(wastedlands) i'm stuck in the tardis
May. 23rd, 2008 02:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ans99Characters: The Master, Tenth Doctor, Sam, Martha
Date: Present
Location: Guess.
Rating:I think I'd give myself a B on this one. Dammit Sam, are the children going to be able to read ANYTHING we write? NC-17, you lucky bastard.
The past two days had been sort of a blur of calculations and benchwork for the Master, with a healthy dose of trial and error thrown in for good measure. And although they’d passed quickly, they had proven to be quite productive. He’d been able to work much more efficiently inside the TARDIS, had been able to find the proper materials and facilities to push forward in great strides what before he’d only taken feeble, tentative steps toward completing.
His little pet project. His ticket out.
The Master had parked the TARDIS on the beach just yesterday, after doing some experimental hopping around Wonderland to see how she handled now. He’d been a little surprised that she could manage even that, but put in any coordinates for a location outside the bounds of Wonderland and she’d just refuse to go altogether. Hopefully his plan would enable her to be pulled out with him, but then the actual implementation of this device involved a lot of minor details that were… fuzzy. Such as whether the dimension here would simply collapse in the wake of his departure, fold in on itself. A small bonus, perhaps, but whether it did or not was none of his concern.
He’d been able to concentrate quite well, actually, despite all the distractions the TARDIS had to offer— all the little reminders of cohabitation littered here and there. Rose’s jacket hanging off one of the console chairs; fresh danishes in the kitchen. The rumpled bedsheets in what looked like the Doctor’s quarters, the scents of sex and deodorant intermingling, the combination of the mundane and the erotic that he was all too familiar with now. The Master had carefully shut all he could find away, and retreated into a room far off down one of the branching corridors, just a small closet really, and he’d thrown everything into this, and when he pulled back a bit he’d been pleased to note that it was nearing completion.
And then she’d just had to contact him over the Network, hadn’t she? She'd just had to push, and push, and.
The Master stretched his neck and leaned back over the worktable, one hand flat against it for support, one of the danishes in his mouth, and corrected a few figures almost absently, letting his mind pace itself through the calculations without entirely being conscious of it. Despite what Rose had said, he was not really worried about being interrupted at this stage. As soon as he’d landed on the beach he had modified the TARDIS’ perception filter to block out the notice of everyone but himself. And once he’d melted down the metal from the coins the exploding dead had left behind, scattered and forgotten up and down the shoreline, he’d have the conductive medium required to tap the latent interdimensional energy, jump-start the entire process.
Not long now before all of this— Rose, the Doctor, Wonderland— would be a moot point.
The Doctor continued down the twisted corridors, remembering in his mind what he had seen on the monitor. It was easy enough to find the door that led to the blinking red dot, and all that was left now was to open it. He braced himself mentally, before pushing the it open wide and stepping inside. It surprised him to see the Master standing there, even when all logic said he would be and he hoped that didn't show too much.
The Doctor swallowed hard, narrowing his eyes critically at him, at what he was doing, at is that a danish? At whatever it was. At everything.
The Master's head whipped around at the sound of the door opening behind him, at first simply shocked at the break in silence, and on the tail of that irritated with himself for letting his attention sink so deeply into his work.
Don't lie. You know what you were really thinking about.
And that little nagging voice, even, shut up in a hurry as he met that familiar gaze, hated and yet somehow long-awaited, like a long-lost twin you've tried to pretend you didn't have. The Master's mouth opened inadvertently as he stared, surprised and not really surprised, the danish falling to the floor and immediately forgotten. He pressed against the worktable, unable to back up any further.
The Doctor casually closed the door behind himself, shifting uncomfortably in his stance and knowing he had to say something. Be the first to say anything to set the tone that he was in charge, that he would be listened to. Or else. "Sorry to interrupt... but I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he said flatly, narrowing his eyes into a glare, strictly reprimanding, but not angry. "Whatever this is you're working on, it's over," he looked around the room briefly, taking in what he could without seeming overly curious about any of it. He didn't want to give him that advantage.
The Master realized his mouth was still hanging open stupidly, and he snapped it shut, painfully aware of all the details the Doctor was letting his eyes run over-- the myriad tea mugs littering the worktable, in various states of empty; the leftover bits of junk from what had come out of his knapsack sharing space with stacks of papers spilling over; his own bedraggled, haggard appearance. He felt exposed, inexplicably embarrassed.
His hand dove into his pocket, drawing out his laser screwdriver in one quick motion and aiming it squarely at the Doctor. "Is it?" He was going for a lazy purr, honestly, but his voice came out more as a strangled sort of squawk.
The Doctor stood his ground, because really there wasn't much else he could do. The screwdriver... I left it out and he found it. He reached his hands down into the pockets of his pants, slowly slouching back as he fought to push the part of him that just didn't care forward, a shield for his fear, "Your laser screwdriver," he breathed, grinning a little in disbelief. He rolled his tongue across his teeth, wondering. He'd taken that from his body, taken it apart, taken a single gold sliver of it and intertwined it with his own. But did he know that?
Did he know it was incomplete?
"So what now? Prefer I turn around first?"
"Repugnantly sentimental of you to keep it around," the Master sniffed. Though under the circumstances he couldn't say he really disapproved; the Doctor's sentimentality had almost become something one could bank on. If one were so inclined.
In all honesty, he wasn't sure what he "preferred," or what to do next. He really hadn't expected the Doctor to get past the perception filter-- hadn't expected him to so quickly, anyhow, because nobody could really expect the Doctor to do much of anything with any real certainty.
He did know, however, that he didn't like the look of the Doctor's hands in his pockets.
"Hands in the air, please." The Master's tone made it clear he was not really asking.
"Oh, you don't know the half of it," he chided, watching carefully his eyes for any sign that he knew; any sign that that tiny little piece was still safely tucked away in his own screwdriver. The Doctor let out a melodramatic sigh, untucking his hands and raising them into the air, "Better?"
He remained outwardly confident, with a certain air of lazy detachment. It was all an act, but he did it very well.
Meanwhile the Master's mind was racing, trying to cover all tracks, all exits. "Come without your little Miss Martha Jones, then, have you? Impressive." He affected a casual stance. "It will make it all the more fun to find her later."
"Doctor Jones," he corrected, "and you won't be having any fun later -- that is... unless you enjoy me dragging you out of here." He stepped forward slowly, testing him, "I won't let you hurt her any more. Understood? Or Sam," he shrugged slightly, "just thought I'd mention that, since you were so curious about him earlier." He eyed the screwdriver harshly, unsure if he could tell. He thought he didn't see it, but what if he were wrong?
The Master twisted his face as if he'd eaten a lemon. "Ohhhh, that's right. Doctor Jones. Because she's like you, isn't she. So willing to sacrifice someone else for the greater good."
He took his own step forward, mocking the Doctor. "It's got to be painfully obvious, though, even to you, that you'll be the one dragged out of here. The only question is whether it'll be dead... or incapacitated." His mouth quirked up. "Perhaps I should let you choose?"
He had a 50/50 chance, really. Leaning he hoped, slightly more towards his favour based on the condition of the Master's workspace. Had he really taken the time to check something that should never be assumed defective in the first place? He didn't see any burn marks on the walls.
The Doctor stared at him for a long moment, carefully weighing the weight of his words before he said them. "Kill me then," he managed finally, full well knowing his request may actually be carried out. He took another step forward, less confident now, "You nearly did. And..." he swallowed, steadying his voice, "it didn't matter much then, did it?" He paused, gaining back control, smoothing his words over with icy indifference, "Finish it."
And maybe Martha and Sam will be safe. Maybe they'll seal the bulkhead door when they try to reach me and can't. Maybe then you'll be trapped. Maybe then this'll all end.
He'd stood here before, right here, in this exact situation literally lifetimes ago, when he'd had his decision made for him. And he'd fled, in shock and grief, still amazed even then that he could feel such things, even after all of it.
Things felt so different now. Were. So different.
Finish it. The drums urged it. The Doctor urged it, sounding so much like the Master in that moment that he felt that sense of doubling again. Not really knowing where he stood, which side of the conflict he stood on, killer or victim or both.
They were both old and tired and they should have died centuries ago.
And it was never his decision.
"No. It doesn't matter." He drew in a breath, held it. Closed his eyes and fired.
And then opened them again when all he heard was an empty click.
The Doctor braced himself to accept the blow, his own head pounding as he stared blank ahead. He heard the click, knew what it meant, knew that he had guessed right, knew what he was supposed to feel now was relief. But a strange tinge of disappointment tainted the moment, and he was horrified with himself.
"I took a piece out, put it in mine," he closed his eyes a second, "I just wasn't sure if you knew."
The Master stood there blankly, his hand still outstretched, the laser screwdriver still pointed at the Doctor's chest. Unable to fully process what he had almost done.
Slowly the arm lowered, as rage filled in. "You... gutted it," he breathed. "Looted it for spare parts. Oh, why am I not surprised."
The Doctor slowly lowered his hands, stuffing them back comfortably into his pockets as he quickly worked on filing what just had happened somewhere far away from the present. "Not exactly," he stepped towards him.
"So now what?" he raised an eyebrow, "I mean, now what, after you've tried to kill me for about the bazillionth time." His eyes edged away from him, prying at the corners of his work, "Is it too much to ask that you come with me quietly, that you leave my ship, that you take your little paper pile and..." he took in what he could, gathering the parts up in his mind and processing out an incomplete sum, and when he was through in just shy of four beats, he turned his eyes onto his in emphasis, "...shove off?"
Far too much, apparently. He hated how calm the Doctor was, all dismissive and holier-than-thou. The Master smiled, a little thin cold line.
"Oh, but she likes me, Doctor. Maybe even a little more than you. Funny how that keeps happening."
The Doctor stepped up to him, looking down with his eyes, painting him a vivid picture of subduableness. He said nothing, because in that second after, he thought he was going to lose it; tear that picture down, and tear into him. Until he realized a simple truth.
He shook his head in refusal, "No. She doesn't. She likes the idea of you. The concept of someone so free," he ran his eyes down him, returning his gaze back to him, "but you're not free, are you? You're so jumbled up inside, so caught in your own net... you wouldn't even know what freedom was."
What was with all of the amateur psychoanalysis today?
"Oh dear, I hope you're not planning on giving me lessons," the Master deadpanned.
"And you're wrong about her. D'y'know, I think she actually wants to fix me? Like I'm some sort of faulty circuit? How ridiculous is that idea? I mean, honestly. Who in their right mind would run around trying to do that?" The Master dropped his faux-conversational attitude and gave the Doctor one shrewd look before deliberately turning away, returning to his work.
"No I'm not."
The Doctor narrowed his eyes, "Yeah you are a bit like that, a faulty circuit," he turned to the table, "and you must have missed it when I said 'this is over'. ...Go do this some place else!" he stepped suddenly forward towards the table, and knocked it over in one hard shove.
He stood back up, positively bristling and breathing heavily, "This is my TARDIS! Not yours! Stop using her for your own perverted desires!"
Fear leapt up in him for a moment as he sidestepped out of the Doctor's enraged swath, watched him destroy everything. The tea mugs shattering, notations flying every which way, liquid seeping and sloshing and dripping out onto paper and circuitry. Everything he'd been working so diligently towards. Ruined.
The Master watched all of this and thought of the Valiant and realized he was trembling and clenched down tight onto it.
"She called to me, Doctor. What was I to do? You obviously weren't giving her the attention she needed." His face was mostly expressionless, except for the hint of malicious amusement in his eyes.
The Doctor moved towards him purposely, crushing whatever it was he was stepping on, he didn't know. All he could think of was Rose, not his TARDIS. "Get out," he said quietly, "or I'll do what I did in the alley."
He paused a moment, listening to the cracking sound of what was left of a mug breaking under him, "I'm sorry this is such a mess, but you need to go. Just go, just... stay out of my way and go."
The Master leered at him, not buying it, not giving an inch, certainly not leaving. And not able to stop. "Who are you jealous of, exactly?"
The Doctor closed his eyes, trying to regain what little patience he had left, "I'm not jealous, Master. I don't want you hurting anyone, so..." he eyed the door, in suggestion that he use it.
"You hurt her. Why shouldn't I get a turn?" He asked it innocently enough, but his creeping smile betrayed his false tone.
And what he had left, was apparently not enough. Though would any amount have yielded through such a reply?
The Doctor grabbed him by his jacket and shoved him against the nearest wall. Not too harshly, but firmly enough. He held tightly onto him fighting hard against an overflow of anger.
"What... sick part of your brain came up with that validity?" he hissed angrily.
The Master went limp as he hit the wall, gazing at him almost calmly. Sick or not, he could at least foresee and accept the consequences of his own actions, something the Doctor never seemed quite ready to own up to.
"Why do you think she's so obsessed with the idea of being free? Could she feel trapped, do you suppose? Why, I wonder what could be stifling her?"
"I've never trapped her," he said simply, "I don't know what you mean. I showed her the universe, and it was always her choice." He tightened his grip, making sure he was unable to move away, "Stay away from her, you destroy everything you touch."
"Too late for her then." The Master smiled congenially. "Because, Doctor..." He closed his eyes briefly, as if savoring a particularly pleasant memory. "I've touched her quite a lot."
He stared at him for what felt like a long awhile, but must have been only a few short moments before he slowly released a hand off his jacket. "Good. Happy couple, then? I want my screwdriver back," he said coldly, reaching a hand into the outside pocket of his jacket, feeling for it there, "and my key."
The Master finally snarled, his hand latching around the Doctor's wrist and pulling it roughly out of his pocket as he leaned forward against his restraint. "As much as you would like it to be true, you are not my jailer," he spat out. "You don't have the fucking authority. You pathetic, overbearing little hypocrite."
The Doctor pulled his wrist away, loosening his grip against him in time. "It's my screwdriver! It's my... things!" He shook his head in disbelief, "Remember? Remember when you took them off me? When you took them off my unconscious body when I was doing my best to get you out of there?" He swallowed, pressing his weight down onto his heels, releasing his threatening posture to look away from him, "Just give them back, and get out of here."
The Master swallowed, remembering despite his best efforts. He was on the verge of saying something about the sonic screwdriver being technically his too, now, but really, being given this free pass to avoid the Doctor was something of a novelty.
And once again, he's taking everything. Pissed all over it.
The Master began meticulously combing through his pockets, removing all of the items he'd taken off the Doctor in the grotto. Including the bit of wire. Including the keys to the gate. And including, most importantly, the PDA with the very special recording of himself and Rose. He shoved them towards the Doctor fiercely, not really caring whether he caught them or not. "Here's your things. Enjoy."
He turned on his heel and left the room without another word, walking briskly away from the Doctor, and the TARDIS, and his last damned hope of ever being free, with no direction other than his desire to put as much distance between him and all of this abject failure as possible.
http://community.livejournal.com/nonevidence/100185.html
Date: Present
Location: Guess.
Rating:
The past two days had been sort of a blur of calculations and benchwork for the Master, with a healthy dose of trial and error thrown in for good measure. And although they’d passed quickly, they had proven to be quite productive. He’d been able to work much more efficiently inside the TARDIS, had been able to find the proper materials and facilities to push forward in great strides what before he’d only taken feeble, tentative steps toward completing.
His little pet project. His ticket out.
The Master had parked the TARDIS on the beach just yesterday, after doing some experimental hopping around Wonderland to see how she handled now. He’d been a little surprised that she could manage even that, but put in any coordinates for a location outside the bounds of Wonderland and she’d just refuse to go altogether. Hopefully his plan would enable her to be pulled out with him, but then the actual implementation of this device involved a lot of minor details that were… fuzzy. Such as whether the dimension here would simply collapse in the wake of his departure, fold in on itself. A small bonus, perhaps, but whether it did or not was none of his concern.
He’d been able to concentrate quite well, actually, despite all the distractions the TARDIS had to offer— all the little reminders of cohabitation littered here and there. Rose’s jacket hanging off one of the console chairs; fresh danishes in the kitchen. The rumpled bedsheets in what looked like the Doctor’s quarters, the scents of sex and deodorant intermingling, the combination of the mundane and the erotic that he was all too familiar with now. The Master had carefully shut all he could find away, and retreated into a room far off down one of the branching corridors, just a small closet really, and he’d thrown everything into this, and when he pulled back a bit he’d been pleased to note that it was nearing completion.
And then she’d just had to contact him over the Network, hadn’t she? She'd just had to push, and push, and.
The Master stretched his neck and leaned back over the worktable, one hand flat against it for support, one of the danishes in his mouth, and corrected a few figures almost absently, letting his mind pace itself through the calculations without entirely being conscious of it. Despite what Rose had said, he was not really worried about being interrupted at this stage. As soon as he’d landed on the beach he had modified the TARDIS’ perception filter to block out the notice of everyone but himself. And once he’d melted down the metal from the coins the exploding dead had left behind, scattered and forgotten up and down the shoreline, he’d have the conductive medium required to tap the latent interdimensional energy, jump-start the entire process.
Not long now before all of this— Rose, the Doctor, Wonderland— would be a moot point.
The Doctor continued down the twisted corridors, remembering in his mind what he had seen on the monitor. It was easy enough to find the door that led to the blinking red dot, and all that was left now was to open it. He braced himself mentally, before pushing the it open wide and stepping inside. It surprised him to see the Master standing there, even when all logic said he would be and he hoped that didn't show too much.
The Doctor swallowed hard, narrowing his eyes critically at him, at what he was doing, at is that a danish? At whatever it was. At everything.
The Master's head whipped around at the sound of the door opening behind him, at first simply shocked at the break in silence, and on the tail of that irritated with himself for letting his attention sink so deeply into his work.
Don't lie. You know what you were really thinking about.
And that little nagging voice, even, shut up in a hurry as he met that familiar gaze, hated and yet somehow long-awaited, like a long-lost twin you've tried to pretend you didn't have. The Master's mouth opened inadvertently as he stared, surprised and not really surprised, the danish falling to the floor and immediately forgotten. He pressed against the worktable, unable to back up any further.
The Doctor casually closed the door behind himself, shifting uncomfortably in his stance and knowing he had to say something. Be the first to say anything to set the tone that he was in charge, that he would be listened to. Or else. "Sorry to interrupt... but I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he said flatly, narrowing his eyes into a glare, strictly reprimanding, but not angry. "Whatever this is you're working on, it's over," he looked around the room briefly, taking in what he could without seeming overly curious about any of it. He didn't want to give him that advantage.
The Master realized his mouth was still hanging open stupidly, and he snapped it shut, painfully aware of all the details the Doctor was letting his eyes run over-- the myriad tea mugs littering the worktable, in various states of empty; the leftover bits of junk from what had come out of his knapsack sharing space with stacks of papers spilling over; his own bedraggled, haggard appearance. He felt exposed, inexplicably embarrassed.
His hand dove into his pocket, drawing out his laser screwdriver in one quick motion and aiming it squarely at the Doctor. "Is it?" He was going for a lazy purr, honestly, but his voice came out more as a strangled sort of squawk.
The Doctor stood his ground, because really there wasn't much else he could do. The screwdriver... I left it out and he found it. He reached his hands down into the pockets of his pants, slowly slouching back as he fought to push the part of him that just didn't care forward, a shield for his fear, "Your laser screwdriver," he breathed, grinning a little in disbelief. He rolled his tongue across his teeth, wondering. He'd taken that from his body, taken it apart, taken a single gold sliver of it and intertwined it with his own. But did he know that?
Did he know it was incomplete?
"So what now? Prefer I turn around first?"
"Repugnantly sentimental of you to keep it around," the Master sniffed. Though under the circumstances he couldn't say he really disapproved; the Doctor's sentimentality had almost become something one could bank on. If one were so inclined.
In all honesty, he wasn't sure what he "preferred," or what to do next. He really hadn't expected the Doctor to get past the perception filter-- hadn't expected him to so quickly, anyhow, because nobody could really expect the Doctor to do much of anything with any real certainty.
He did know, however, that he didn't like the look of the Doctor's hands in his pockets.
"Hands in the air, please." The Master's tone made it clear he was not really asking.
"Oh, you don't know the half of it," he chided, watching carefully his eyes for any sign that he knew; any sign that that tiny little piece was still safely tucked away in his own screwdriver. The Doctor let out a melodramatic sigh, untucking his hands and raising them into the air, "Better?"
He remained outwardly confident, with a certain air of lazy detachment. It was all an act, but he did it very well.
Meanwhile the Master's mind was racing, trying to cover all tracks, all exits. "Come without your little Miss Martha Jones, then, have you? Impressive." He affected a casual stance. "It will make it all the more fun to find her later."
"Doctor Jones," he corrected, "and you won't be having any fun later -- that is... unless you enjoy me dragging you out of here." He stepped forward slowly, testing him, "I won't let you hurt her any more. Understood? Or Sam," he shrugged slightly, "just thought I'd mention that, since you were so curious about him earlier." He eyed the screwdriver harshly, unsure if he could tell. He thought he didn't see it, but what if he were wrong?
The Master twisted his face as if he'd eaten a lemon. "Ohhhh, that's right. Doctor Jones. Because she's like you, isn't she. So willing to sacrifice someone else for the greater good."
He took his own step forward, mocking the Doctor. "It's got to be painfully obvious, though, even to you, that you'll be the one dragged out of here. The only question is whether it'll be dead... or incapacitated." His mouth quirked up. "Perhaps I should let you choose?"
He had a 50/50 chance, really. Leaning he hoped, slightly more towards his favour based on the condition of the Master's workspace. Had he really taken the time to check something that should never be assumed defective in the first place? He didn't see any burn marks on the walls.
The Doctor stared at him for a long moment, carefully weighing the weight of his words before he said them. "Kill me then," he managed finally, full well knowing his request may actually be carried out. He took another step forward, less confident now, "You nearly did. And..." he swallowed, steadying his voice, "it didn't matter much then, did it?" He paused, gaining back control, smoothing his words over with icy indifference, "Finish it."
And maybe Martha and Sam will be safe. Maybe they'll seal the bulkhead door when they try to reach me and can't. Maybe then you'll be trapped. Maybe then this'll all end.
He'd stood here before, right here, in this exact situation literally lifetimes ago, when he'd had his decision made for him. And he'd fled, in shock and grief, still amazed even then that he could feel such things, even after all of it.
Things felt so different now. Were. So different.
Finish it. The drums urged it. The Doctor urged it, sounding so much like the Master in that moment that he felt that sense of doubling again. Not really knowing where he stood, which side of the conflict he stood on, killer or victim or both.
They were both old and tired and they should have died centuries ago.
And it was never his decision.
"No. It doesn't matter." He drew in a breath, held it. Closed his eyes and fired.
And then opened them again when all he heard was an empty click.
The Doctor braced himself to accept the blow, his own head pounding as he stared blank ahead. He heard the click, knew what it meant, knew that he had guessed right, knew what he was supposed to feel now was relief. But a strange tinge of disappointment tainted the moment, and he was horrified with himself.
"I took a piece out, put it in mine," he closed his eyes a second, "I just wasn't sure if you knew."
The Master stood there blankly, his hand still outstretched, the laser screwdriver still pointed at the Doctor's chest. Unable to fully process what he had almost done.
Slowly the arm lowered, as rage filled in. "You... gutted it," he breathed. "Looted it for spare parts. Oh, why am I not surprised."
The Doctor slowly lowered his hands, stuffing them back comfortably into his pockets as he quickly worked on filing what just had happened somewhere far away from the present. "Not exactly," he stepped towards him.
"So now what?" he raised an eyebrow, "I mean, now what, after you've tried to kill me for about the bazillionth time." His eyes edged away from him, prying at the corners of his work, "Is it too much to ask that you come with me quietly, that you leave my ship, that you take your little paper pile and..." he took in what he could, gathering the parts up in his mind and processing out an incomplete sum, and when he was through in just shy of four beats, he turned his eyes onto his in emphasis, "...shove off?"
Far too much, apparently. He hated how calm the Doctor was, all dismissive and holier-than-thou. The Master smiled, a little thin cold line.
"Oh, but she likes me, Doctor. Maybe even a little more than you. Funny how that keeps happening."
The Doctor stepped up to him, looking down with his eyes, painting him a vivid picture of subduableness. He said nothing, because in that second after, he thought he was going to lose it; tear that picture down, and tear into him. Until he realized a simple truth.
He shook his head in refusal, "No. She doesn't. She likes the idea of you. The concept of someone so free," he ran his eyes down him, returning his gaze back to him, "but you're not free, are you? You're so jumbled up inside, so caught in your own net... you wouldn't even know what freedom was."
What was with all of the amateur psychoanalysis today?
"Oh dear, I hope you're not planning on giving me lessons," the Master deadpanned.
"And you're wrong about her. D'y'know, I think she actually wants to fix me? Like I'm some sort of faulty circuit? How ridiculous is that idea? I mean, honestly. Who in their right mind would run around trying to do that?" The Master dropped his faux-conversational attitude and gave the Doctor one shrewd look before deliberately turning away, returning to his work.
"No I'm not."
The Doctor narrowed his eyes, "Yeah you are a bit like that, a faulty circuit," he turned to the table, "and you must have missed it when I said 'this is over'. ...Go do this some place else!" he stepped suddenly forward towards the table, and knocked it over in one hard shove.
He stood back up, positively bristling and breathing heavily, "This is my TARDIS! Not yours! Stop using her for your own perverted desires!"
Fear leapt up in him for a moment as he sidestepped out of the Doctor's enraged swath, watched him destroy everything. The tea mugs shattering, notations flying every which way, liquid seeping and sloshing and dripping out onto paper and circuitry. Everything he'd been working so diligently towards. Ruined.
The Master watched all of this and thought of the Valiant and realized he was trembling and clenched down tight onto it.
"She called to me, Doctor. What was I to do? You obviously weren't giving her the attention she needed." His face was mostly expressionless, except for the hint of malicious amusement in his eyes.
The Doctor moved towards him purposely, crushing whatever it was he was stepping on, he didn't know. All he could think of was Rose, not his TARDIS. "Get out," he said quietly, "or I'll do what I did in the alley."
He paused a moment, listening to the cracking sound of what was left of a mug breaking under him, "I'm sorry this is such a mess, but you need to go. Just go, just... stay out of my way and go."
The Master leered at him, not buying it, not giving an inch, certainly not leaving. And not able to stop. "Who are you jealous of, exactly?"
The Doctor closed his eyes, trying to regain what little patience he had left, "I'm not jealous, Master. I don't want you hurting anyone, so..." he eyed the door, in suggestion that he use it.
"You hurt her. Why shouldn't I get a turn?" He asked it innocently enough, but his creeping smile betrayed his false tone.
And what he had left, was apparently not enough. Though would any amount have yielded through such a reply?
The Doctor grabbed him by his jacket and shoved him against the nearest wall. Not too harshly, but firmly enough. He held tightly onto him fighting hard against an overflow of anger.
"What... sick part of your brain came up with that validity?" he hissed angrily.
The Master went limp as he hit the wall, gazing at him almost calmly. Sick or not, he could at least foresee and accept the consequences of his own actions, something the Doctor never seemed quite ready to own up to.
"Why do you think she's so obsessed with the idea of being free? Could she feel trapped, do you suppose? Why, I wonder what could be stifling her?"
"I've never trapped her," he said simply, "I don't know what you mean. I showed her the universe, and it was always her choice." He tightened his grip, making sure he was unable to move away, "Stay away from her, you destroy everything you touch."
"Too late for her then." The Master smiled congenially. "Because, Doctor..." He closed his eyes briefly, as if savoring a particularly pleasant memory. "I've touched her quite a lot."
He stared at him for what felt like a long awhile, but must have been only a few short moments before he slowly released a hand off his jacket. "Good. Happy couple, then? I want my screwdriver back," he said coldly, reaching a hand into the outside pocket of his jacket, feeling for it there, "and my key."
The Master finally snarled, his hand latching around the Doctor's wrist and pulling it roughly out of his pocket as he leaned forward against his restraint. "As much as you would like it to be true, you are not my jailer," he spat out. "You don't have the fucking authority. You pathetic, overbearing little hypocrite."
The Doctor pulled his wrist away, loosening his grip against him in time. "It's my screwdriver! It's my... things!" He shook his head in disbelief, "Remember? Remember when you took them off me? When you took them off my unconscious body when I was doing my best to get you out of there?" He swallowed, pressing his weight down onto his heels, releasing his threatening posture to look away from him, "Just give them back, and get out of here."
The Master swallowed, remembering despite his best efforts. He was on the verge of saying something about the sonic screwdriver being technically his too, now, but really, being given this free pass to avoid the Doctor was something of a novelty.
And once again, he's taking everything. Pissed all over it.
The Master began meticulously combing through his pockets, removing all of the items he'd taken off the Doctor in the grotto. Including the bit of wire. Including the keys to the gate. And including, most importantly, the PDA with the very special recording of himself and Rose. He shoved them towards the Doctor fiercely, not really caring whether he caught them or not. "Here's your things. Enjoy."
He turned on his heel and left the room without another word, walking briskly away from the Doctor, and the TARDIS, and his last damned hope of ever being free, with no direction other than his desire to put as much distance between him and all of this abject failure as possible.
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