It doesn't work by Merely Passing By
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC. (Which is also why the story below is a post-Season 3 AU.)
-
It doesn't work.
The Doctor tries hard - to ignore the constant insults and traps, to see sabotage as means of communication, of demanding attention. Their role-play of a Time Lord and his companion is strained to the point of breaking, but it's the safe and familiar model and the Doctor needs something old and known and safe; now that everything else around him seems to be tottering on the edge of falling apart.
They've been made to destroy each other, the Master says, when he's in a cooperative mood and comes out of his numerous hiding places to share a cup of tea with chocolate chip cookies. The opposites that attract hopelessly, rendering each other weak and impotent, controlled even without the Damocles' sword of Gallifrey's wrath. Two gods, trapped by the simple fact of each other's existence.
The Doctor forgives any fresh wrongdoings and sometimes he makes himself forget, so he wouldn't see the screaming faces behind his eyelids, knowing that he's responsible, that he's the master of the monster. The Master takes the lenience for granted and always demands more – more thrills and danger, close calls and destruction; again, on and on – a frightful hunger, like an evil twin to the Doctor's endless playful curiosity.
There are limits, though, there have to be limits, and the Master regularly runs past the drawn line, when enjoying himself the most, and then they fight, hard and dirty, and the Master screams at the Doctor that he doesn't understand... He does.
They've known each other for far longer than is healthy --hundreds of years and different lifetimes-- having grown from tentative friends to stubborn rivals, to worst enemies. Obsessed with each other, it would seem at times, but now the Doctor needs the Master to soothe the scar tissue of emptiness, imprinted by Gallifrey ablaze, imploding into nothingness, just as the Master needs someone who'd understand and acknowledge his grand schemes and the genius behind them.
Their forced union could be the solution for both of them, yet they find it almost impossible to take, and the Doctor lies awake at night, appalled at the snowballing guilt, while the Master rages and seethes for the reins forced on him.
They both need a Time Lord and they both need a TARDIS and they are hopelessly stuck. The ultimate stalemate.
- -
It is only when they are running from the exploding White House in 2103, leaving behind some three hundred dead and a totally messed up chapter of Earth's history, that the Doctor knows this has to stop.
He's not giving up, though; there have to be other ways.
They'll do it all wrong, again and again, and the try some more; trial and a string of errors. A universe of possibilities - the Doctor is willing to try out every single one of them.
-1-
Harry considers himself lucky. For a man who's been abducted by two insane, gay aliens he could be faring much worse. Of course, they're pretending to be friendly, overly injustice-conscious strangers, who've taken him in, saved him from a life in a prison colony, but he knows better.
He can see how they look at him, when he's pretending not to be paying attention. Especially the square-jawed one, the one with the funny accent - the freak's staring at him all the time, as if he was contemplating vivisection. He calls himself Jack, as in 'Jack of all trades'. Harry wonders if he's a serial killer too, whenever he glimpses that cold calculating look. It sends shivers down his spine and for some reason it's important that 'Jack' doesn't notice the reaction.
The bouncy, motherly alien, who talks ten miles per second, claims to be a doctor, who only wants to help Harry. Except Harry doesn't need help. He's fine, and would probably be better off at the prison colony than as a specimen in their perverse brain-washing experiment. There's been no mistake, as they say - he's guilty as charged and perversely proud of his colossal bank fraud; even if he got caught in the end. Somehow having his master plan thwarted doesn't hurt as much as he'd expect it to. After all, it happens to him all the time. Only it doesn't.
As soon as he's back to his old self --God knows what the aliens had done to him before he woke up on their ship; his head feels like it's filled with cotton at times-- he's going to run for it. Although, he'll kill Captain Jack first; for forcing him to stay awake each night in fear of being murdered in his sleep, his body hidden away in pieces, while the creep's gullible, kind companion doesn't suspect a thing. He's never killed anyone, but somehow the train of thoughts seems right. It'll be in self-defence, too.
Captain Jack and the Doctor - it feels like a bad comic.
Immensely bored, Harry twirls a 'sonic screwdriver' --how silly; sonic screwdriver?-- between his fingers, faster and faster, until it inevitably falls and rolls off, somewhere beneath the console, down a hatch opened in the grating. And onto an unsuspecting head, as the stifled curse implies.
A grin tugs at his lips and he stifles it hastily, because a pair of alert blue eyes is watching him from behind the central column. Too late, though --Jack's frowning already-- there's going to be another 'therapy session' tonight. Goodie, he's beginning to like those. He gets to be alone with the Doctor --while the Captain huffs and puffs and sulks-- and they talk about things that don't make sense and memories he doesn't remember and yet does. Once he's made the Doctor cry, too, but he'd rather not repeat it, as he didn't know how to stop him later.
Since that episode he's fairly sure that the tall, thin alien is tragically insane and his love-sick companion, who may or may not be a practising torturer, is trying to protect him by fulfilling all his absurd wishes.
It is rather appalling that those two can roam freely, snatching unsuspecting victims like him.
-2-
Harry seems to be always bored these days. It's not the right word, but he can't find better for the restless, gnawing feeling of going stir-crazy, that's terribly familiar.
All the Doctor ever does is tinker with his machine; a machine that definitely needs professional help, from the snippets of conversations he catches between its owners. It may be alive, too.
He's tried offering his hand --he's a technician after all and has this nagging urge to shove the Doctor aside, because he's doing it all wrong-- but they've looked at him as if he's insulted their mothers. Or perhaps their shared mother; inbred, crazy aliens.
Perched on the pilot chair once again, feeling rejected and painfully idle, Harry scowls behind their bowed backs, leafing through a tattered, slim book written in odd circular runes he's never seen before but can read perfectly. The book contains some of the creepiest nursery rhymes he's ever seen and he's inexplicably fond of it.
There's more he's growing a strange liking to and he can recognise Stockholm syndrome when he sees one. Yet the Doctor is like the childhood friend he never had and always wanted - the cute and innocent one who you can tease and harass endlessly and he'll always smile through tears and bloody nose and understand the truth behind the actions. His childlike demeanour is endearing and Harry can't even remember the last time anyone's cared so much for him.
Obviously, it is unnatural for a grown up man to play mommy to another grown up man, but, after three weeks of forced captivity, Harry wonders that maybe the Doctor isn't insane, maybe he's just traumatised. And therefore easy to manipulate - oh, he is.
Yesterday Harry's finally managed join the endless repair session; there really is very little else to do in the TARDIS ship and Captain Jack has kindly buggered off to Torchwood or some other blatantly phallic organisation, giving them some privacy time. They'd even have got some real work done, had Harry not glimpsed the device hanging from the ceiling. Some sort of steel head gear, like a torture tool, but not. And his breath caught, as he saw himself kicking and screaming; being dragged and pressed into the pilot chair, fitted into restraints; screaming that they can't do this to him, that's murder.
Jack has timed his return just to witness his glorious panic attack and the anxious fit the Doctor threw afterwards. He was fussing over Harry for the rest of the day and it would have been amusing --just seeing the sour grimaces on the creep's face-- if he didn't feel like something in his brain's clicked; tappity-tap, tappity-tap... a sleeping machinery resuming full run. A phantom sound, a too silent melody you know by heart and can't help but try to pick up.
By the end of the day the annoying ache has grown into a full blown migraine and the Doctor's fussed some more, much to dear Jack's chagrin.
Aw, life's a bitch, Harry thinks contently, lounging on a settee in the darkened 'living room' --the room with sofas and a widescreen plasma that sadly doesn't work-- watching the two aliens argue in the doorway. Three short weeks, and the power dynamics have shifted completely. The Doctor acts oblivious --and he probably is-- but Jack must feel it too. He believes Harry is manipulating the Doctor against him - and he's partly right.
Good. Captain Jack openly hates him now --for an actual reason at last-- and the feeling is perfectly mutual.
Through the haze of impending sleep he can hear the freak demanding to know... why this personality... It'd be for the best. Needs the Master... the Master... Master...Not a random human husk... the Master...
-3-
The almost constant headache is annoying, to put it mildly. He knows that the aliens are responsible, somehow. They've done something terrible to him; something he's repressed and will have to remember if he wants to escape. He has no idea where to start, but now he has a clue at least.
Perhaps the Doctor himself could fix this --they do spend an awful lot of time rummaging through Harry's head during their private sessions after all-- but he's not going to ask just yet. Although, he wonders if he should mention the strange, distant drumming sound he can hear sometimes; a thundering four beat pulse that appears for a few seconds several times a day, whenever he's feeling stressed or anxious or just plain bored to tears.
No time for that now, though. The aliens have received some sort of distress call from one of their friends --Harry wonders if those people are deranged kidnappers too; he'd ask Jack, but doesn't want the Doctor to overhear - would be bad for the 'good submissive pet' guise-- and at the moment the ship is on its merry way to save the day.
Clutching onto railing with white-knuckled grip, heart in his throat, Harry fervently hopes that those 'old friends' don't live too far, because the Doctor's piloting skills are something awful. There shouldn't be this much turbulence during a botched crash landing.
Rather disappointingly, the ship TARDIS turns out to be an ugly, dingy, blue wooden box. It's definitely bigger on the inside --as the Doctor supplies readily-- and far, far more aesthetical, too; even if the main theme is a bit on the gutted, 'under reconstruction' side.
They've landed in a paved front garden of a prehistoric suburbia and he thinks that it's funny --in the 'not funny' way-- how no one's bothered to tell him that they can travel in time, too, because he definitely is out of his time frame here; but it feels fine, natural - it feels great. The air is crisp and heady --he hasn't smelled fresh air for so long-- and the mix of sensations is making him dizzy.
The mysterious 'friends in need' --a black family of four; two daughters in the best years and their oldish parents-- clog up the house's doorway like a bunch of curious marmots. The Doctor calls them 'the Joneses' and seems torn between bubbling excitement and, painful to watch, awkwardness, until one of the daughters punches him in the arm and tells him not to be silly --a more difficult feat than she might imagine-- and bring his companions inside, of course.
She might be regretting her words a second later, as Captain Jack chooses that moment of mutually approved joy to step forward for his own hearty greetings, exposing Harry, who is leaning against the TARDIS, arms crossed to emphasise his utter disinterest. Caught unprepared by the sudden attention he's getting, he lifts a palm in a hesitant salute, plastering on his best charming smile.
He's not sure what goes wrong in the next few seconds, but he's never seen so much loathing directed his way --not even in the courtroom or aboard the prison ship; or when he's encountered Captain Jack about his unrequited love-- and is firmly convinced that the mother is in fact a witch, who's just cursed him and his descendants in two generations. She wears a sparrow's nest on her head, too, and her eyebrows seem to have a life of their own. Harry feels rather intimidated by her, to be honest.
As a man from thirty-fourth century Earth he's used to racism --being a part of the white minority and all-- but these are the most prejudiced people he's ever had the displeasure to encounter. He can't help but take it personally, when the Doctor leaves him in their care for 'just a few short hours' and dashes off with Captain Jack and the daughter with pineapple hairdo.
Hypnotising the clock on the mantelpiece, Harry ignores the tea and chocolate biscuits and even the water they've served him with thinly veiled contempt. Arms crossed defiantly, he sits huddled in a secluded corner armchair, glaring at the people beyond the doorway through narrowed eyes, daring them to come closer and take a bite. He feels like a wounded lion, protecting himself from waiting jackals. Or a tiger. Tiger's better; it's a cat. Harry likes cats.
And he seems to have the attention span of one lately. That's actually worrying.
His head's pounding and he's hot and queasy and generally uncomfortable and he really wishes he could leave already. He's planning to tell his two captors, in no uncertain terms, that he's not their child, to be left forgotten with the creepy uncle, because that pisses him off royally.
Once the group of world saviours comes back, though --the Doctor beaming like a misplaced Christmas tree-- everyone seems to completely forget about him. Captain Jack's ever-present glare of doom doesn't really count.
Harry's not a patient man under the best conditions, and so, after a short period of fruitless morose scowling, he gets up silently and sidles closer to the chattering group, advancing on his unsuspecting prey. With a predatory smile he pushes past Jack to stand besides the Doctor and traps the long fingers in his own firm, unyielding grip.
The Doctor startles, faltering mid-word, and Harry rather hopes he's not blushing --although he certainly does feel like he's blushing-- as the conversation dies abruptly and all eyes swivel to the two of them and their intertwined fingers. He feels incredibly silly holding hands with a man, but he won't stand being ignored. They have to see that the Doctor, their hero, is his; take that, creeps.
He's not anyone's pet --doesn't belong to anybody; never ever-- but somehow he does belong with the Doctor. Soul mates, destiny, brain-washing - take your pick. And when he wants to leave, the Doctor should have them go; damn the others.
Awkward or not, it surely does the trick, because in two minutes flat the three of them are back in their time-box; the freak seething, the Doctor looking somewhat flustered.
Feeling immensely smug, Harry prances off to his bedroom, humming to himself on the way. Perhaps it would be better not to leave after all, but take over instead. A ship that travels in time! He'll get rid of the freak and keep the Doctor as a pilot and a source of information.
Yes, he believes he can do that. He feels like dancing.
-4-
Harry now looks forward to the daily mind-rummaging sessions with the Doctor. They are the highlight of his day, which is rather pathetic, really.
At first he used to have this irrational urge to break the spidery fingers before they could touch his temples and run for it, but he's got over it fairly quickly. The Doctor believes there's nothing perverse about sharing thoughts and memories --for all Harry knows it's an ordinary means of communication among his race; much more straightforward, but also free of misunderstandings-- and he's been so benevolent and patient, when faced with repeated violent denial, until Harry's curiosity got the better of him and solved the dilemma for the both of them.
Turns out mind reading is a rather pleasant sensation - a kind of golden light, syrupy feeling that soothes his weary, aching brain.
The Doctor believes that there's something wrong with Harry's head and Harry indulges his attempts at figuring out what --they seem harmless enough-- partly because he can feel it himself. Being alright shouldn't hurt; not this much anyway.
It all comes down to the peculiar helmet hanging in the console room. As soon as his captors fix what they've have scrambled, he'll be just fine. May as well let the Doctor keep his own snail pace to do it properly. Harry can be patient if it's really, really needed.
Harry likes the way the Doctor always locks Jack out of their meetings - even if they take place in Harry's bedroom, so privacy is guaranteed automatically. In the beginning this shared time was his only weapon against the freak; now it's a blatant insult to throw in his face - see Jack, your partner trusts me more than you; doesn't that just drive you mad, hmm?
If he was Jack, he'd be much more angry and initiative; would have probably thrown the intruder out of the TARDIS' doors mid-flight weeks ago, before he could woo the Doctor away completely. Strangely, Jack seems to care less and less instead, which is weird, out of character weird, as if the previous behaviour was only a pose; or perhaps the current one is. Even the aliens' hushed discussions over Harry's petty misbehaviours, that now often feature ridiculously threatening gesticulation with a fob watch on Jack's side, are getting scarce.
The unpredicted shift in atmosphere makes Harry feel like he's trapped in some game of Gods he can't ever fathom, just when he's thought that he's mastered it. It did seem much too easy, true, but one doesn't stop to think, when he's on a roll.
The Doctor furrows his brows, as if he needs to concentrate harder, and Harry shifts his attention to watch his eyelashes twitch, as his whole face contorts in a frown. He's funny that way - his face always alive with thousands of emotions. Sometimes they are forced --Harry can read the alien with surprising ease-- a false facade to chase away the empty glassy eyed look that too takes up his whole face like a mask from a Greek tragedy.
The Doctor must have caught the stray train of thoughts --which is bad, since it was a private thought he'd rather have kept private; and good, as it strengthens the delicate bond between them-- because he smiles and opens his eyes; sitting cross-legged next to his lounging research subject.
They're talking about schooldays today. The topics are always this pointless, which is one of the things he loves; one of the things that create the warm, lazy atmosphere of otherworldliness. He thinks he might find hypnosis fascinating as well, but would never let his control be taken away to find out.
Harry tells him about the first thing that comes to his mind --the Doctor wants it that way; even if those memories often make little sense-- a blonde boy in his class, who always drew all attention to himself, a hyperactive little bugger, who wouldn't sit still and drove the teachers, and some of his classmates, mad. Always returned from school expeditions with pocketfuls of contraband, doodled in the workbooks he had to borrow from others to catch up, because he spent the classes daydreaming...
The fingers on his temples tense, as does the mind inside his, and for the first time Harry feels truly uncomfortable with the whole process --a prickling sensation engulfs his brain; it tickles and pushes and hurts-- because he's being forced, the Doctor's taking over, and suddenly he's scared; doesn't want to-
There's the golden boy --a little sun, drawing everyone in; they follow and get burnt and he's sorry, because he's never meant to, so sorry; a shining star to his ravenous black hole everyone's careful to avoid-- and there's the heady, rose smell of thick red grass, the shine of glass domes under skies of molten amber.
"Sorry, sorry." The Doctor withdraws hastily, looking contrite; massaging the bridge of his nose. "I didn't mean to- Sorry."
Harry blinks slowly; his thoughts fuzzy, alien. "You had freckles then, too," he mumbles; an afterthought, a non sequitur. Rising to his knees, operating on a strange semi-conscious automatic, he leans closer to examine the pale skin, tracing a fingertip over the haphazard pattern.
The Doctor freezes under his touch, lips parting in confusion, and that's a too good chance to be wasted, so Harry leans further in, conquering the gap in one confident leap. He presses his lips against the Doctor's; softly, chastely. There's no consideration for the Doctor and his wants or needs, no hesitation born of uncertainty; he's examining the experience to determine whether this is what he wants, what he's going to do.
"Doctor," he whispers, thoughtfully, testing --tasting-- the name; the tickle of breath between their lips sends shivers down his spine.
Oh, Captain Jack's going to be furious.
-5-
Captain Jack is furious.
It's all started when Harry let his tongue slip, while making small talk during their shared breakfast, and now the two aliens are locked in a heated argument; the freak gesturing wildly, red-faced, visibly holding back; the Doctor standing almost statue-like, expression unreadable.
Leaning on railing, like he's on races, Harry watches with rapture. The Clash of the Titans - all because of him. He grins widely around a mouthful of half chewed Jelly Babies, damn sure --and satisfied-- that Jack catches the grimace. Honestly such offensive words, from someone who claims to be open-minded. Tut-tut.
Now he's sure he has the Doctor secured; Captain Jack's the odd one out. For some reason Harry's got this childish urge to singsong neener neener into his classically handsome square-face.
It's a pity they are keeping their voices so low even now, conscious of their audience. He catches snippets ...master ...monster and twisted... hurt... and wonders where this all is going. ...madness... wake him up... Jack, don't!
Suddenly, the Captain slams his hand into his coat pocket and withdraws it violently --a metallic glint-- and Harry tenses, expecting violence. No, the Doctor is not to be harmed! Instead, Jack thrusts the something into the Doctor's hands, forcefully --the Doctor fumbles for a moment, looking surprised; then greatly relieved-- and, turning on is heel, he strides past Harry and out of the TARDIS.
Well, good riddance.
The Doctor stays still for a long moment, his clenched fist still raised, then circles the console slowly and collapses on the pilot chair, face in hands. Brushing off his sticky fingers, Harry inches closer and drops onto the seat next to him, offering his paper bag of sweets wordlessly. The Doctor straightens, but shakes his head instead, turning his mournful gaze to the thing in his hand - the silly fob watch?
Curious, Harry reaches over, but the alien jerks his hand away violently, head snapping up to look at Harry, eyes wide.
There are tears in his eyes now, too; brimming, about to spill over, and Harry suddenly feels incredibly uncomfortable. He has no idea how to react and would rather disappear and come back when things have calmed down, but the alien is looking so miserable and lost, that Harry resists and puts his arm around his shoulders awkwardly.
"Shh," he whispers against the Doctor's cool temple, "you don't need him. You have me."
It's the wrong thing to say, of course. He should have kept his mouth shut or maybe kissed him as a distraction, because Captain Jack's been his companion for God knows how long --has been his lover from all Harry's seen; such an ill-assorted pair-- and who's Harry to them, but a bratty stray?
The Doctor lets out a strangled sob --definitely should have shut up-- so he resorts to the other alternative and wraps the thin, trembly body in his arms, more secure in his proceedings now. The kiss tastes of salt and jelly sweets and it's wrong, so wrong, to kiss him right now, as if that might make things better instead of inevitably worse.
Harry doesn't care. He himself is wrong and this whole situation is wrong - their two months relationship of life-long acquaintances is wrong --wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, goes the rhythm in his head-- and he's going to let the tide sweep him as it likes; the two of them holding onto each other like storm rocked buoys.
He's going to take all the old pain away --no more Jack, no more backstabbing-- they'll laugh and fuck and Harry may even help snatch some other helpless human, if that is what the Doctor likes.
The Doctor never notices Jack's late fob watch disappear into Harry's jacket pocket. There; out of sight, out of mind.
-6-
It doesn't work. Of course - it could never work in the first place.
They travel together through Space and Time --a Time Lord and his companion-- and the old, safe model grows more bitter and choking with every wonder-filled sigh and every narrow escape; every bruising kiss, every breathless moan of his name.
They've been made for each other, Harry says, when he's in a mellow mood and crawls onto the Doctor's chest, letting the double heartbeat lull him to sleep. It's like a never-ending trip, his whole life in the TARDIS box, a haze where things don't have to make sense to be just right. Two men of different races and timelines, with no ties and the universe prostrate before them. What are the chances?
The Doctor grits his teeth, stroking the short cropped hair gently --it feels like soft fur under his fingers-- and wonders how much longer he can carry on.
'Harry Saxon' is a train crash suspended in bullet-time and the Doctor should just let go, fast-forward and end the farce; face the inevitable. Only he can't.
Harry has hidden the fob watch and the Doctor couldn't make him reveal the hiding place. He's tried fishing it out of his mind, but was met with a tightly locked safe and an all too familiar smirk, when the faux human accused him of cheating. The Doctor could tear out his hair in frustration.
Harry is the Master without his knowledge and experience - a charming, devious, cocksure, obsessive brat of a human. He's completely insufferable and surprisingly gentle at times and in these moments the Doctor wishes he haven't had the seemingly genius idea and had let the TARDIS choose the personality at random. There's no way the Master will learn anything from the second-hand experience, similar conditions or not, and he's not sure how much longer he can stand this travesty. It just hurts too much.
Why would you want a broken trinket anyway, Harry argues, when the Doctor starts about the watch once again, sounding petulant with an edge of jealous suspicion. Smiling toothily, he's perversely enjoying the thinly-veiled frustration he's causing and rapidly turns the case of the lost fob watch into an absurd childish game that he absolutely refuses to give up. The Doctor wonders if 'Harry' is only subconsciously protecting his borrowed existence.
Late at night, lying wide awake with a too warm body snuggled against his side, he imagines the Master laughing at the horrible backfire.
- -
It's only a matter of time, of course. The Doctor can force the knowledge out of him --destroy 'Harry' and unleash the wrath of the Master-- and some days he's resolved to do just that, brain damage or not. These days he knows the frustration is getting the better of him.
The mind hosting Harry is a house of cards, windswept by so many vicious currents at once that it somehow holds its precarious balance. There's no minor damage at stake, no harmless pushing without the risk of it all falling apart.
So he waits, because the watch can't be found by any detection system --the safest hiding place in the universe; the ultimate mimicry-- and plays the game as if he isn't counting every day and month and year...
He can be --has to be-- patient. It's only a matter of time, after all, and between the two of them they have all the time in the universe.