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ans99Characters: The Master & The Doctor (Ten) [closed]
Rating: PG-13
Date: Presently
Location: The lovely grotto
Animals calmed down well in darkness. Most will sit completely still in it, blissfully unaware of the things they cannot see. It's soothing. The silence can be soothing, too. Even the slightest of external noises are known to cause mental distraction, even if the listener is unknowing of them. Constant distraction can lead to disruptions in the thought process, the inability to focus, to reason, to allow yourself to be soothed.
Then there were other noises; ones inside you.
The Doctor walked quietly to the base of the grotto; a deep mouth in the ground that grinned widely tempting you in. He caught himself, stepping on a blanket and then tugging it back roughly over his arm, scolding it for getting away from him again. Blanket secured, he stepped down firmly into the hole. So easily taking that first plunge, and so quickly feeling the weight of fear breathing down his neck. He drew a hand there, loosening his tie generously. He was suited, finally; in a stripeless dark brown, wishing he'd done without the pressure enveloping tightly around his throat.
I want to be here. I want to be here. I owe that to him if I don't, anyway.
He adjusted his blanket again, trying to kid himself that he wasn't leaning in place, wasn't trying to see behind the bars at an impossible angle. He forced himself along, feeling his fear blossom into dread. What if he's dead? If he is... "Master?"
I can't see him. "It's... The Doctor."
please, don't be dead.
He allowed his blanket to slip away from him, tossing down a canvas sack to join it, and free of material burden; pressed himself hard against the gate.
"Master..."
He'd heard the Doctor's approach for some time. It was easy to pick his hesitant footsteps out, even above ground; nobody ever seemed to come near the area, and his auditory centers had long since catalogued the plinks and ploits of the condensation drips into their respective rhythms and dismissed them as background noise.
And even if there wasn't that, he could feel him. The anxiety baking off him like solar radiation. Well, that was his own fault, wasn't it?
The Master sat there, back against the opposite wall, keeping the surface of his thoughts still. Although his voice... oh, how dare he. Cinders dropped to the core of him, ignited that smoldering anger.
He could continue to stay here, not answer him. Lead him to expect the worst. The messages from the Network glowed dimly across from him, but neither he nor the wall were visible from either gate.
"Say something!" he rattled the heavy gate hard in his hand. He could have been gone. Escaped earlier, after he'd walked away. He could be dead, too. Laying on the ground somewhere. His eyes focused on the padlock. Either of these things would require opening a gate.
The Master allowed a small smirk to twist his otherwise blank face. As if he were some performing bear.
Sooner or later, though, he will come in to find me. The Doctor's stupidity would not let him down. And if he found the wall...
The Master cleared the Network screen hurriedly, watching as the light died down and the wall became just that. An ordinary rock wall. If one was expecting nothing more, anyway. He waited, listening intently.
I am not going in there.
The Doctor released his hands from the bars and step backed, his feet becoming entangled with the blanket, "I thought we could talk," he glanced disgustingly at the quilt and stepped off it, "I brought you some things -- do you want me to leave them near the gate, then? Or just take them back? I'd rather have a blanket on my bed, so, you know... conflicted." He swallowed hard and tried to smile at nothing in particular.
The Master scowled and leaned his head back, staring up at the disturbingly, intricately decorated ceiling. What could they possibly have to talk about? This was some absurd form of patriarchal punishment, surely. Either give in and listen to one of the Doctor's yapping, pathetic monologues or forgo any supplies he'd carelessly dragged in with him. Give me what I want, and I'll give you what you need. What I've been keeping from you.
And he was thirsty. He hadn't quite gotten up the nerve to try the water here, but he was close.
And, Rassilon help him but. He was bored.
"Why, Doctor, what a pleasant surprise. It's wholly unlike you to actually finish anything you started," he called in what turned out to be a cracked voice, trailing into a series of wet coughs.
The Doctor breathed with relief, that's all he wanted right now, really; just to hear him. "Is that a cough?" he reached back, rolling the blanket into his arms and stepping near the gate, "you probably need this more than I do."
He began stuffing the quilt between the bars, finding the task a bit harder and the bars a bit narrower than he originally calculated. "I kept the pillow though, hope you don't mind, it's -- but you got a blanket now, anyway. In case, you didn't get that the first few times I said it. Maybe you're deaf now, or blind, I mean. Maybe you're blind."
The Master shook his head, amazed. He really expects me to stay down here forever. Worse, he was crazy enough to apologize for the accommodations.
And. Blind?
The Master stood up, making a great deal of noise to suggest it was a major struggle, and peered around the corner at the Doctor, struggling with a thick blue quilt. He leaned against the wall there, mostly in the shadows, and watched, unimpressed. "Yes, Doctor, I'm positive that blankets are the answer to whatever infection I've picked up in your squalid little prison."
Getting the oversized quilt through the tight barred gate wasn't easy, but the Doctor managed, allowing the blanket to collapse into a pathetic heap on the floor.
"I'm positive they are, too, so enjoy," the Doctor gave a quick smile, though he wasn't entirely sure if the Master could see it.
I hope nobody ever mistakes your title for an actual medical degree." The Master slid forward a little more into the fading light and stared at the quilt, imagining the fabric must already be eagerly sucking up the moisture from the ground. He kept one shoulder against the wall, as if he were pinned there by it. He hoped he looked worse than he felt.
"Me either. This is the only blanket I got," the Doctor turned away from the gate and picked up the canvas sack. He decided he wanted to do this quickly, that he couldn't stay here. "I am sorry about your head," he mumbled more than he realized, reaching into the bag.
That all you're sorry about? The Master swallowed involuntarily, wondering what was in the bag. Really, really hoping it was something in the beverage category.
The Doctor frowned slightly, obviously agitated, "Here... just --" he looked away, holding the sack out to the bars, "just take the whole thing. Just take it."
The Master came out fully into view, and gingerly, laboriously, made his way toward the Doctor's outstretched hand, using the wall for support. He had almost reached the gate when the coughing resurfaced in a particularly bad bout, and he slid down the wall to a seated position while his body convulsed.
The Doctor waited patiently as the Master made his way to the gate. He tried to appear more neutral, and less concerned. Could he really got this bad in just a day?
But when he fell to the ground all reasoning went with him.
The Doctor released the bag and moved towards the padlock, eyeing him as he fiddled to turn the lock flush, "Has it been like this all day?" He reached into his jacket, and only on the second attempt to retrieve the padlock key, did he realize how badly he was shaking.
The Master said nothing, concentrated on catching his breath. Then, almost imperceptible amidst the rest of his tremors, a quick shake of the head.
He froze for a moment watching him, "Alright." In one deliberate motion The Doctor turned the key into the lock, catching the chains before they fell and replacing them after he entered. He relocked the door, and slipped the key into his inside pocket.
The Master's head jerked up slightly at the sound of the key, and the chains. He kept his head down, well aware that he was missing his chance, and furious about it. Out of the corner of his eye he noted where the Doctor stowed the key. Observed, recorded, and filed away. If the idiot had just picked somewhere dry.
The Doctor stood there, as if stunned by something, a deer caught in headlamps unable to look away. Then just as suddenly as he froze there, he broke away picking up the quilt in his arms and carrying it over to the Master.
I am not going in there. So much for that.
The Master was finally starting to get it under control, and he shot a quick glance up, trying to keep track of the Doctor's movements. His breath caught again, this time in dismay, when he saw the blanket plodding towards him.
Unfortunately, his breath catching just sent him into a fresh fit of coughing again, although much shorter. He tried unsuccessfully to clear his throat, then leaned back against the wall, fixing one beady eye on the Doctor in an alert sort of malaise.
"Calm down, it's just a blanket," he spoke quietly. "If you don't want it, I'll gladly take it back," he crouched down near him, "but why don't you give it a try first, hmm?" The Doctor reached out and draped the quilt loosely over the Master's shoulder.
He didn't even think, just watched his arm move in a wide arc, knocking the Doctor's aside along with the blanket. His other hand reached for the Doctor's far shoulder, scrabbling wildly at the suit's fabric.
The Doctor reached a hand out and grabbed his shoulder back, gaining leverage from pushing his back into the wall. "Stop it... you're not even sick are you," his voice was low, rough, and still he heard it echo eerily off the grotto walls.
The Master struggled weakly in the Doctor's grasp, panicked and furious in equal measure. The key, the key in the suit, he silently screamed at his less than responsive body, but he'd run out of breath, and a wave of dizziness hit him. He closed his eyes, his hands relaxing. "I hate you," he informed the Doctor, nearly whispering.
The words drowned inside him and settled some place cold. It startled him how deep they cut, when the wound had settled there for centuries.
"I know you do," he whispered back. He relaxed his arm and let go.
The Master settled back against the wall again, swallowed, opened his eyes. "Good."
He was tired, sick, likely dehydrated, yes, yes, but the mind kept turning over like a perpetual motion machine. He had to fix this, had to get out. He couldn't stand the Doctor doting on him as if he were some orphaned chick. Wasn't this exactly the thing he'd tried to avoid?
The Doctor relaxed against his section of the wall, or at least what passed as relaxed in the closeness of such company. His breathing had slowed.
He didn't speak for several minutes, neither of them did. Instead he listened to the constant steady dripping. People found that comforting, like windchimes, or a trickling brook, he guessed. Though even that lacked solace now.
"I can stay here -- with you -- if you want." Which you don't.
He turned his head to the side and stared at him; left wavering from his offer.
The Master let out a short bark of laughter.
"A little late for that."
He tilted his head back and gazed up at the ceiling again, where the swans chased each other in circles. "White Swans. False enlightenment. Black Swans. Unpredictable, large impacts." He smiled a little, to himself, as if what he'd said meant anything.
"It's not," he spoke with earnest, turning his eyes upward to the ceiling as the Master continued to speak. Black and white swans.
"The swan's a symbol of solitude... do you ever feel that way? I mean -- before I locked you in here," he reached his hand down to the blanket, pulling it over the Master's knees.
"We could stay here... together. We don't even have to stay here, if I could trust you..." he let his voice fall silent.
Before I locked you in here. The Doctor said it so casually, so matter-of-fact. Of course, so had he. Once. More than once.
The tables have turned, turned, turned, and you're flat out of luck now.
The feeling of the blanket draping over him again just made him colder. He shivered, squeezed his eyes shut. "Too late," he repeated.
"What makes it too late?" he said quietly, dragging the blanket to cover more of him.
He swiveled his head down to look at the Doctor. "Don't do this," he warned him, but remained otherwise quite still. Frozen, even.
The Doctor stared heavily, searching his eyes over him, "Why not? What makes it too late?" he stopped the blanket half way down his chest, tucking him in tight at the sides.
Too much restriction. He was pinning him. Wrapping him.
Smoke, and long fingers. Paralyzed. Screaming.
"No!" The Master thrashed against the confines of the blanket, kicked it away. Kicked the Doctor away. Scrambled to his feet, firmly swallowed down the nausea, and staggered a few steps before clumsily stumbling over a loose rock outcropping and falling hard on his hands and knees.
The Doctor might have lost his balance, but backed by the wall he was up his feet effortlessly approaching him, hands outreached, "I'm sorry," he began again, soothingly, "I'm sorry."
He watched him fall, unable to catch him in time he knelt down beside him.
Not sorry enough. Never sorry enough.
The Master heaved in great breaths of damp air, hissed them out. "Don't touch me." His voice was laden with venom, tempered a little bit by the inevitable coughing that followed, several wet tearing sounds tacked onto the end of his warning.
The Doctor folded onto his knees near him, wanting so badly to rest a hand on his back. "I won't touch you," the assurance was strong in his voice, and he mentally drew himself back from his space.
He was so tired. So tired, and thirsty. But the Doctor was just going to watch him. And prod him. And drone on and on and on about "us" and "together forever" and "trust" and all manner of lies. He'd do everything, really, but be useful.
The Master realized for the first time, truly believed it-- that he might really die here. He fell backwards, scrambled away until his back found a wall.
The Doctor stayed where he was, sitting there, he rested his hands over his face, but quickly dropped them to his side for fear of letting his desperation take control. Even with the key he felt trapped here.
The Master drew his knees to his chest and hugged them like a child, watching the Doctor almost accusingly. The knots in his stomach shuddered, shortened his breath as they formed, in a rhythm all their own. And in his head, the so much more familiar rhythm marched on and on and on and on and on and it was so terrifying so comforting so terrible
you, you are these things Doctor it's you
He started to tap on his leg, still watching. Not really watching.
The Doctor stared across at him, wandering lost through his eyes to somewhere else. He swallowed hard, downing his quickening breath, feeling something pounding through him as he breathed in. He lowered his gaze down, and followed the rhythmic tapping bound to the beat of his own throbbing head.
"Do you hear it? Do you?" The Master sounded like he was discussing something far more ordinary, or pleasant, like the faint strain of a violin on a streetcorner. His eyes bore through the Doctor, his breath catching, the tapping continuing unabated.
He fixed viciously into him, feeling himself drop back from himself, and what remained was nothing. And the pounding, the pounding hammered on, fiercely, constant, soothing something deep inside. "I hear it," he breathed the words out, and lulled back into him.
The Master's eyes had a vacant, desperate look. "D'you see then? I could never be alone." He grinned, or grimaced. "I have them."
The Doctor nodded in some sort of understanding. He tried to turn his eyes away, but found himself incapable, sinking deeper into it.
"They didn't stop," the Master continued. "They never did, not once. No matter what." He fixated his eyes on the Doctor's, more himself now. "So don't try to convince me that there's still time. There never was." He swallowed, thinking of Malcassairo. "Not for me."
The Doctor breathed in deeply, casting his eyes to the ground, listening to him in speak. "I don't believe it. I don't believe there's nothing we can do, you've just given up," he looked back at him mournfully.
"We?" The Master abruptly stopped tapping and narrowed his eyes. His derisive, hissing spit of a laugh brought up another, deeper set cough. "There hasn't been a "we" in a very, very long time. All mythologizing aside, Doctor, I am simply not interested." He shot a glance at the bag, still curious despite himself.
"Even so, I still care," he followed his eyes to the bag, "would you prefer I didn't?"
"I fail to see much of a difference either way," he glowered.
The Doctor raised his head, clearing his throat, and managing a breathy 'okay', stood up from the ground. "Let me get you the sack," he moved over to the edge of the bars, snatching the bag and dragging it through.
The Master watched him retrieve the bag silently, ready to be disappointed. With the Doctor's current track record of helpfulness, there would probably be a toothbrush and a party hat inside.
He needed to be free. Unfettered. Couldn't he understand that? After running away his whole life, couldn't he recognize that in someone else?
After transferring it to the other side of the gate, the Doctor simply assisted it in gently falling to the ground. "There you go," he gave the Master a look back, moving to the door. "Oh," he turned back to him, reaching a hand inside his jacket, "is there anything you wanted? For dinner. Anything like that? Anything like -- that's not a key, or doesn't tick."
He felt something leaden sink to the bottom of his stomach that directly contradicted his previous words. He's leaving? He can't. Not again.
The Master simply gazed up at the Doctor, unable to form any words, although inside his thoughts looped crazily. don't go don't go don't go don't go don't leave me in the dark
The Doctor watched him for a long moment before attempting to encourage a reply, "Master?"
He squeezed the key once in his palm, looking for something to distract him, and finding nothing, "Anything for dinner? Honestly... I didn't know what to get you."
Dinner was the last thing on his mind. The last thing. He'd consider giving up on the universe and becoming a pacifist before he would be able to concentrate on what he wanted for dinner. He ducked his head down and squeezed his knees tighter to his chest, curling in a ball, quietly despairing and hating himself for it.
For the sake of forcing the conversation into idleness, dinner seemed like a safe distraction.
Maybe he was more easily distracted.
"What's the matter?" he stirred the key in his hand, slipping it into a pant pocket and walked toward him. He sounded troubled, and he was; he didn't like seeing him this way.
The Master squeezed his eyes shut, freezing at the sound of footsteps moving towards him, sure at any moment he was going to grab him. Maybe promise he wasn't going to let go, ever. This time. Or he'd go, now, quickly, trying to outpace his guilt. And maybe not come back, ever. It wasn't as if he didn't deserve it. He waited, terrified of either option.
What's the matter?
Nothing. Everything. Go. Don't.
The Doctor stopped near him, searching for a way to comfort him and coming up with nothing. He started to speak, swallowing his words down before they surfaced. And so he stood there, exhausted with himself.
"What do you want..."
Don't leave me here again.
He couldn't bring himself to say it. He just sat there, dumbly, a living statue. Well, except for the trembling, coursing through him in tiny waves.
"I don't know, so you've got to tell me," he lowered his voice and looked away, "everything I do seems to be wrong." He sat quietly down near him.
If you think locking someone in a damp cellar overnight constitutes 'being wrong,' then I suppose you have a point, Doctor. The Master's fear and shame were quickly converted into anger. This was emotional extortion. Psychological torture. His stubby nails, bitten to the quick, nonetheless dug into his thighs as he tried, rather unsuccessfully, to make himself so small he'd cease to take up physical space.
"You know what? Go. Stay. Do whatever the hell it is you need to do, but don't pretend for one instant that my vote makes a lick of difference to you." The words were rasped out of his mouth, lightning quick, before he could help it.
The Doctor was tapped out, exhausted, how could he make him understand that he can't hurt people, that the only reason he's here...
As a matter of fact... it does. But believe what you like. The second you can look me in the eye and tell me you won't go out of your way to kill people -- I'll gladly let you out.
What's the point?
He was almost glaring at him now, lost in his own thoughts of things he chose not to say, "Tell me what it is you want..."
"I want out!" he nearly screamed. "What do you think I want?!" It was true enough, would certainly solve most of his problems.
It could be like before, them just avoiding each other.
The Doctor stared back at him unflinching, trying to temper his anger with reasoning, "What are you going to do if I do?"
The Master huffed dismissively. "Not your problem."
Though he would never admit it, the Doctor's patience was wearing thin, and his narrow eyed glare was boarding on outright malice. "More destruction? Hasn't there been enough already?"
"Whose fault was that?" The Master swiveled his head a little and peeked an eye out. Yes, the Doctor was absolutely furious now. He felt a small thrill of excitement.
The Doctor said nothing. Something stirring inside him -- inwardly moving him towards the gate in a nauseating wave of dire urgency. His glare faded, turning wide-eyed and he faced him, until he had to look away.
"You did everything I expected of you. They all did." The Master continued to watch him with one eye. "You pretend you had no part in it. Trespassing into my home, WITH A GUN--" He paused to cough again. "If you hadn't been there at all, if you'd not opened that door. But you went in expecting the worst, and so that's what I gave you. The worst."
"I came alone," he looked at him, straightening his back against the wall, "I wanted to see you... if there was a worst -- I didn't care."
The Master blinked, relaxed his arms a little, and lifted his head quizzically, annoyed. "What do you care about, Doctor? Anything? Not their well being. Certainly not mine." He waved a weak hand around, indicating the grotto.
"I don't know what else to do," he spoke quietly, it sounded more like a confession than an admittance.
The Master sneered. "If this is the best you could come up with, you've changed. And not for the better, in case that wasn't pointed out clearly enough." His voice had gradually taken on a husky quality. It was starting to hurt to talk, but what did he care? He'd spent decades in pain, watched himself fall apart, congeal. Rot off. The only thing that had mattered then, and now, was how angry it all made him.
And it's all your fault. He closed his eyes.
The Doctor raised his head slightly, accepting the blow. It didn't hurt like it should have, too much of him knew it was true -- acknowledged it even. He sat quietly for a moment. Watching him. Imagining him sitting there in peace. It was easier with his eyes closed, and he could almost see it there in abstract. The more he looked however, the more he saw, the more the delusion wasted away; leaving something too painful to settle on for very long.
He cleared his throat softly, running his fingertips through his hair, "What would you do? What would you do with you?"
He smirked, keeping his eyes closed, although the question bothered him. The Doctor admitting he was wrong. The Doctor asking him what to do with himself? "You're asking my advice?"
"Yes."
The Master leaned back, bewildered. What did he expect him to say? "Are you speaking of a scenario in which I'm desperately following myself around to selfishly assuage my own guilt, and continually being given the slip, or something else?"
The Doctor put his head down into his hands, and if that weren't enough of an escape, closed his eyes tight. Yes that's exactly it. He raised his head again, rubbing his eyes as if that were his only reason for bowing out. "Nevermind." Just nevermind.
"Oh, you're no fun anymore," he murmured. The chamber was getting darker, and the first real chill of the evening was setting in. He hugged his knees close again, shivering in earnest now.
Yep.
The Doctor pulled his knees up, rubbing them down for warmth, "Want that blanket now?"
The Master sat there in stony silence until the cold was past unbearable, then nodded quickly, disgusted with himself.
"Alright." The Doctor rose to his feet, retrieving the blanket quickly and bunching it up in his arms. "This really was a pain to carry... I nearly died at least four times tripping over it." He sat back down near him, smiling a little, he placed the blanket between them for him to take.
The Master shot him a quick look, a little horrified at his choice of words, as he pulled the blanket towards himself. It was quite damp now, and he shivered violently even as he pulled it tightly around his shoulders. Then he sniffed a little, wrinkled his nose. "It smells like horse."
"Does it?" he looked towards him, drawing his knees back to his chest and nudging the remainder of the blanket in his direction. "Could get you another."
Whenever the Doctor hinted at bringing him more "supplies," the Master felt a tiny twitch of apprehension. Again, he wondered if the Doctor really considered this a permanent solution.
Not that he planned on staying any longer than he had to. At this point, he might even be willing to trust Sam not to bungle a rescue attempt. He nodded towards the bag, a little encouraged by the added warmth of the blanket. "What's in it?"
The Doctor turned his eyes slowly to the bag, as if he'd forgotten it completely, "Oh," he looked back at the Master, "I brought you grapes. And a book. And scotch. Because I know how you like scotch. It was hard to find -- the scotch, surprising, really." He wasn't trying to make the Master feel grateful for his apparent exhausting search for a specific variety of alcohol, he wasn't even that surprised... he just didn't know what else to say.
The Master's eyes glittered a little, and his parched throat ached, at the mention of the scotch. But, "I see" was all he said.
So, not entirely useless after all. Still, how was he meant to read a book in the dark?
"Yeah. so..." he tried nodding the rest of the words before continuing, "you want it, then? Or maybe you should eat something first. I mean... other than grapes."
The Master shook his head. "Need a drink." It took him three tries to croak it out. "Now."
"If you're sure..."
The Doctor watched him as he rose, turning away quickly to recover the sack. He peered in, unable to see very much, he reached in for the bottom where the heavy glass bottle had settled. The bottle was labeled obscurely, and other than container type and color, the Doctor realized he wasn't even sure this was Scotch -- or at least wasn't sure if it was from Scotland. He grabbed the plain white coffee mug out, anyway, and poured half a glass filled, attentively securing the top back on. He swirled it carefully around, for palatableness, and farther examination. When that didn't satisfy him of the precise nature of the carmel colored liquid, he dipped a finger in and sucked it clean.
It's Scotch. I mean -- not bad. ...Good Scotch, " he mumbled, removing his finger from his mouth. He grabbed one last thing from the sack, a bag of plump purple grapes, and returned back to the Master with the bottle and mug in his arms.
The Master stretched out his hands eagerly for the mug, willing them not to shake (but they still did, a little). With the blanket around his shoulders and his haggard, sunken-eyed appearance he probably looked like one of those street beggars in London. The ones nobody missed when they just up and disappeared....
And now he was at the Doctor's mercy.
The Doctor sat back down near him with a sigh, extending the coffee mug out to him, "Here you are." He forced out a smile, setting the bottle and grapes between them.
He grabbed for the cup, nearly dropping it between them, and some of the liquid sloshed out onto their hands. He took a tentative sip, swallowed carefully. The back of his throat tingled and warmth flooded through him; he imagined its epidermal cells swelling up gratefully and crying out in relief. Encouraged, the Master took larger sips, which became hurried gulps, and in a matter of seconds the cup was empty.
And almost immediately, he was on his hands and knees again, retching it back up.
The Doctor winced, his recoil increasing the more the Master drunk, until turning away from him completely. "I told you... you got to eat something first," he reached around him to rest a hand gently onto his back, and then freezing in mid-air, he pulled away; standing up quickly. Digging his hands into his pockets, he looked down at him, bewildered as to what to do next.
He stood there.
The Master remained hunched over, head hanging, gulping in shallow breaths of air, since the deeper ones would just set him off coughing again. And coughing led to more retching, he was certain.
Fine. You were right. As always. Happy?
"Yep," the Doctor responded briskly, hovering over him.
The Master sat back, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve regretfully-- he'd have to get that laundered.
When he got out of here.
He stared sidelong up at the Doctor as he gathered the blanket around himself again. "Glad to oblige, then." He reached for the grapes.
The Doctor opened his mouth, taking a few swallows to form the words, "Right -- well... why don't you tell me how you're feeling?"
He reached down deftly, swiping the grapes away from him, "Annnnd... we can go sit somewhere a little less -- Scotchy." He plucked a grape off and tossed it in his mouth.
He watched the grapes move away from him with something very like horrified indignation. "How I'm... feeling? I dunno, how does it look?" He gave the Doctor a hard stare that didn't at all match his barely-there whisper, defiantly tucking the blankets around himself further.
He chewed on the grape, licking his lips quickly before responding, "You don't look well. I don't like keeping you here. Maybe you could come home with me, after while," he took a step towards him, shifting the grapes to his chest and extending a hand, "come on. I'll clean this up."
The Master leaned away from him, pressing his back into the wall. "I'm not going anywhere with you," he hissed. I'm not a stray dog, Doctor, that you can just quixotically decide you want to keep.
"Not right now. Just -- it's something to think about it," he held his hand out still, reaching his fingertips towards him, "take my hand, it's okay. I'll help you up. Just take my hand."
The Master looked at the proffered hand as if it were attached to a leper. "I don't think so. I can manage without your 'help'." He began to pull himself up slowly, clinging to the wall's various juts of stone. He'd almost made it to his feet, unassisted, when another wave of dizziness hit him and he suddenly found himself falling forward, the wet stones slipping past his fingers.
"Fine then," he dug into the bag, reaching for an especially private grape. He watched the Master pull himself up slowly, inwardly frowning. Well, that wasn't so bad.
The Doctor twisted the grape off and tossed it in his mouth; the bag sliding through his fingers, as he found himself rocking forward; catching the Master in his arms. He swallowed the grape hard, "...you okay?"
The Master blinked as his fall was suddenly arrested. He'd expected to have hit the ground by now. Microseconds later he felt arms around him, and looked up into the Doctor's concerned face.
Oh. He shuddered a little, remembering what it was like the last time this had happened. One stupid, insignificant bullet wound. "I'm fine," he insisted, struggling against his grip half-heartedly.
"You're not fine," the Doctor held him tightly, forcing the Master's arm around his own shoulders to support him. "You can hate this, and you can hate me, and you can hate -- well -- I'm sure you can hate a lot of things, but let's do it over there, alright?" he stared down at him, smiling to comfort him.
He closed his eyes tightly as the Doctor moved his arm, appreciating and not appreciating the gentle concern. He took a shuddering breath and opened them again, studiously avoiding looking at the Doctor, and leaned into him a little more in silent acquiescence.
The Doctor breathed deeply, calmed by their brief moment of shared sentiment. Even if it were just in participation to move a few paces across a room. He walked him vigilantly to the adjacent wall, to a particular dry patch of cave; taking his time to make sure the Master was reasonably comfortable with every step.
"This looks good -- dryer anyway," he began pulling away slowly, keeping a hand on the small of his back to steady him before letting go entirely.
The Master sank to the ground gracelessly. Cooperating with the Doctor had once been such a guilty pleasure, but now...
You stuck me in a cave. Frankly, now it just felt like giving up. You took everything. And he was supposed to be grateful?
He glared up at the Doctor, and his grapes. Planning on sharing any of those, or were they brought expressly to torture me?
The Doctor was off, jogging back across the cave, skidding to a stop for having moved too quickly in too small of area. He prepared the blanket for it's brief journey by folding it haphazardly in a drooping heap. The grapes were easier, and the Scotch, well, he ignored the Scotch for now. He started back across the cave at the same rushed pace, dragging the blanket around him and --
Tripping badly over it, forcing himself forward into a hard stumble. "Whoooa there! See! Five times now!" he smiled proudly, dropping the bulk of the blanket on top the Master's head.
The shock of the sudden weight pitched his head forward and jarred the Master out of his sullen thoughts. Half his breath whooshed out of him; the rest caught in surprise, and triggered more coughing. He braced a hand on either side for support and sat there, folded over and half-covered, unable to focus on anything else at the moment but his body's fruitless attempts to expel whatever was down there brewing in his lungs.
The Doctor's breath picked up suddenly, horrified with the situation, but unable to focus on a direct solution.
Probably -- probably should pick that off him.
"Sorry!" he scrambled to drag the blanket off, kneeling down in front of him, "Sorry... sorry, I'm really -- sorry." He bent down, trying to look under him, to see his face. "...sorry."
The Master's hands clenched, his fingers curling into the crevices in the floor, and he raised his head a little, his eyes flicking to the Doctor's own.
STOP IT.
The Doctor rocked back from his knees and sat down, "Okay, sor -- " he choked on the word, turning his eyes away from him to finish, " -- soooo... I'll just -- you know -- notdoanythingelseeveragain."
SORRY!
One could only hope. The Master swallowed, then immediately swallowed again at the pain of it-- which, on second thought, was pretty stupid-- and sat back, keeping a watchful eye on the Doctor.
The Doctor pushed himself back against the wall, tossing the bag of grapes into the Master's lap. "Here."
He really couldn't stop throwing things at him.
He blinked at the newly arrived package in his lap, wondering why the Doctor had suddenly decided it was a great time to just start jovially tossing objects towards him. Had he encouraged this behavior somehow? Had the Doctor forgotten they weren't in Academy anymore? Had the Doctor forgotten the Master was about two steps away from bludgeoning him with a rock?
After about two seconds he decided he simply didn't care, and he had popped one of the grapes into his mouth. He leaned his head back, concentrating on chewing slowly. It wouldn't do to sick this up, not when he needed the liquid so badly.
The Doctor sat there silently, stretching out his legs and banishing his hands into his pockets. Keep your hands to yourself. He looked over at the Master, watching him chew slowly around the grape.
Boy, he's really taking his time with that. His hand left his pocket, and he reached into the Master's lap; plucking a grape from the bag. He eyed him cautiously, placing the grape on his tongue and chewing slowly.
Nope... still tastes the same.
The Master finished up with the first grape, finding it infinitesimally easier to swallow the skin now. He reached for a second one, pausing with it halfway to his mouth as he realized the Doctor was also slowly chewing, at something of a glacial rate, and staring at him. Under normal circumstances he might have cleared his throat. As it was...
Think you're clever, do you? He popped the second grape in and chewed a little more viciously.
The Doctor raised an eyebrow, reached into the bag and grabbed a handful of grapes, "You know..." He put one in his mouth, suddenly turning a cold sober, "I'm really glad you're alive. I was pretty upset when you died and... all I wanted was for you to come back."
He paused in thought, not really meaning to go on, and unsure of admittance -- especially so directly and to him. But as blunt as he made it sound, and as difficult as it was to say; it felt good.
And how lucky I am to be able to say it at all.
The Master stopped mid-chew, nearly choking on the juice of the grape. He looked at the Doctor, his expression carefully neutral though the bald confessions were beginning to worry him a bit. This was definitely a switch. How many times had they tried to kill each other, before?
The Time War, he supposed. It had certainly changed his own priorities. Hadn't turned him quite this desperate, though.
How fortunate for you, then. It was easier to float the thoughts over his barricade, like smoke signals on ancient Earth, than to speak. Far easier. He started in on another grape, encouraged he'd managed to keep them down so far.
The Doctor stuffed the rest of the grapes into his mouth, wanting to dispose of the burden of holding them, and in some subconscious way, the ever so unsettling restraint of immobility they caused -- should he need to move away. He shifted slightly, tempted to get up, but unable to find a cause for doing so. He had felt comforted, some place deep inside him, just being near him. The weight of it was heavy, and he could feel its pressure leveling him.
Whatever that weight was, that unending pressure, was -- in a way -- identical to the feelings hovering just below the surface; the feelings that normally existed just for show. The ones he acted upon. But it was different now, there was too much balance. These things, these thoughts, they're too apparent -- too shallow -- I've got to stop talking.
He shifted again, dragging a knee to his chest. His comfort was breaking down, giving way to reality. The truth in his feelings weren't enough, there was something else, something in-between -- something hollow.
Four grapes seemed like enough for now. The Master resettled the blanket around himself, almost moodily, trying his best to ignore the Doctor's presence. His obvious discomfort. None of his business.
The Doctor stared straight ahead at the wall, shifting unpleasantly ever so often. Hours passed, and it became apparent that he was incapable of winding down. He took a look over at the Master after spending so much of that time avoiding his presence.
He was sleeping.
http://community.livejournal.com/nonevidence/83303.html
Rating: PG-13
Date: Presently
Location: The lovely grotto
Animals calmed down well in darkness. Most will sit completely still in it, blissfully unaware of the things they cannot see. It's soothing. The silence can be soothing, too. Even the slightest of external noises are known to cause mental distraction, even if the listener is unknowing of them. Constant distraction can lead to disruptions in the thought process, the inability to focus, to reason, to allow yourself to be soothed.
Then there were other noises; ones inside you.
The Doctor walked quietly to the base of the grotto; a deep mouth in the ground that grinned widely tempting you in. He caught himself, stepping on a blanket and then tugging it back roughly over his arm, scolding it for getting away from him again. Blanket secured, he stepped down firmly into the hole. So easily taking that first plunge, and so quickly feeling the weight of fear breathing down his neck. He drew a hand there, loosening his tie generously. He was suited, finally; in a stripeless dark brown, wishing he'd done without the pressure enveloping tightly around his throat.
I want to be here. I want to be here. I owe that to him if I don't, anyway.
He adjusted his blanket again, trying to kid himself that he wasn't leaning in place, wasn't trying to see behind the bars at an impossible angle. He forced himself along, feeling his fear blossom into dread. What if he's dead? If he is... "Master?"
I can't see him. "It's... The Doctor."
please, don't be dead.
He allowed his blanket to slip away from him, tossing down a canvas sack to join it, and free of material burden; pressed himself hard against the gate.
"Master..."
He'd heard the Doctor's approach for some time. It was easy to pick his hesitant footsteps out, even above ground; nobody ever seemed to come near the area, and his auditory centers had long since catalogued the plinks and ploits of the condensation drips into their respective rhythms and dismissed them as background noise.
And even if there wasn't that, he could feel him. The anxiety baking off him like solar radiation. Well, that was his own fault, wasn't it?
The Master sat there, back against the opposite wall, keeping the surface of his thoughts still. Although his voice... oh, how dare he. Cinders dropped to the core of him, ignited that smoldering anger.
He could continue to stay here, not answer him. Lead him to expect the worst. The messages from the Network glowed dimly across from him, but neither he nor the wall were visible from either gate.
"Say something!" he rattled the heavy gate hard in his hand. He could have been gone. Escaped earlier, after he'd walked away. He could be dead, too. Laying on the ground somewhere. His eyes focused on the padlock. Either of these things would require opening a gate.
The Master allowed a small smirk to twist his otherwise blank face. As if he were some performing bear.
Sooner or later, though, he will come in to find me. The Doctor's stupidity would not let him down. And if he found the wall...
The Master cleared the Network screen hurriedly, watching as the light died down and the wall became just that. An ordinary rock wall. If one was expecting nothing more, anyway. He waited, listening intently.
I am not going in there.
The Doctor released his hands from the bars and step backed, his feet becoming entangled with the blanket, "I thought we could talk," he glanced disgustingly at the quilt and stepped off it, "I brought you some things -- do you want me to leave them near the gate, then? Or just take them back? I'd rather have a blanket on my bed, so, you know... conflicted." He swallowed hard and tried to smile at nothing in particular.
The Master scowled and leaned his head back, staring up at the disturbingly, intricately decorated ceiling. What could they possibly have to talk about? This was some absurd form of patriarchal punishment, surely. Either give in and listen to one of the Doctor's yapping, pathetic monologues or forgo any supplies he'd carelessly dragged in with him. Give me what I want, and I'll give you what you need. What I've been keeping from you.
And he was thirsty. He hadn't quite gotten up the nerve to try the water here, but he was close.
And, Rassilon help him but. He was bored.
"Why, Doctor, what a pleasant surprise. It's wholly unlike you to actually finish anything you started," he called in what turned out to be a cracked voice, trailing into a series of wet coughs.
The Doctor breathed with relief, that's all he wanted right now, really; just to hear him. "Is that a cough?" he reached back, rolling the blanket into his arms and stepping near the gate, "you probably need this more than I do."
He began stuffing the quilt between the bars, finding the task a bit harder and the bars a bit narrower than he originally calculated. "I kept the pillow though, hope you don't mind, it's -- but you got a blanket now, anyway. In case, you didn't get that the first few times I said it. Maybe you're deaf now, or blind, I mean. Maybe you're blind."
The Master shook his head, amazed. He really expects me to stay down here forever. Worse, he was crazy enough to apologize for the accommodations.
And. Blind?
The Master stood up, making a great deal of noise to suggest it was a major struggle, and peered around the corner at the Doctor, struggling with a thick blue quilt. He leaned against the wall there, mostly in the shadows, and watched, unimpressed. "Yes, Doctor, I'm positive that blankets are the answer to whatever infection I've picked up in your squalid little prison."
Getting the oversized quilt through the tight barred gate wasn't easy, but the Doctor managed, allowing the blanket to collapse into a pathetic heap on the floor.
"I'm positive they are, too, so enjoy," the Doctor gave a quick smile, though he wasn't entirely sure if the Master could see it.
I hope nobody ever mistakes your title for an actual medical degree." The Master slid forward a little more into the fading light and stared at the quilt, imagining the fabric must already be eagerly sucking up the moisture from the ground. He kept one shoulder against the wall, as if he were pinned there by it. He hoped he looked worse than he felt.
"Me either. This is the only blanket I got," the Doctor turned away from the gate and picked up the canvas sack. He decided he wanted to do this quickly, that he couldn't stay here. "I am sorry about your head," he mumbled more than he realized, reaching into the bag.
That all you're sorry about? The Master swallowed involuntarily, wondering what was in the bag. Really, really hoping it was something in the beverage category.
The Doctor frowned slightly, obviously agitated, "Here... just --" he looked away, holding the sack out to the bars, "just take the whole thing. Just take it."
The Master came out fully into view, and gingerly, laboriously, made his way toward the Doctor's outstretched hand, using the wall for support. He had almost reached the gate when the coughing resurfaced in a particularly bad bout, and he slid down the wall to a seated position while his body convulsed.
The Doctor waited patiently as the Master made his way to the gate. He tried to appear more neutral, and less concerned. Could he really got this bad in just a day?
But when he fell to the ground all reasoning went with him.
The Doctor released the bag and moved towards the padlock, eyeing him as he fiddled to turn the lock flush, "Has it been like this all day?" He reached into his jacket, and only on the second attempt to retrieve the padlock key, did he realize how badly he was shaking.
The Master said nothing, concentrated on catching his breath. Then, almost imperceptible amidst the rest of his tremors, a quick shake of the head.
He froze for a moment watching him, "Alright." In one deliberate motion The Doctor turned the key into the lock, catching the chains before they fell and replacing them after he entered. He relocked the door, and slipped the key into his inside pocket.
The Master's head jerked up slightly at the sound of the key, and the chains. He kept his head down, well aware that he was missing his chance, and furious about it. Out of the corner of his eye he noted where the Doctor stowed the key. Observed, recorded, and filed away. If the idiot had just picked somewhere dry.
The Doctor stood there, as if stunned by something, a deer caught in headlamps unable to look away. Then just as suddenly as he froze there, he broke away picking up the quilt in his arms and carrying it over to the Master.
I am not going in there. So much for that.
The Master was finally starting to get it under control, and he shot a quick glance up, trying to keep track of the Doctor's movements. His breath caught again, this time in dismay, when he saw the blanket plodding towards him.
Unfortunately, his breath catching just sent him into a fresh fit of coughing again, although much shorter. He tried unsuccessfully to clear his throat, then leaned back against the wall, fixing one beady eye on the Doctor in an alert sort of malaise.
"Calm down, it's just a blanket," he spoke quietly. "If you don't want it, I'll gladly take it back," he crouched down near him, "but why don't you give it a try first, hmm?" The Doctor reached out and draped the quilt loosely over the Master's shoulder.
He didn't even think, just watched his arm move in a wide arc, knocking the Doctor's aside along with the blanket. His other hand reached for the Doctor's far shoulder, scrabbling wildly at the suit's fabric.
The Doctor reached a hand out and grabbed his shoulder back, gaining leverage from pushing his back into the wall. "Stop it... you're not even sick are you," his voice was low, rough, and still he heard it echo eerily off the grotto walls.
The Master struggled weakly in the Doctor's grasp, panicked and furious in equal measure. The key, the key in the suit, he silently screamed at his less than responsive body, but he'd run out of breath, and a wave of dizziness hit him. He closed his eyes, his hands relaxing. "I hate you," he informed the Doctor, nearly whispering.
The words drowned inside him and settled some place cold. It startled him how deep they cut, when the wound had settled there for centuries.
"I know you do," he whispered back. He relaxed his arm and let go.
The Master settled back against the wall again, swallowed, opened his eyes. "Good."
He was tired, sick, likely dehydrated, yes, yes, but the mind kept turning over like a perpetual motion machine. He had to fix this, had to get out. He couldn't stand the Doctor doting on him as if he were some orphaned chick. Wasn't this exactly the thing he'd tried to avoid?
The Doctor relaxed against his section of the wall, or at least what passed as relaxed in the closeness of such company. His breathing had slowed.
He didn't speak for several minutes, neither of them did. Instead he listened to the constant steady dripping. People found that comforting, like windchimes, or a trickling brook, he guessed. Though even that lacked solace now.
"I can stay here -- with you -- if you want." Which you don't.
He turned his head to the side and stared at him; left wavering from his offer.
The Master let out a short bark of laughter.
"A little late for that."
He tilted his head back and gazed up at the ceiling again, where the swans chased each other in circles. "White Swans. False enlightenment. Black Swans. Unpredictable, large impacts." He smiled a little, to himself, as if what he'd said meant anything.
"It's not," he spoke with earnest, turning his eyes upward to the ceiling as the Master continued to speak. Black and white swans.
"The swan's a symbol of solitude... do you ever feel that way? I mean -- before I locked you in here," he reached his hand down to the blanket, pulling it over the Master's knees.
"We could stay here... together. We don't even have to stay here, if I could trust you..." he let his voice fall silent.
Before I locked you in here. The Doctor said it so casually, so matter-of-fact. Of course, so had he. Once. More than once.
The tables have turned, turned, turned, and you're flat out of luck now.
The feeling of the blanket draping over him again just made him colder. He shivered, squeezed his eyes shut. "Too late," he repeated.
"What makes it too late?" he said quietly, dragging the blanket to cover more of him.
He swiveled his head down to look at the Doctor. "Don't do this," he warned him, but remained otherwise quite still. Frozen, even.
The Doctor stared heavily, searching his eyes over him, "Why not? What makes it too late?" he stopped the blanket half way down his chest, tucking him in tight at the sides.
Too much restriction. He was pinning him. Wrapping him.
Smoke, and long fingers. Paralyzed. Screaming.
"No!" The Master thrashed against the confines of the blanket, kicked it away. Kicked the Doctor away. Scrambled to his feet, firmly swallowed down the nausea, and staggered a few steps before clumsily stumbling over a loose rock outcropping and falling hard on his hands and knees.
The Doctor might have lost his balance, but backed by the wall he was up his feet effortlessly approaching him, hands outreached, "I'm sorry," he began again, soothingly, "I'm sorry."
He watched him fall, unable to catch him in time he knelt down beside him.
Not sorry enough. Never sorry enough.
The Master heaved in great breaths of damp air, hissed them out. "Don't touch me." His voice was laden with venom, tempered a little bit by the inevitable coughing that followed, several wet tearing sounds tacked onto the end of his warning.
The Doctor folded onto his knees near him, wanting so badly to rest a hand on his back. "I won't touch you," the assurance was strong in his voice, and he mentally drew himself back from his space.
He was so tired. So tired, and thirsty. But the Doctor was just going to watch him. And prod him. And drone on and on and on about "us" and "together forever" and "trust" and all manner of lies. He'd do everything, really, but be useful.
The Master realized for the first time, truly believed it-- that he might really die here. He fell backwards, scrambled away until his back found a wall.
The Doctor stayed where he was, sitting there, he rested his hands over his face, but quickly dropped them to his side for fear of letting his desperation take control. Even with the key he felt trapped here.
The Master drew his knees to his chest and hugged them like a child, watching the Doctor almost accusingly. The knots in his stomach shuddered, shortened his breath as they formed, in a rhythm all their own. And in his head, the so much more familiar rhythm marched on and on and on and on and on and it was so terrifying so comforting so terrible
you, you are these things Doctor it's you
He started to tap on his leg, still watching. Not really watching.
The Doctor stared across at him, wandering lost through his eyes to somewhere else. He swallowed hard, downing his quickening breath, feeling something pounding through him as he breathed in. He lowered his gaze down, and followed the rhythmic tapping bound to the beat of his own throbbing head.
"Do you hear it? Do you?" The Master sounded like he was discussing something far more ordinary, or pleasant, like the faint strain of a violin on a streetcorner. His eyes bore through the Doctor, his breath catching, the tapping continuing unabated.
He fixed viciously into him, feeling himself drop back from himself, and what remained was nothing. And the pounding, the pounding hammered on, fiercely, constant, soothing something deep inside. "I hear it," he breathed the words out, and lulled back into him.
The Master's eyes had a vacant, desperate look. "D'you see then? I could never be alone." He grinned, or grimaced. "I have them."
The Doctor nodded in some sort of understanding. He tried to turn his eyes away, but found himself incapable, sinking deeper into it.
"They didn't stop," the Master continued. "They never did, not once. No matter what." He fixated his eyes on the Doctor's, more himself now. "So don't try to convince me that there's still time. There never was." He swallowed, thinking of Malcassairo. "Not for me."
The Doctor breathed in deeply, casting his eyes to the ground, listening to him in speak. "I don't believe it. I don't believe there's nothing we can do, you've just given up," he looked back at him mournfully.
"We?" The Master abruptly stopped tapping and narrowed his eyes. His derisive, hissing spit of a laugh brought up another, deeper set cough. "There hasn't been a "we" in a very, very long time. All mythologizing aside, Doctor, I am simply not interested." He shot a glance at the bag, still curious despite himself.
"Even so, I still care," he followed his eyes to the bag, "would you prefer I didn't?"
"I fail to see much of a difference either way," he glowered.
The Doctor raised his head, clearing his throat, and managing a breathy 'okay', stood up from the ground. "Let me get you the sack," he moved over to the edge of the bars, snatching the bag and dragging it through.
The Master watched him retrieve the bag silently, ready to be disappointed. With the Doctor's current track record of helpfulness, there would probably be a toothbrush and a party hat inside.
He needed to be free. Unfettered. Couldn't he understand that? After running away his whole life, couldn't he recognize that in someone else?
After transferring it to the other side of the gate, the Doctor simply assisted it in gently falling to the ground. "There you go," he gave the Master a look back, moving to the door. "Oh," he turned back to him, reaching a hand inside his jacket, "is there anything you wanted? For dinner. Anything like that? Anything like -- that's not a key, or doesn't tick."
He felt something leaden sink to the bottom of his stomach that directly contradicted his previous words. He's leaving? He can't. Not again.
The Master simply gazed up at the Doctor, unable to form any words, although inside his thoughts looped crazily. don't go don't go don't go don't go don't leave me in the dark
The Doctor watched him for a long moment before attempting to encourage a reply, "Master?"
He squeezed the key once in his palm, looking for something to distract him, and finding nothing, "Anything for dinner? Honestly... I didn't know what to get you."
Dinner was the last thing on his mind. The last thing. He'd consider giving up on the universe and becoming a pacifist before he would be able to concentrate on what he wanted for dinner. He ducked his head down and squeezed his knees tighter to his chest, curling in a ball, quietly despairing and hating himself for it.
For the sake of forcing the conversation into idleness, dinner seemed like a safe distraction.
Maybe he was more easily distracted.
"What's the matter?" he stirred the key in his hand, slipping it into a pant pocket and walked toward him. He sounded troubled, and he was; he didn't like seeing him this way.
The Master squeezed his eyes shut, freezing at the sound of footsteps moving towards him, sure at any moment he was going to grab him. Maybe promise he wasn't going to let go, ever. This time. Or he'd go, now, quickly, trying to outpace his guilt. And maybe not come back, ever. It wasn't as if he didn't deserve it. He waited, terrified of either option.
What's the matter?
Nothing. Everything. Go. Don't.
The Doctor stopped near him, searching for a way to comfort him and coming up with nothing. He started to speak, swallowing his words down before they surfaced. And so he stood there, exhausted with himself.
"What do you want..."
Don't leave me here again.
He couldn't bring himself to say it. He just sat there, dumbly, a living statue. Well, except for the trembling, coursing through him in tiny waves.
"I don't know, so you've got to tell me," he lowered his voice and looked away, "everything I do seems to be wrong." He sat quietly down near him.
If you think locking someone in a damp cellar overnight constitutes 'being wrong,' then I suppose you have a point, Doctor. The Master's fear and shame were quickly converted into anger. This was emotional extortion. Psychological torture. His stubby nails, bitten to the quick, nonetheless dug into his thighs as he tried, rather unsuccessfully, to make himself so small he'd cease to take up physical space.
"You know what? Go. Stay. Do whatever the hell it is you need to do, but don't pretend for one instant that my vote makes a lick of difference to you." The words were rasped out of his mouth, lightning quick, before he could help it.
The Doctor was tapped out, exhausted, how could he make him understand that he can't hurt people, that the only reason he's here...
As a matter of fact... it does. But believe what you like. The second you can look me in the eye and tell me you won't go out of your way to kill people -- I'll gladly let you out.
What's the point?
He was almost glaring at him now, lost in his own thoughts of things he chose not to say, "Tell me what it is you want..."
"I want out!" he nearly screamed. "What do you think I want?!" It was true enough, would certainly solve most of his problems.
It could be like before, them just avoiding each other.
The Doctor stared back at him unflinching, trying to temper his anger with reasoning, "What are you going to do if I do?"
The Master huffed dismissively. "Not your problem."
Though he would never admit it, the Doctor's patience was wearing thin, and his narrow eyed glare was boarding on outright malice. "More destruction? Hasn't there been enough already?"
"Whose fault was that?" The Master swiveled his head a little and peeked an eye out. Yes, the Doctor was absolutely furious now. He felt a small thrill of excitement.
The Doctor said nothing. Something stirring inside him -- inwardly moving him towards the gate in a nauseating wave of dire urgency. His glare faded, turning wide-eyed and he faced him, until he had to look away.
"You did everything I expected of you. They all did." The Master continued to watch him with one eye. "You pretend you had no part in it. Trespassing into my home, WITH A GUN--" He paused to cough again. "If you hadn't been there at all, if you'd not opened that door. But you went in expecting the worst, and so that's what I gave you. The worst."
"I came alone," he looked at him, straightening his back against the wall, "I wanted to see you... if there was a worst -- I didn't care."
The Master blinked, relaxed his arms a little, and lifted his head quizzically, annoyed. "What do you care about, Doctor? Anything? Not their well being. Certainly not mine." He waved a weak hand around, indicating the grotto.
"I don't know what else to do," he spoke quietly, it sounded more like a confession than an admittance.
The Master sneered. "If this is the best you could come up with, you've changed. And not for the better, in case that wasn't pointed out clearly enough." His voice had gradually taken on a husky quality. It was starting to hurt to talk, but what did he care? He'd spent decades in pain, watched himself fall apart, congeal. Rot off. The only thing that had mattered then, and now, was how angry it all made him.
And it's all your fault. He closed his eyes.
The Doctor raised his head slightly, accepting the blow. It didn't hurt like it should have, too much of him knew it was true -- acknowledged it even. He sat quietly for a moment. Watching him. Imagining him sitting there in peace. It was easier with his eyes closed, and he could almost see it there in abstract. The more he looked however, the more he saw, the more the delusion wasted away; leaving something too painful to settle on for very long.
He cleared his throat softly, running his fingertips through his hair, "What would you do? What would you do with you?"
He smirked, keeping his eyes closed, although the question bothered him. The Doctor admitting he was wrong. The Doctor asking him what to do with himself? "You're asking my advice?"
"Yes."
The Master leaned back, bewildered. What did he expect him to say? "Are you speaking of a scenario in which I'm desperately following myself around to selfishly assuage my own guilt, and continually being given the slip, or something else?"
The Doctor put his head down into his hands, and if that weren't enough of an escape, closed his eyes tight. Yes that's exactly it. He raised his head again, rubbing his eyes as if that were his only reason for bowing out. "Nevermind." Just nevermind.
"Oh, you're no fun anymore," he murmured. The chamber was getting darker, and the first real chill of the evening was setting in. He hugged his knees close again, shivering in earnest now.
Yep.
The Doctor pulled his knees up, rubbing them down for warmth, "Want that blanket now?"
The Master sat there in stony silence until the cold was past unbearable, then nodded quickly, disgusted with himself.
"Alright." The Doctor rose to his feet, retrieving the blanket quickly and bunching it up in his arms. "This really was a pain to carry... I nearly died at least four times tripping over it." He sat back down near him, smiling a little, he placed the blanket between them for him to take.
The Master shot him a quick look, a little horrified at his choice of words, as he pulled the blanket towards himself. It was quite damp now, and he shivered violently even as he pulled it tightly around his shoulders. Then he sniffed a little, wrinkled his nose. "It smells like horse."
"Does it?" he looked towards him, drawing his knees back to his chest and nudging the remainder of the blanket in his direction. "Could get you another."
Whenever the Doctor hinted at bringing him more "supplies," the Master felt a tiny twitch of apprehension. Again, he wondered if the Doctor really considered this a permanent solution.
Not that he planned on staying any longer than he had to. At this point, he might even be willing to trust Sam not to bungle a rescue attempt. He nodded towards the bag, a little encouraged by the added warmth of the blanket. "What's in it?"
The Doctor turned his eyes slowly to the bag, as if he'd forgotten it completely, "Oh," he looked back at the Master, "I brought you grapes. And a book. And scotch. Because I know how you like scotch. It was hard to find -- the scotch, surprising, really." He wasn't trying to make the Master feel grateful for his apparent exhausting search for a specific variety of alcohol, he wasn't even that surprised... he just didn't know what else to say.
The Master's eyes glittered a little, and his parched throat ached, at the mention of the scotch. But, "I see" was all he said.
So, not entirely useless after all. Still, how was he meant to read a book in the dark?
"Yeah. so..." he tried nodding the rest of the words before continuing, "you want it, then? Or maybe you should eat something first. I mean... other than grapes."
The Master shook his head. "Need a drink." It took him three tries to croak it out. "Now."
"If you're sure..."
The Doctor watched him as he rose, turning away quickly to recover the sack. He peered in, unable to see very much, he reached in for the bottom where the heavy glass bottle had settled. The bottle was labeled obscurely, and other than container type and color, the Doctor realized he wasn't even sure this was Scotch -- or at least wasn't sure if it was from Scotland. He grabbed the plain white coffee mug out, anyway, and poured half a glass filled, attentively securing the top back on. He swirled it carefully around, for palatableness, and farther examination. When that didn't satisfy him of the precise nature of the carmel colored liquid, he dipped a finger in and sucked it clean.
It's Scotch. I mean -- not bad. ...Good Scotch, " he mumbled, removing his finger from his mouth. He grabbed one last thing from the sack, a bag of plump purple grapes, and returned back to the Master with the bottle and mug in his arms.
The Master stretched out his hands eagerly for the mug, willing them not to shake (but they still did, a little). With the blanket around his shoulders and his haggard, sunken-eyed appearance he probably looked like one of those street beggars in London. The ones nobody missed when they just up and disappeared....
And now he was at the Doctor's mercy.
The Doctor sat back down near him with a sigh, extending the coffee mug out to him, "Here you are." He forced out a smile, setting the bottle and grapes between them.
He grabbed for the cup, nearly dropping it between them, and some of the liquid sloshed out onto their hands. He took a tentative sip, swallowed carefully. The back of his throat tingled and warmth flooded through him; he imagined its epidermal cells swelling up gratefully and crying out in relief. Encouraged, the Master took larger sips, which became hurried gulps, and in a matter of seconds the cup was empty.
And almost immediately, he was on his hands and knees again, retching it back up.
The Doctor winced, his recoil increasing the more the Master drunk, until turning away from him completely. "I told you... you got to eat something first," he reached around him to rest a hand gently onto his back, and then freezing in mid-air, he pulled away; standing up quickly. Digging his hands into his pockets, he looked down at him, bewildered as to what to do next.
He stood there.
The Master remained hunched over, head hanging, gulping in shallow breaths of air, since the deeper ones would just set him off coughing again. And coughing led to more retching, he was certain.
Fine. You were right. As always. Happy?
"Yep," the Doctor responded briskly, hovering over him.
The Master sat back, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve regretfully-- he'd have to get that laundered.
When he got out of here.
He stared sidelong up at the Doctor as he gathered the blanket around himself again. "Glad to oblige, then." He reached for the grapes.
The Doctor opened his mouth, taking a few swallows to form the words, "Right -- well... why don't you tell me how you're feeling?"
He reached down deftly, swiping the grapes away from him, "Annnnd... we can go sit somewhere a little less -- Scotchy." He plucked a grape off and tossed it in his mouth.
He watched the grapes move away from him with something very like horrified indignation. "How I'm... feeling? I dunno, how does it look?" He gave the Doctor a hard stare that didn't at all match his barely-there whisper, defiantly tucking the blankets around himself further.
He chewed on the grape, licking his lips quickly before responding, "You don't look well. I don't like keeping you here. Maybe you could come home with me, after while," he took a step towards him, shifting the grapes to his chest and extending a hand, "come on. I'll clean this up."
The Master leaned away from him, pressing his back into the wall. "I'm not going anywhere with you," he hissed. I'm not a stray dog, Doctor, that you can just quixotically decide you want to keep.
"Not right now. Just -- it's something to think about it," he held his hand out still, reaching his fingertips towards him, "take my hand, it's okay. I'll help you up. Just take my hand."
The Master looked at the proffered hand as if it were attached to a leper. "I don't think so. I can manage without your 'help'." He began to pull himself up slowly, clinging to the wall's various juts of stone. He'd almost made it to his feet, unassisted, when another wave of dizziness hit him and he suddenly found himself falling forward, the wet stones slipping past his fingers.
"Fine then," he dug into the bag, reaching for an especially private grape. He watched the Master pull himself up slowly, inwardly frowning. Well, that wasn't so bad.
The Doctor twisted the grape off and tossed it in his mouth; the bag sliding through his fingers, as he found himself rocking forward; catching the Master in his arms. He swallowed the grape hard, "...you okay?"
The Master blinked as his fall was suddenly arrested. He'd expected to have hit the ground by now. Microseconds later he felt arms around him, and looked up into the Doctor's concerned face.
Oh. He shuddered a little, remembering what it was like the last time this had happened. One stupid, insignificant bullet wound. "I'm fine," he insisted, struggling against his grip half-heartedly.
"You're not fine," the Doctor held him tightly, forcing the Master's arm around his own shoulders to support him. "You can hate this, and you can hate me, and you can hate -- well -- I'm sure you can hate a lot of things, but let's do it over there, alright?" he stared down at him, smiling to comfort him.
He closed his eyes tightly as the Doctor moved his arm, appreciating and not appreciating the gentle concern. He took a shuddering breath and opened them again, studiously avoiding looking at the Doctor, and leaned into him a little more in silent acquiescence.
The Doctor breathed deeply, calmed by their brief moment of shared sentiment. Even if it were just in participation to move a few paces across a room. He walked him vigilantly to the adjacent wall, to a particular dry patch of cave; taking his time to make sure the Master was reasonably comfortable with every step.
"This looks good -- dryer anyway," he began pulling away slowly, keeping a hand on the small of his back to steady him before letting go entirely.
The Master sank to the ground gracelessly. Cooperating with the Doctor had once been such a guilty pleasure, but now...
You stuck me in a cave. Frankly, now it just felt like giving up. You took everything. And he was supposed to be grateful?
He glared up at the Doctor, and his grapes. Planning on sharing any of those, or were they brought expressly to torture me?
The Doctor was off, jogging back across the cave, skidding to a stop for having moved too quickly in too small of area. He prepared the blanket for it's brief journey by folding it haphazardly in a drooping heap. The grapes were easier, and the Scotch, well, he ignored the Scotch for now. He started back across the cave at the same rushed pace, dragging the blanket around him and --
Tripping badly over it, forcing himself forward into a hard stumble. "Whoooa there! See! Five times now!" he smiled proudly, dropping the bulk of the blanket on top the Master's head.
The shock of the sudden weight pitched his head forward and jarred the Master out of his sullen thoughts. Half his breath whooshed out of him; the rest caught in surprise, and triggered more coughing. He braced a hand on either side for support and sat there, folded over and half-covered, unable to focus on anything else at the moment but his body's fruitless attempts to expel whatever was down there brewing in his lungs.
The Doctor's breath picked up suddenly, horrified with the situation, but unable to focus on a direct solution.
Probably -- probably should pick that off him.
"Sorry!" he scrambled to drag the blanket off, kneeling down in front of him, "Sorry... sorry, I'm really -- sorry." He bent down, trying to look under him, to see his face. "...sorry."
The Master's hands clenched, his fingers curling into the crevices in the floor, and he raised his head a little, his eyes flicking to the Doctor's own.
STOP IT.
The Doctor rocked back from his knees and sat down, "Okay, sor -- " he choked on the word, turning his eyes away from him to finish, " -- soooo... I'll just -- you know -- notdoanythingelseeveragain."
SORRY!
One could only hope. The Master swallowed, then immediately swallowed again at the pain of it-- which, on second thought, was pretty stupid-- and sat back, keeping a watchful eye on the Doctor.
The Doctor pushed himself back against the wall, tossing the bag of grapes into the Master's lap. "Here."
He really couldn't stop throwing things at him.
He blinked at the newly arrived package in his lap, wondering why the Doctor had suddenly decided it was a great time to just start jovially tossing objects towards him. Had he encouraged this behavior somehow? Had the Doctor forgotten they weren't in Academy anymore? Had the Doctor forgotten the Master was about two steps away from bludgeoning him with a rock?
After about two seconds he decided he simply didn't care, and he had popped one of the grapes into his mouth. He leaned his head back, concentrating on chewing slowly. It wouldn't do to sick this up, not when he needed the liquid so badly.
The Doctor sat there silently, stretching out his legs and banishing his hands into his pockets. Keep your hands to yourself. He looked over at the Master, watching him chew slowly around the grape.
Boy, he's really taking his time with that. His hand left his pocket, and he reached into the Master's lap; plucking a grape from the bag. He eyed him cautiously, placing the grape on his tongue and chewing slowly.
Nope... still tastes the same.
The Master finished up with the first grape, finding it infinitesimally easier to swallow the skin now. He reached for a second one, pausing with it halfway to his mouth as he realized the Doctor was also slowly chewing, at something of a glacial rate, and staring at him. Under normal circumstances he might have cleared his throat. As it was...
Think you're clever, do you? He popped the second grape in and chewed a little more viciously.
The Doctor raised an eyebrow, reached into the bag and grabbed a handful of grapes, "You know..." He put one in his mouth, suddenly turning a cold sober, "I'm really glad you're alive. I was pretty upset when you died and... all I wanted was for you to come back."
He paused in thought, not really meaning to go on, and unsure of admittance -- especially so directly and to him. But as blunt as he made it sound, and as difficult as it was to say; it felt good.
And how lucky I am to be able to say it at all.
The Master stopped mid-chew, nearly choking on the juice of the grape. He looked at the Doctor, his expression carefully neutral though the bald confessions were beginning to worry him a bit. This was definitely a switch. How many times had they tried to kill each other, before?
The Time War, he supposed. It had certainly changed his own priorities. Hadn't turned him quite this desperate, though.
How fortunate for you, then. It was easier to float the thoughts over his barricade, like smoke signals on ancient Earth, than to speak. Far easier. He started in on another grape, encouraged he'd managed to keep them down so far.
The Doctor stuffed the rest of the grapes into his mouth, wanting to dispose of the burden of holding them, and in some subconscious way, the ever so unsettling restraint of immobility they caused -- should he need to move away. He shifted slightly, tempted to get up, but unable to find a cause for doing so. He had felt comforted, some place deep inside him, just being near him. The weight of it was heavy, and he could feel its pressure leveling him.
Whatever that weight was, that unending pressure, was -- in a way -- identical to the feelings hovering just below the surface; the feelings that normally existed just for show. The ones he acted upon. But it was different now, there was too much balance. These things, these thoughts, they're too apparent -- too shallow -- I've got to stop talking.
He shifted again, dragging a knee to his chest. His comfort was breaking down, giving way to reality. The truth in his feelings weren't enough, there was something else, something in-between -- something hollow.
Four grapes seemed like enough for now. The Master resettled the blanket around himself, almost moodily, trying his best to ignore the Doctor's presence. His obvious discomfort. None of his business.
The Doctor stared straight ahead at the wall, shifting unpleasantly ever so often. Hours passed, and it became apparent that he was incapable of winding down. He took a look over at the Master after spending so much of that time avoiding his presence.
He was sleeping.
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