This tried to be PWP, but got a bit carried away, and ended up with chapters...
The world belongs to its various writers, the programme belongs to the BBC, the characters belong to their respective actors, I own nothing, I make no profit, blah blah blah.
The Master was so wrapped up in his work he hadn't noticed he was no longer alone.
"What are you up to this time?" The Doctor's voice was weary.
The Master whirled and, hiding surprise and annoyance, smirked. "My dear Doctor, what an unexpected pleasure. You're just in time." He turned back to the machine before him, feigning disinterest in his fellow Time Lord.
"What for?"
He heard the rustle of cloth as the Doctor pushed aside his coat to thrust his hands into his pockets. Footsteps crossed the floor, drawing nearer. The Master tensed, ready to defend, to threaten, to attack, but otherwise ignored him. "My plans are about to come to fruition," he answered easily. He felt the Doctor lean over his shoulder, and reached for his TCE before remembering he'd left it in his TARDIS. He cursed silently. He'd allowed himself to become far too complacent over the past week, and that complacency had led to carelessness.
"Radio signal?" the Doctor asked, sounding uncertain.
When he reached a hand forward to fiddle with one of the dials, the Master opted for physical threat: he grabbed the Doctor's wrist, stepped back and shoved him against a nearby filing cabinet, twisting his arm up behind him. "Umph," the Doctor said, squirming; then, after catching his breath, "Isn't radio a bit primitive for you, though?"
"One works with the technologies available. And primitive as they are, I would rather you refrained from interfering with them. They can be temperamental."
"Oh, I hope so, after all, I'm here to stop you—ouch!" he yelped as the Master twisted his arm further.
"You always are." The Master smiled wryly. "You do choose the most absurd times to deliver your warnings, though." He pressed the heel of his free hand between the Doctor's shoulder blades until the Doctor winced, to illustrate his point.
"You can't hold me here forever," the Doctor argued, in this regeneration's rather patronising Voice Of Reason. "You cannot complete whatever dastardly scheme you've come up with, while keeping me like this. And when you let me go, I'll stop you."
"I shall have to find some other way to incapacitate you, then. Let's try your pockets." He removed his hand from the Doctor's back and the Doctor pushed suddenly, violently away from the cabinet, in an obvious attempt to knock the Master off him. He would have succeeded but for the Master's grip on his wrist, which he was unable to break. The Master caught his balance and, growling, twisted the wrist viciously. The Doctor cried out in real pain and froze, and the Master shoved him back against the cabinet and stepped in to pin him there. Several inches shorter though the Master was, there wasn't a great deal the Doctor could do to fight back.
He began rummaging through the Doctor's coat pockets, sorting out their contents by feel. The Doctor stood still, silent but for his rapid breathing, the fingers of his free hand clutching the top of the filing cabinet so hard the knuckles were white. The Master, chest pressed as it was against the Doctor's back, fancied he could feel the Doctor's hearts beating.
"A pencil, an elastic—why on earth do you have an elastic? Even during your longer-haired regenerations, you never wore your hair up—your hat, a coin, a...lemon?" He pulled it out and stared at it disbelievingly, then tossed it over his shoulder. It bounced across the floor to roll into a dusty corner somewhere, and the Doctor made a noise of protest, but didn't so much as twitch. "Deck of cards, a candle stub, a safety pin—honestly, Doctor, do you ever clean out your pockets?" He transferred the Doctor's wrist to his left hand, the Doctor whimpering as he inadvertently twisted it further. The Master's hearts beat more quickly at the sound, and he pressed closer. The Doctor's teeth clenched, his breathing ragged. "This feels like a newspaper," the Master murmured, starting on the other pocket. "And this?" He pulled it out. "A Starfleet commbadge, Doctor? Not the kind of thing that usually falls into one's pockets; they're much too careful with them. Have you been thieving?" There was no answer, but he hadn't really expected one. "Ah, your sonic. If I may?" He pocketed it, and the Doctor sighed the sigh of the infinitely patient and put-upon. The Master simply smirked. However collected the Doctor wished to appear, he knew better: he could feel the Doctor's pulse racing beneath his fingers. "A pebble, a leaf, a cricket ball—a yoyo?" He pulled it out and considered it. "Well, it'll do. Other hand, please." The Doctor shifted carefully and released the filing cabinet, moving his hand backwards until it touched the Master's side. The Master twitched, pressing harder against the Doctor, and the Doctor sucked in a breath through his teeth.
Awkwardly, the Master wound the yoyo string around the Doctor's left hand several times before pulling it up to tie both hands together. It looked ridiculous, really, but he didn't particularly care as long as it bought him a few more minutes. "There," he said, "that'll do," and the Doctor let out a fervent breath of relief as the Master stepped back and dropped his hands.
The Master went back to his machine and the Doctor stepped away from the cabinet, flexing his wrists carefully, his flushed skin and deep breaths rather telling. The Master himself was feeling quite warm under all his velvet; if he hadn't been in the crucial stages of taking over a planet, he'd have happily put off his project and pursued this young, blond regeneration's rather interesting response to being manhandled. The previous one, certainly, would not have reacted like this.
He glanced over at the other Time Lord, who was leaning against the cabinet he'd recently been pinned to. His face was still flushed, but the Master could tell he was already at work on freeing his hands, while his gaze swept over the Master and his machine, obviously trying to work it all out. His eyes widened, and the Master smirked. It was always satisfying to have an appreciative audience.
"No!" the Doctor cried. "No, that's—that's—well, that's quite clever, really," he murmured. "But completely unethical!" The Master got the feeling that, if he could have, the Doctor would have shaken a finger at him.
"And since when have you known me to be bound by such trivial details as ethics?"
The Doctor took another deep breath; this time it sounded more like the preface to some long and stuffy speech than an attempt to control his body. He didn't disappoint. "This is a complete misuse of all the powers of our race—"
"Oh, spare me that drivel, Doctor." The Master frowned at a slight hiccup in the system, and when he leaned down to peer at the readings on one of the monitors, the Doctor leapt at him, bound hands and all. The Master saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, but was unable to move quickly enough to avoid him. They went crashing to the floor in a tangled heap, and the Master's head knocked against the leg of a table.
He shoved his way up through the resulting blackness towards the sound of an alarm. When he was finally able to open his eyes there was nothing, for a moment, but flashing and pulsing lights. He bit back a groan and raised a hand to the back of his head. No blood, but it hurt. He blinked and attempted to focus, and gradually the lights began to dim, although they continued to flash.
The Doctor had managed to release his hands, although the yoyo was still wrapped absurdly around his left wrist, and he was dashing about like a mad thing, punching buttons and fiddling with dials and reading off numbers to himself as he attempted to shut down the machine. The alarms and flashing lights apparently meant he wasn't doing as clean a job of it as he might.
The Master rolled over to his hands and knees, but as the pain in his head blazed and all the lights went very bright again, he didn't attempt to stand. He crawled to his TARDIS—disguised as the filing cabinet he'd been pinning the Doctor to—and managed to get it open and himself into it before the Doctor noticed him.
"No!" he heard his adversary yell before the door closed, blocking out the noise. The Master locked the door behind him and made his way to the consol, setting in coordinates for one of the two other identical machines he'd stationed around the planet as backup. It would take some time to get them going, but he should be able to manage it: the Doctor had still to bring this one offline, figure out the game wasn't over yet, and then track him down yet again. He chuckled, and his head throbbed in retaliation.
Even if he didn't get the planet, he realized, heading for the TARDIS infirmary, he wouldn't especially mind. Now that the Doctor was on to him, his aims had changed a bit.
After all, he thought, if the Doctor was going to insist on stumbling into the Master's plans...well. He'd just have to include him in them.