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Characters: Doctor (Ten), Master (closed)
Rating: PG
Date: Begins a few days after this, and with any luck catches up to the present
Location: Grotto of the Damned
He'd been dreaming of Gallifrey again. Not the last time he'd seen it, half-burning, the Citadel destroyed, all the things he'd told himself he hated smashed and dying. More the idyllic version, for which he was almost sorry.
Almost.
It was the blanket, really. It did smell a bit of horse, it was true, but his show of disgust had been a misdirect. Really, wrapped in the blanket, it smelled more like him than anything. Overpoweringly so, the Doctor's essence imprinted there, encoded by scent. A memory.
While awake he spent the majority of his time trying to pretend the Doctor did not exist-- which was difficult considering he apparently had decided that if the Master would not go to him, he would go to the Master, and to that end had had taken it upon himself to actually, preposterously, "move in." But, as often is the case, when the Master slept his own dreams betrayed him.
And he'd been sleeping an awful lot. Definitely above and beyond the normal requirements for a Time Lord. The Doctor seemed to think it was good for him, "restorative sleep," he called it, but privately the Master figured it was his only chance for escape. And here he was ruining it dreaming about him anyway. And so for a time he was young and hopeful and maybe even maybe a tiny bit enamored, even, and he'd count stars while they lay on their backs together in the fields and he'd plot out in his head all the places they'd find together, find and set right, together. And then he'd wake up and remember, everything flooding back as if it were happening for the first time, just as surely as when he'd woken up from longer, darker intervals, with a small stinging barb in his chest.
A small rumble, hysterical laughter. The man who was not quite the Master yet sat up in the field, as his companion chattered on. The smell of smoke, burning, blood, flesh, commingled in the air, and something bright, almost mistakable for a sunrise, lightened the sky's horizon.
The Citadel was on fire. And in the distance, and in the very back of his mind, above the Doctor's incessant prattle, he could hear the cold, mechanical, eternally angry screams. They were coming.
The Master jolted back into consciousness, his hearts pounding, aching, thinking daleks war hide human gallifrey TARDIS cruciform utopia YOU LEFT ME
And then he felt it, almost a nothing, almost, but...
there.
He hadn't dreamt the rumbling.
( i could go on and on. it just gets worse. )
Rating: PG
Date: Begins a few days after this, and with any luck catches up to the present
Location: Grotto of the Damned
He'd been dreaming of Gallifrey again. Not the last time he'd seen it, half-burning, the Citadel destroyed, all the things he'd told himself he hated smashed and dying. More the idyllic version, for which he was almost sorry.
Almost.
It was the blanket, really. It did smell a bit of horse, it was true, but his show of disgust had been a misdirect. Really, wrapped in the blanket, it smelled more like him than anything. Overpoweringly so, the Doctor's essence imprinted there, encoded by scent. A memory.
While awake he spent the majority of his time trying to pretend the Doctor did not exist-- which was difficult considering he apparently had decided that if the Master would not go to him, he would go to the Master, and to that end had had taken it upon himself to actually, preposterously, "move in." But, as often is the case, when the Master slept his own dreams betrayed him.
And he'd been sleeping an awful lot. Definitely above and beyond the normal requirements for a Time Lord. The Doctor seemed to think it was good for him, "restorative sleep," he called it, but privately the Master figured it was his only chance for escape. And here he was ruining it dreaming about him anyway. And so for a time he was young and hopeful and maybe even maybe a tiny bit enamored, even, and he'd count stars while they lay on their backs together in the fields and he'd plot out in his head all the places they'd find together, find and set right, together. And then he'd wake up and remember, everything flooding back as if it were happening for the first time, just as surely as when he'd woken up from longer, darker intervals, with a small stinging barb in his chest.
A small rumble, hysterical laughter. The man who was not quite the Master yet sat up in the field, as his companion chattered on. The smell of smoke, burning, blood, flesh, commingled in the air, and something bright, almost mistakable for a sunrise, lightened the sky's horizon.
The Citadel was on fire. And in the distance, and in the very back of his mind, above the Doctor's incessant prattle, he could hear the cold, mechanical, eternally angry screams. They were coming.
The Master jolted back into consciousness, his hearts pounding, aching, thinking daleks war hide human gallifrey TARDIS cruciform utopia YOU LEFT ME
And then he felt it, almost a nothing, almost, but...
there.
He hadn't dreamt the rumbling.
( i could go on and on. it just gets worse. )
