A/N: This takes place during the Season 3 episodes, Sound of Drums and Last of the Time Lords, during the Year That Never Was. Simm!Master/10th Doctor is seriously my OTP, along with their Academy versions, Theta/Koschei. I love them so hard, I'm not even kidding, darlings.
This is so angsty. I was just like, "ANGST, BE WRITTEN!" And it was. So. Also, copyright for Doctor Who and all related characters goes to BBC, however their actions in this fiction belong to me. Enjoy!
000
The Doctor groans. "Oh, bloody hell." He has a pounding headache, and he feels faint. He tries to put a finger to his temple to still the pain, but discovers something is stopping him. He opens his eyes, and finds his hands are cuffed behind him.
He looks around. He's in a small, white-tiled room. He assumes he's still on the Valiant, because he can feel engines trembling under the floor – he must be on a lower level – but he isn't entirely sure. The last thing he can remember is whispering the message to Martha, and the Master's face, and the Toclafane, and someone knocked him out and—
Lazarus's experiments reversed!
Well, he looks the proper age he's not – he can see that from the shock of brown hair in his peripheral vision and the firm tightness of his suit. Which means someone de-aged him. But why? What's the point, if he's still trapped?
He brings his knees up to his chest and tries to calm down. He trusts Martha. She'll do what needs to be done, no matter what monkey throws a wrench in his plans.
Someone coughs to get his attention.
The Doctor stops staring at his shoelaces and looks up. The Master is leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed, the door closed tightly. He has an amused expression on his face. The Doctor wonders how he could have missed the door opening. Maybe he's losing his touch.
The Doctor sits back against the wall and holds the Master's gaze levelly. Finally he asks, "Where'd you get the handcuffs?"
The Master shrugs, and the Doctor knows whoever owned them first is dead. "Nicked 'em off some human. I think he was American. Didn't catch his name."
"Why aren't I degenerated, then?"
"Oh, that?" The Master grins. "Good, wasn't it? But that was just for show." He leans forward a little and lowers his voice. "Besides... I like you better this way."
The Doctor raises his eyebrows to hide his discomfort. He's fixated on every move the Master makes; the way he walks, the way he speaks, even the way he breathes. He's been alone for so long he's forgotten what to say, how to act, how to be in the presence of another Time Lord.
Especially this Time Lord.
"So what are you going to do with me?" He asks. He knows what he hopes the answer will be, but he doesn't dare let his mind wander further. He can't.
The Master strides towards The Doctor and crouches down in front of him. His eyes rove over the Doctor's face. "What do you think I should do with you?"
The Doctor swallows and looks away, pretending he doesn't mind the short distance between them, doesn't notice, doesn't care. The Master catches his expression and pulls away, laughing. He smiles at the involuntary sound of protest the Doctor tries to hide.
The Master matches the Doctor's position against the wall and rests a casual arm on his knee. Slowly, his grin fades. They sit in silence for a while, static crackling between them.
"Theta."
The Doctor holds back a shiver. The sound of the Master whispering his old name sends chills down his back. He's no longer that boy, the one who was so afraid and so in love with the universe. He's seen too much to love it still. He's seen too much to stop his old fears.
"Are they all really gone? The Time Lords, I mean." The Master whispers.
The Doctor nods. "Yes."
"Oh."
"Are you really expecting me not to escape?"
The Master shrugs. "No." He glances sideways at the Doctor, almost slyly. "But I have my ways of keeping you here."
What is that supposed to mean? The Doctor thinks, loathing the spark of something close to longing the Master's comment creates.
The Master moves closer and runs his fingers through the Doctor's hair, making it stand up wildly. He can't help but think how nice that feels... He forces away the thought. He won't do this. Not with him. Not again. Not now.
The Doctor freezes. "What are you doing?" He whispers, shocked. He's never been in a situation quite like this, and he's very unprepared for what happens next.
The Master smiles and kisses his jaw, moving down to his neck and trailing his fingers over his cheek.
"D-don't—" The Doctor swallows and closes his eyes, wishing the Master didn't make him feel this way. "Please..."
The Master pushes away. "Please what?" He hisses.
He moves forward again and pulls him up by his tie. The Doctor winces a little and makes a choking noise. The Master's grip slackens, but he takes maybe too much pleasure in the sound.
"Say my name." He says harshly. "Say it!"
"Please, Master." The Doctor breathes. The Master smiles again. He leans forward and kisses him.
The Doctor kisses him back, hungrily, desperately. He's been waiting, wishing for this. He's wanted this since before forever, before the red grasses burned and all he felt was pain for so long, but he was too afraid to admit it to himself, too afraid to consider it.
Afraid, afraid, afraid. That's all he ever is, all he ever will be. All the fears, all the wrongs, all the feelings he shouldn't feel. This man... this man... too much. All too much. Drums.
The Master, still holding onto the Doctor's tie, moans softly and undoes the first button of the Doctor's shirt. The Doctor arches up against the Master, his breaths coming in short, shaking little gasps.
He craves this contact, but it makes him want to run and hide somewhere dark, and cry, and stop being brilliant, if only just for a moment.
He can hear the drums in the Master's mind as they press together, a harsh, pounding, four-beat that rips apart every thought until they don't remember who heard them first, or even whose head they're hearing them in.
The Master's hearts beat in time to his, in time to the drums that echo through them, and the Doctor knows this hurts them both, and he also knows they want it to keep hurting. They want it to keep hurting, to keep reminding them that this is wrong, that it will always be wrong because they cannot be alive at the same time and expect everything to be okay and they cannot leave things as they are, cannot leave the universe as it is.
Eternal. This battle, good and evil, always, always, always. Never ceasing. They can't be like this, they can't do this and they both know it and they're doing it anyway because they hate how they love each other and they love how they hate each other and this feels good and wrong. And suddenly, fantastically, they don't even bloody care anymore.
The Master breaks the kiss and pushes the Doctor against the wall. He stands up and runs his fingers through his dark hair, staring at the Doctor with wide, wild eyes, like he doesn't even know him anymore. Like he's never known him. And he drops a key onto the floor next to him. The key to his handcuffs, if he can reach around to undo them.
Then the Master walks out of the room as though he hasn't felt what the Doctor is feeling, as though he hadn't kissed him first, as though there is no key, as though nothing has happened.
The Doctor stares after him, dazed, wondering when things had changed between them, or if it had always been this way. And then he stops thinking and goes about unchaining his hands.
When he has, he straightens his tie and re-buttons his shirt and gives himself a minute to worry about Martha and Jack and then stops and sits there instead of getting up, because he can't bring himself to leave. He's actually beginning to think this year – this year on the Valiant in this white tiled room – might not be so bad after all.