title: confinement (& release)
Author: kyrilu
Rating: PG-13/T
Genre: Angst/Romance
Summary: In which the Master is stuck in the Time Lock and is quite claustrophobic, reflecting upon better (or worst) times.
Spoilers: Set after the End of Time two-parter; in which the Master is stuck in the Time Lock for a really long time.
A/N: Erm, I apologise if the no-caps are kind of annoying; I just thought it was kind of the style suited for the fic. And also, I can't really write Eleven...that's why he's barely there. Sorry. :( Filled for a prompt at eleventy_kink - hope you enjoy it, OP, even though it isn't much of a hurt/comfort thing!
Warnings: It's rated PG-13 just to be safe - swearing and claustrophobia is present, however.
remembering (& forgetting)
~a doctor who fic by kyrilu~
the master curls up into a ball, dark black hood thrown over his head, his hands over his ears, and a scream caught in his throat.
the time lock loops the war round and round and round, and - and the doctor did this to him. the doctor couldn't save him - yet the doctor saves everyone, doesn't he? except him. except him. the shepherd will constantly save the sheep and never the wolf. after all, the wolf will never return the favour.
"one two three four, one two three four," he says under his breath, clutching at his chest, bringing his arms round him. drums. red sky. red grass. red blood smeared across the battlefields.
again.
again.
he is in a white white prison - a void, a jail of nothingness. it's better being here than outside, he tries to tell himself softly. better here than outside.
he remembers a dream of harnessing all the stars and weaving a starry spider-web of the galaxy; cobwebs that manipulates into patterns and designs warping into gallifreyan characters. the first word is koschei, of course, because everything begins with a name. the second is time, and the third is universe, because he is a time lord, and those are the things that define him.
the fourth is theta, and the master can't help but laugh quietly, rocking his body back and forth, back and forth. because the fourth will always define your enemies.
(because the fourth will always define your - no, never.)
he wonders if the doctor is dead.
he wonders if he is dead.
replay: memories flashing in your mind.
the academy: a forbidding building full of teachers who tell you that you can't alter time or space. the cia: an agency that attempts to police you. your family: who never seem to care and aren't important anyways. (but susan used to call you grandfather, too.)
theta (or is it the doctor?): someone who travels and leaves you behind. he doesn't want the universe. he doesn't want anything.
the master thinks of the year-that-never-was - a burning of a planet that isn't gallifrey, a burning that is finally his fault and not the doctor's. the doctor tells him that he is wrong, and the master merely laughs.
he recalls the image of the doctor scrunched up in that tiny doghouse, old, shivering, and the master fights the bile rising in the bottom of his throat.
you could be beautiful, you could be beautiful, you could be beautiful-
time loops.
the planet burns.
stop (an empty telegram message)
god horrid little cell, huddling in a little ball
thoughts trailing off into blocks and blobs (a mess of time, it doesn't feel real; where are hours and seconds and minutes and months and years and decades and centuries and millenniums; clocks are gone but the drums remain like a twisted ticktockticktock)
the world should be disintegrating just about now-
red red planet long ago: two little boys running through a plain of grass. free and open. laughing.
you and i (and not all of it bad)
maybe the doctor once comforted him in the night once upon a time.
maybe they had been friends.
maybe they had journeyed together once - oh laughing, laughing - a tardis taking them both very far away. but maybe the master wanted more than just seeing and maybe the doctor never cared to spare a glance on the master because he wanted to play the hero more and more.
and maybe the master had just given up and left, a planet or two erupting in chaos behind him.
(god there's so little room here i don't think i can breathe)
you are my life doctor-
trapped
he waits for the vworp-vworp of the tardis to save him. pathetic, like a trapped princess listening for the sound of the prince's horse hooves click across stones, but it's the only thing that he holds onto these days. a melody of sanity: where is she? where is she? she sounds like this: vworp-vworp; is that it? no, that's just a memory she isn't here yet.
fucking stupid doctor and faith and time and friendship (they used to hold hands; they used to smile at each other with sincerity) but then again the doctor did let him burn.
won't you show mercy to your own-
no one falls in love with a madman (except another madman)
a gentle kiss on his forehead wakes the master up; he rouses wearily, brushing his fingers at the place the lips touched. "a dream?" he whispers to himself, curling up into that tight ball once again.
"no," an unfamiliar voice says. "come on, master, let's get out of here. the tardis is waiting for us."
the master catches a glance of a mop of sandy-coloured hair, pale white skin, and a bowtie dangling in front of a green waistcoat. he says, "...doctor?"
"yes, of course. who else did you think it was? rassilon? the rani?" the doctor scoffs, pulling the master to his feet. "no, no. in fact, i think the rani survived. i have a feeling she's holed up a planet somewhere, working on her inventions. probably not even aware that there was a time war."
"ushas," the master says. "yes. well. that would be...nice."
"do you want a cuppa, master?" the doctor says. "'cos i happen to have some tea in the tardis. speaking of which, hurry up now. we haven't all day, you know."
the master struggles to walk, and wonders if he should just dash in front of the doctor, take the tardis, and go take over a planet. but no, not today. he's tired; even too tired to complain about the doctor's stupid bowtie.
he sighs, and lets the doctor catch him in a half-embrace (tight and close and warm), leading him home to the tardis.
(because the fourth word will always define your love.)
End.