him to help with the ache in his chest. Which is where that originated.
It was also written with "Shh" by Frou Frou in mind, although it fails to adhere to any of the lyrics because they're more suitable for Theta and Koschei, what with running away and such. But it's where a line or two of the dialogue came from.
I think "Psychobabble" by Frou Frou would be more apropos to Simm!Master, if only the stalker didn't come off as slightly quirky in the song. Maybe Crispy.