When dawn hit and the sun wasn't such a stranger anymore he sat as still as ever, half-asleep and aching. The flaccid cock in his lap throbbed, not in pleasure but with a weary sense of existence, as if alive, barely kicking and obnoxiously persistent. His hearts seemed almost dormant, as if in death, or caught in one sure moment of time with no intention of moving forward. In fact, if it weren't for the four distinctive beats he felt surging through his shaft, he would have assumed he was in either limbo or death long ago. The clothes on his body felt uncomfortable, sticky with sweat and disarranged entirely. More than anything he wished for a shower, and preferably a cold one to help him regain his wits.
His foot slipped in to a tingly sleep, and he scowled lazily at it, jealous of how easy slumber had come to the inert appendage. He thrashed in his seat with the intention to wake it, but when the pins and needles came and he tried just a little harder, the chair seemed to be fed up with his incessant clambering around and began to tilt in protest. Brown eyes widened, large and (usually) capable hands struggled in their inability, however it all appeared to be for naught; before long his cheek connected with the floor, and a loud 'oomph!' escaped his beaked lips. Defeated, his eyes shut, and a sigh came forward. The heavy weight of the chair on his back was maddening, especially considering he was now guaranteed immobility.
"Well, this is a bit of a pickle," he murmured to no one in particular.
"I suppose it is, Doctor."
"Master! Thank the stars you're here. Could I, uh... well, have a bit of help?"
"You want help?" an amused face came into plain view of The Doctor's gaze, close and invading, "You, of all people? Oh, this is gold. I almost want to leave you here, make you beg - Oh! That's a fantastic idea. How about you beg for me, can you do that?"
"Master please," The Doctor protested, "don't do this."
"That's not going to cut it, Doctor. You can do better than that."
"Please!"
The Master leaned back, his weight resting on the balls of his feet and his knees on either side of his body, with one hand draped lazily atop each. A disentranced sigh heaved from his chest, all the while snapping the string which held his head upright. "Doctor," hazel eyes drifted until capturing brown where they met like ribbons of blood in water or cigarette smoke in sunlight, "If you want anything from me, you're going to have to put forth a little more effort than that."
"I'm not here to entertain your blasted fantasies, Master. I just want help up."
"Oh but you are."
"How about you just uncuff me, eh? What do you say to that? I can get up myself. Just uncuff me. Could you do that?"
"See, here's how it is. You're here because I want you to be. I could have killed you long ago, but no. I kept you. And don't even think about regenerating. I am a Time Lord as well, after all. And a clever one at that."
The Doctor shifted, visibly uncomfortable not just by the weight of the chair on his body but also from the hungry and primal look in those piercing eyes that, above all else, seemed to burn straight through him like acid.
"I kept you because you're fun. Because to me you're nothing more than a puppet. Ah, or like a court's jester. What do you say to that? You're my clown, and me? I'm your Master," the Time Lord growled, the ends of his words curling like the corner of his lip.
"Master, please. I can't stand on my own here."
"Silly old Doctor. Spends his lifetime helping everyone because he's 'good'," he mocked, head bobbing to and fro in emphasis, "and he's 'nice', and he's everything that the word 'doctor' means. But now? Now he's the one asking for help. The Doctor," standing, his arms spread out to either side of his body in triumph, "savior of the universe! Reduced to a pile of rubbish on the floor at my feet. Oh," the sharply dressed Gallifreyan licked his lips in contained amusement, "if only you could see yourself now. That pride of yours would be gone. You'd be licking the dirt off of my shoes."
"No. You're wrong."
"Am I?" he dropped to his knees quick as a flash, skidding toward the debilitated other, his fist seizing the wrinkled fabric of his unkempt dress shirt in a tight and messy knot, "how so do you say? Humor me."
"I'd never be able to shake off this pride," the brunet smirked, "It's far too heavy for me."
One tongue click and a few key turns later and The Doctor lost his cuffs and began pulling off the ropes which had previously been digging into the chafed skin of his ankles. He crawled out from underneath his chair, tried to discreetly zip up his trousers and fasten the button, and hopped to his feet in no time. His knees buckled, pulling toward one another like magnets. The ache in his abdomen felt as though it throbbed. He keeled forward, a wince in his arched brows and his tongue in his teeth. The Master only grinned; iniquity sparked in his eyes like fireworks.
"Oh," a voice laden with mock pity purred, its respective head tilting for emphasis, "poor Doctor. Can barely stand! It's such a shame."
"I'm fine," the other Time Lord replied, only just being able to force his body upward. A tiredness rested in his eyes, forcing them to swell slightly. He puffed his chest, as if in superiority, only to arch forward once again in pain. His lanky arms held his innards in place; he clutched his lower abdomen tightly and protectively.
"Well color me corrected, I suppose you're absolutely right."
Gritting his teeth, The Doctor let out a garbled, "at least my foot's not asleep anymore," and leaned on his upright wheelchair for support. What was supposed to be a comforting hand, or at least he assumed so, landed on his shoulder. His gaze flew to his old friend, a bit of a snarl on his lips but also a trickle of hope in his exhausted eyes.
That kind hand fell away abruptly, as if burned.
"Why don't you get yourself cleaned up?"