Title: Result
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Tenth Doctor/Simm Master
Spoilers: Sound of Drums/Last of the Time Lords
Warnings: minor slash
Disclaimer: Doctor Who and its characters belong to their creators, not me.
Author's Notes: This is my first time publishing slash. Any constructive criticism would be much appreciated. Thanks! :)
The lights are low and it's a Tuesday, your favorite day of the week, and when you walk into the main room of the Valiant your hearts start to race. The Doctor isn't expecting you, not at all, and when his pretty young face sees you smile mockingly at him, his eyes stare sadly on. But he won't say anything, not now, because for the moment, he's young and you promised not to kill Jack or any of the staff for an entire day because he's been so good. You smile again, hoping it makes chills run up and down his spine. Good.
Lucy walks into the room, wearing one of her quaint white outfits. It's the fashion of a politician's wife, and slightly detests you. Her red lips smile at you like she still loves you. All she really loves is the thrill of the power, the rusty smell of murder, and your comforting presence. At least, that's what you think, and that's what you think you feel in return. But sometimes - sometimes when she wraps her arms around you and pulls you into a kiss, squeezing her eyes shut and entangling her fingers in your hair to pull you closer - sometimes you're not so sure what she feels. And you want to break that out of her.
You do just that, just now. You open your eyes and see that the Doctor is looking away, out the window. So, you pull out of the kiss far too soon. Lucy frowns, but doesn't say a word. As it should be. You wipe the lipstick off your face and the smear on your hand looks like blood. You like that, so you smile.
"Lucy, darling," you slur the affectionate word slightly, and it sounds like a threat. She smiles out of the corner of your eye, she's stupidly entranced by your voice. She takes the hint, and before you can rattle off some useless instruction, she leaves you alone with the Doctor.
He's sitting at the edge of his tent, his eyes moving slightly up and down as he watches the Toclafane float aimlessly outside the window. It looks like he's reading the sky. His expression is blank except for the wrinkle between his brown eyes. He blinks slowly, his features soften as he admires the beauty of a sunset, his mind miles away from the hideous situation that has unfolded over the past few months. You hope that there will be many more.
You walk up to the silent Doctor and offer him a chair. Warily, he stands up and hesitates to sit in the chair, as your hands are still on the back.
"I'm not going to pull it away, I'm not that childish," you say dismissively, and roll the chair forwards so that he buckles at the knees and sits. He's not yet used to being young again, and it's made him clumsy. You sit on the table and spin him the chair around, as it's become a habit. He sighs, barely audibly, and you spin him around once again before bringing the back of the chair to your knees.
Since he doesn't say anything, you run your hands through his somewhat dirty hair. He inhales and turns to look at you.
"What are you-?" he says very quietly.
"I haven't killed anyone in over 20 hours," you say, "I'm expending energy." He makes a little humming noise at the back of his throat, and you pull a little at his hair. It's like petting a cat. You try another tactic to annoy him and open your mouth. "Why have you been so good? Are you planning something?"
"No," he says offhandedly, as if it hadn't even occurred to him. It's a lie. You know him so well, and he's lying. He has to be, because if he's serious then you don't know what you'll do next. You spin the chair around once and stop it with your leg on the arm, so you can look into his eyes. This face is so young, but the eyes are the same. And so brown.
"Don't lie to me," you nearly spit at him. You would throw him onto the floor if it weren't for those eyes, those brown eyes that stare into you. Instead, you put your other leg on the other arm of the chair, cornering him. Giving him a change to retaliate, anger you, provoke you.
As predicted, he won't. Just stares at you with those brown eyes that boil your blood away. You push the chair away from you, and it rolls a few feet, the Doctor doesn't move. You get up and walk to the porthole, then gesture for the Doctor to come over. When he gets there you grab him by the tie and shove him in front of the window, his face almost to the glass.
"Japan finally stopped burning," you say to him offhandedly, as if it's a casual thing that you want him to see. In fact, you want him to say something. You're sick of him being a mute. After a full minute of his sad brown eyes staring at the wreckage below, you pull him away and glare at him, a foot away, eye level. "Come on," you scoff, "Anybody in there?" Now he won't look at you, isn't even looking at anything, his eyes unfocused. And he's trying to infuriate you now, provoking you, and you know it.
You pull harder on his tie until your foreheads touch with a bump. He still won't look at you or acknowledge you. "Anything?" you say lowly, feeling his steady breath puff inside your mouth a little. In a fit of rage at his disregard, you feel your blood rush and boil and you want to grind his face into the window. And before you know how exactly to respond to this fit of violence you grab the back of his head, hesitate, and mash your lips together.
For the first moment, you can sense the surprise running between you, then you're all too aware of the gravity of the situation. You can feel his pulse in your mouth, the heat of his body, and his eyes are half closed. You move your lips slightly, turn it into a kiss, but it's too calm of a motion. You kiss him with fervor, burning off useless tension that you've built up. For a moment far too long you continue, then, breathless, push him away.
The Doctor is standing there, trying to control his breathing, but his eyes are still unfocused and he hasn't said a word. This infuriates you, your mind is racing and your hearts won't stop beating, and Rassilon, you think that's the most passionately angry and invoking thing you've ever done. Livid, you kiss him again, mash his lips against yours in another sloppy kiss. You pull away, and he's still impassive.
"Respond!" You yell into his face, "All of this, no response! Nothing!" You cup the sides of his face and push your lips together again, in another desperate kiss. You pull away. Nothing. "Why-" you kiss again, "won't," again, "you," again, "RESPOND?" And with the last word, you launch yourself into another kiss, fueled by despair and wanting and loneliness because of this infuriating man.
But then - then, you wrap your arms around him and pull him into the kiss, squeezing your eyes shut and entangling your fingers in his hair to pull him closer - then you're not so sure what you feel.
You pull away, releasing him completely from your grip, very breathless and dazed. A moment passes in which you become very aware of your surroundings.
"You know," you say weakly, your chest moving quickly as you gulp in air, "Sometimes I understand why humans live so passionately." And in that moment, the Doctor forgives your brutality and rashness, and some sort of light returns to his eyes as he meets yours. An echo of a smile reaches his lips before you can register what exactly you just said, and he reaches his hands up to pull you into a kiss that's far too gentle.
And when you walk out of the main room of the Valiant, your hearts start to race again, because it's a Tuesday, and the lights are low, and the Doctor kissed you with the same sort of passion you've always felt.