Post Last of the Time Lords Ten is out of his mind drunk in some dive bar. Post Planet of Fire Ainley!Master just happens to be out of his mind drunk in the very same bar. They end up brawling, saying absolutely ridiculous, hilarious shit to each other, crying, and having horrible drunk sex. Alternatively...if that prompt is too specific, I just want more hilariously drunk Ainley!Master in my life, so anything that achieves that end would be lovely.
I'm fulfilling the request…
"Another Tim-Tam Slam!" The Doctor smacked the bar with his open palm, upsetting the stack of dirty tea cups and shot glasses he'd spent an hour laboriously arranging.
The Balsuvian bartender scowled at him. He'd been trying to get that stack cleared, but the lunatic in the pin striped suit and red Converse kept shooing him away. Now, guess who had a big, drippy, crockery mess to clean up? More to the point, what sort of diabetes-tempting idiot got drunk off of Tim-Tam Slams? He'd never heard of them until tonight, and frankly, he was disgusted. He took another plate of chocolate covered, chocolate cream filled biscuits out of the refrigerator and filled a large cup full of hot Earl Grey with butterscotch liquor blended in, and put the horrible items before his customer.
The Doctor bit each end off of the first cookie and stuck it in the cup without even a 'thank you', sucking all the cream filling out and using the food as a straw to get all the tea and liquor into his system. He felt proud he could do it so fast, but the other bar patrons, nice, upstanding people from Omnicrom 8, pulled a little bit farther away.
When the Doctor arrived he'd been one of many, barely with elbow room. Now, he had about fifteen feet between himself and the others.
"Ahh," the Doctor gasped as he finished the fifty percent alcohol slug of chocolate-chased goop. Wordlessly, he asked for five more cups. The bartender, sighing, filled his request and hurried away to wait on people more willing to poison themselves on normal drinks.
The Doctor, grieving and restless, lifted his tired, bloodshot eyes to the room, desperate for something distracting to latch onto. He zeroed in on a man at the far end of the L-shaped bar, an impossible man. His breath caught and hung, frozen. His lip trembled. There, in all his sartorial glory was the Master. His Master. The Master of days long gone. The Master who'd stolen the body of Counselor Tremas.
The Master lifted his head, as if sensing someone looking at him, and his focus narrowed upon the Doctor. His nostrils flared, taking in the scent of another Time Lord. For a long few seconds he simply kept their eyes locked. Then, he slapped both hands down upon the bar and shoved his seat back to rise.
The Doctor watched, entranced, as the Master threaded his black clad body through the multitude toward him, those preternatural eyes burning with intense anger and hot impatience. The Master flowed instead of walking; displaying enviable control of a body he wasn't even born with. In moments he stood directly beside the Doctor, gazing down upon him, taking in the change to his adversary's form.
"You are," the Master declared with a curious, inebriated lilt of tone, "a faithless, unpredictable, unsteady course; a wobbly and drunken orbit; a traitor that abandons all he has known on whimsy, and utterly beneath contempt." He delivered the words like a poisoned blade, sliding his grasp of their native tongue and inveigling it into the Doctor as if it was his right, like a razor angled just under the top of tender flesh. "You discarded me as if I meant nothing, and I should kill you for it, you fickle arrangement of atoms and artron."
"Me?" The Doctor stood up so fast he overbalanced, falling into his adversary, who was in no shape to support him. Nevertheless, he let his words spew forth. "You're the one always attacking me! If I let you twist in a trap of your own…" He paused to glare down at the Master, who struggled to keep both of them upright. "Numismaton gas, Keller Machines, radio towers and Sea Devils!"
The Master decided to pitch his rebuttal physically. Clearly, the Doctor was in no condition to have a battle of wits, so he'd settle for kicking the stuffing out of him. He wanted to, anyway. Resolute, he not only let the Doctor fall onto the floor, but planted a foot in his solar plexus as well. Unfortunately, he sent himself sprawling on top of the fallen Doctor, who hadn't properly gained his breath back. The pair of them rolled underneath someone's table.
"You self-righteous, sanctimonious little popinjay!" The Master snarled, his fist moving faster than his mouth. He managed a good, brutal punch to the Doctor's jaw.
"You're just proving my point!" The Doctor shouted, rolling with the hit and getting an arm around the Master's neck.
They tumbled underneath a large booth, causing a wave of destruction in their wake. Screams, glass breaking, and a hasty scramble towards safety by all those in the immediate vicinity meant nothing to the two Time Lords, who continued punching and kicking for all their inebriated bodies were worth.
"Hello, Doctor!" The Doctor said, imitating the Master with painfully sharp precision as he executed a vicious throat punch. "I've come to screw with the Magna Charta! Let's sword fight!"
"I'll just materialize the TARDIS under the Thames," the Master shot back, getting the Doctor's fourth voice so accurately that the Doctor cringed. "We'll open the TARDIS doors and flush the Master and his TARDIS out!" He picked up a discarded beer bottle and smashed it over the Doctor's head. Unfortunately for the Master, the Doctor's head had many a callous by this point and was nearly impervious to injury.
The Balsuvian bartender frankly had seen enough. He motioned to the hirsute, eight and a half foot tall bouncer and gestured for him to not be gentle. The lanky, Tim-Tam bastard and his Svengali opponent had upset his hopes for a quiet night. He thought maybe he should retire, and began calculating how to best get his dental work scheduled before that happy day.
The Doctor and the Master found themselves hoisted by their collars and suspended, but they didn't break stride, so to speak. The Doctor's arms were long enough to properly slap and pummel, but the Master had a fairly extended range of kicking. They tangled and were wrenched apart three times before the bouncer made it to the doors.
"Trouble-makers," the bouncer said as he dumped them in the alleyway. He promptly picked the Master up and landed a terrible suckerpunch.
The Doctor saw red. Not only had a very important disagreement been interrupted, but this hairy bastard cut into his action. Besides, no one was allowed to hit the Master but him. He launched himself at the bouncer and rained down a series of ineffectual blows, doing about as much damage as an enraged housecat upon a Rottweiler. The backhanded slap that the bouncer aimed nearly took off his head, so he redirected his attack and bit the man's forearm.
Howling, the bouncer focused on the pin-striped pipsqueak, picking him up by the neck and squeezing. The Master, wheezing, pawed his pockets for his TCE. The Doctor's neck belonged to him, thank you very much. He hadn't coveted it for centuries only to have some furry, anthropomorphic homunculus touch it. Worse, touching it the way he'd wanted to. He found the weapon and took drunken aim. If he hit the Doctor, so be it. The Doctor would survive being shrunken down to one tenth his size. The Master could put him in a little terrarium he'd designed specifically in case he managed to compress him.
Bzzz-zzap! The TCE caught the bouncer, which pleased the Master; he'd proven inebriation didn't affect his sharpshooting. The bouncer shrank to the size of a Barbie Doll, which the Master had a secret, tawdry fascination for collecting. He briefly considered shellacking the bouncer and posing him with Galadriel Barbie, just for the eye shock, but he did have better things to be getting on with, like finishing his fight with the Doctor.
"You shrank him!" The Doctor said.
"He needed a career change," the Master defended as the bouncer fled in terrified confusion. Ah, well; no shelf space lost, anyway. He pocketed his weapon just in time to have his hands free for the Doctor's next attack.
"You and your nasty little toys!" The Doctor dove upon him and began punching, his anger and horror for the TCE now fresh.
The Master elbowed him in the gut for all he was worth, and the Doctor fell onto the dirty cobblestones, on his back, making no noise whatsoever because all his breath had expelled. Still, he managed to get a leg sweep properly aimed, and the Master fell flat on his face beside him.
For some moments they both just occupied the time worn stones, trying to breathe and/or recall what truck had hit them. The Doctor smelled blood and cringed. The Master smelled blood and smiled. They flopped onto their sides nearly at the same moment, and clapped swimmy-vision eyes upon each other. "Round Two, then?" the Master asked politely.
"It's three," the Doctor corrected, and rolled him into a half-Nelson. "And, if I keep you down until the count of that same number, I win."
"Like hell you do." The Master reached backward and pinched blindly, hoping to at least get tender flesh.
"Ow, God!" The Doctor fell off of him with a hand clutching his chest. "That's my nipple!"
"You weren't using it." The Master lurched upright and began kicking him again. He loved kicking, because it set him higher than his adversary and used the strongest muscles, thereby causing maximum damage with minimum effort. "And, no one else was, either, you chaste and asexual little Shirley Temple!"
The Doctor, offended beyond even what he expected, caught the Master's trouser leg and brought him down. "Asexual? Asexual!" He crawled painfully, managing to fall across the Master in an inelegant sprawl. "What would you know about it?" He demanded, pinning the other Time Lord to the hard rock and then shaking him savagely.
"Disputing my summation of your character?" The Master reversed their positions without quite knowing how. Proud of himself, for he was clearly the superior athlete even while drunk, he got his face mere inches from the Doctor's. "Fine. Kiss me, then. If you can manage to stimulate me, I'll rescind my opinion."
"Kiss…" The Doctor felt one of his hearts falter and go out of rhythm. "No!"
"Coward." The Master leered at him. "What's wrong? Afraid your lips will fall off? Are they so dusty and dried up that they'll crumble under a good lip lock?"
The Doctor rolled the Master underneath himself again and attacked his mouth.
At first the Master was too shocked to react. After all, this was the Doctor who had his tongue shoved halfway down the Master's throat. Then, as the man's taste sank in, and the situation became crystalline in clarity, he gave a long, long sigh of purest pleasure and simply melted. This was good. No, this was perfect. Holy Rassilon, his best enemy had a wonderful, clever mouth. He felt ever so good, too, his lean body hard and slightly trembling. His cock started to swell, prompting the Master's to take notice.
The Doctor tore their mouths apart and stared at him, confusion, lingering anger and burgeoning sexual interest all vying for space in his head. All the loss he'd felt for the Master's sake came crashing back in, and a terrible pain shot through his right heart. "Look at you," he whispered. "You never change. I become someone else every time, but not you."
The Master had no idea what the Doctor meant, and just lay there, looking up at him. He sensed a turbulence within his adversary, a desperation. And, he wasn't flattering himself when he came to believe he was the center of it.
"Without you I have no touchstone," the Doctor whispered.
The Master's ego preened, but he heard something in the Doctor's voice, a warning.
"Without you, I'm half an arch," the Doctor added, clambering off the Master's body. He stood over him, his face wet and his eyes vastly dark. "So, you win," he added, and he turned around without another word, striding drunkenly into the press of people and the cover of night.
Slowly, the Master sat up and took inventory of himself. His body stung in eight places, and his cock throbbed painfully, thwarted.
He wasn't certain, but he felt suspicious that any future victory over the Doctor would feel pyrrhic and empty.
The Doctor adjusted his beach umbrella, settled his pina colada just so, and stared out over the emerald ocean. He missed Amy and Rory terribly, but couldn't bring himself to find new companions. The only one he wanted was dead, dead, dead. He couldn't really even look for a new person to cut down the silence in the TARDIS, because he'd resolved to lay low until the universe forgot about him. So far, the interminable lack of velocity and purpose was… Well, interminable. No sense in sugar coating an arsenic pill. All these people wandering the beach just served to make him feel all the more lonely.
"Nice spot."
The Doctor turned his head to eye a tall, slender man with a riot of beautiful, dark ginger hair and skin very unsuited to the climate. He shoved an umbrella beside the Doctor's and put a towel upon the sapphire sand. Getting on it seemed more like a controlled, boneless fall of grace than anything else, and the Doctor spied an amulet around the man's highly arched, long neck, flashing briefly. The man turned pale, nearly colorless eyes upon him and smiled a little. "Alone?"
"Perpetually," the Doctor muttered before thinking better of it. He admired the man's rolling baritone voice. It was a voice of command and culture.
"Ah." The man placed a cooler between them. "Well, you may keep me company," he offered. "In my travels I've discovered there's nothing quite as comforting as two lonely people sharing in the emptiness." He opened the box and started laying out wrapped packages and bottles, a tea thermos and spoons. "What brings you to OutreachBeach?"
"Oh, just murdering time," the Doctor answered, sighing. He noticed the man didn't have a smell at all, which prickled his sense of wrongness. "You?"
"Looking for someone," the man said. "I believe I might've found him, though." He flicked the lid off a small container to reveal a neat little pile of sugar and a tiny spoon. "Tea?"
"Oh, yes, please," the Doctor answered, brightening a little. "What sort?"
"Earl Grey, of course," the man said. "What's your name?"
"I'm John," the Doctor answered. "John Smith."
The man smiled a very charismatic smile. Slowly, he put out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, John."
"Likewise," the Doctor said. He held out his hand and they exchanged a shake. "What's yours?"
The man opened another container, revealing a stack of Tim Tam biscuits. Carefully, he set out a bottle of liquor and began pouring it into the proffered cup of Earl Grey. "James," he answered, still grinning. "James Stoker."
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