amyross

TW S3: "Day One" Episode Review

Tue, 07 Jul 2009 16:52:33 GMT

Thoughts on Day One:

Reactions to odd moments; may not be chronological:

1) Wasn’t there a Season 1 episode with the same name?

2) Aargh! I missed the whole flashback at the beginning. Despite all the insane promos, I completely forgot we were on BBC1 now.

3) Clearly the writers are more conscious than I of the BBC1 move, and anticipating new viewers. Plenty of outdoor shots to establish setting, and Jack and Ianto may as well be wearing “I’m with stupid” t-shirts. Or something cuter. And less subtle. Seriously, they could have “we are in an established but poorly-defined relationship” tattooed on their foreheads. Bits are coming off cute, but sometimes it feels a bit forced and unnatural

4) Were the writers jerking the shippers’ chains a bit there: We live next door?

5) There’s something distinctly un-Torchwood about all this. Too much daylight, perhaps?

6) Ah, the great coupledom issue. This is what happens when you spend too much time above ground.

7) Who’s this new woman working for Torchwood? She’s smart, efficient, funny, practical, sensitive, well-dressed … holy hell, it’s Gwen! Wow. Bereavement must agree with her.

8) Yay for Rhys! I really, really hope he’s not being set up for joining TW. He’s much better off where he is.

9) Blah blah blah: corrupt, inefficient, lying government. So what else is new? Am I supposed to be surprised?

10) Wait. Stop. Hold it. I thought the new Indian doctor-guy was supposed to be a major character. He didn’t even make it through the first episode. Is he going to somehow come back?

11) Okay, okay I was spoiled about Jack’s daughter. Call me shallow, I thought she’d be prettier. Or more glamorous. Or more charming? *shrug*

12) Ianto’s family: I’ve been looking forward to this. Hee! Awesome. I wonder where this sets the whole canon/fanon ‘debate’ over his background. I don’t think most people would’ve guessed council estate.

13) Was also spoiled about Gwen’s pregnancy, but loved the reveal. Aw, totally sweet Jack and Ianto reaction, too. Very cool.

14) On a related note, Clem is awesome. But the sniffing thing is reminding me of the Family of Blood from DW. All he needs is a red balloon.

15) So at what point did you realise Jack had a bomb in his stomach: A) The moment they cut him open? B) When they disappeared and covered their tracks? C) When the Kill order went out? D) When it showed up on the scan? I bet you’re all dead clever. Me, I didn’t work it out till between C and D.

Okay, so more well-formed thoughts now:

First things first: I loved it. It’s been off the air so long I’d forgotten how overinvested in this show I can get. But seriously, that was the quickest an hour as gone in a long time.

(Side note: Each of the episodes this week is a full hour, right? So it’s more than just five ordinary episodes in length. A normal episode in a regular season is only between 40 and 50 minutes. A full hour felt fantastic!)

Yep, loved it. It’s got the makings of a very good story, with all the best TW action, and humour. And heaven help me if I didn’t miss these characters like actual family members.

I’ve been reading the discussion on Janto with interest. The introductory stuff felt very ‘signpost-y’, like it was for the benefit of new viewers. But the rest of it was pretty damn good. Maybe I’m crazy, but I interpreted their ‘couple’ debate as Ianto being reluctant, initially, and Jack not understanding the fuss. And then there was the whole “I hate the word couple” “Me too (but I’m totally lying)” thing that seemed completely the other way around. The second one was much more obvious, so that seemed to be the way the episode was interpreted. Me, I was actually quite happy with that: neither of them know exactly where it is they stand, or how to define what they have … or, what the other one is thinking, even if it’s exactly the same thing. I like it.

Similarly, I liked the “ugly dog joking about death” thing. Seriously. It seems to me that in their situation, where one can’t die, how do you deal with it? By making wildly inappropriate jokes about it, like your average pigheaded man. Fair enough. Neither of them seemed bothered. Except, in a way, with one stupid joke they spat in the face of the main source of angst in this fandom. Angst which actually produces pretty good fic. But never mind.

I know some people didn’t like the scene with Ianto and his family. Probably not in Janto fandom, but still. Again, I really liked it. You didn’t like the brother in law? I don’t think you were meant to. His sister wasn’t politically correct? Did you see where she was living? She wasn’t hostile, or even particularly slow to understand. The only thing I didn’t necessarily love was the whole “it’s not men, it’s him” thing, the whole idea of which just seemed a bit off to me, but I’m more willing to accept it in sci-fi.

Can’t wait to see what comes next. I can’t believe they’re showing it every night. I’ve barely had chance to recover! I think I’ll be suffering with nervous exhaustion by the weekend :D

Fi: Clear Blue Sky (30/55)

Mon, 24 Nov 2008 07:39:42 GMT

Title: Clear Blue Sky
Chapter: Thirty
Characters/pairings: Jack/Ianto, Ten
Warnings/spoilers/disclaimers: None, none, and not mine.
Author's Note: Just a short chapter before the mad next part begins *g*
Summary: Back on board the Tardis, Ianto wonders about their hasty exit and chooses where he wants to go next.

Chapter Thirty

Chapter One

Report of the Whistle-Stop Road Trip

Sat, 23 Aug 2008 17:46:38 GMT

Las Vegas: Awesome. I don't care what anyone says, when you work in a tiny village in the north of England, Las Vegas is exciting. We stayed at Caesars Palace, and it was fab. I lost a grand total of $5 playing the slots - last of the big spenders, me. Had some great meals, including some particularly good breakfasts, although despite living two years in the States I still can't help being a little grossed out when someone gives me eggs and syrup on the same plate.

I embarrassed several people in my family by buying an outsize cowboy hat and wearing it at every opportunity. Like the things they wear don't embarrass me.

Went to the Grand Canyon: highlight of the trip. Flew this tiny, 8-seater Cessna out to the Grand Canyon (certain people in my party were very green around the gills on the flight - I can't take them anywhere) and after a quick tour, got a helicopter ride to the bottom of the canyon. That was my first time in a helicopter, and it was amazing. We were supposed to get a riverboat ride, but the heavens opened and they weren't prepared to risk it.

San Antonio: Loved it. It was cooler than Vegas but much more humid, and my dad and I got mosquitoed to pieces. We had a contest as to who got the most bites. I won, 23-16. It was a painful victory. For some reason, we're the only ones in the family who get bitten. Stayed at a lovely B&B, with really fantastic breakfasts (yes, I pretty much judge a holiday by the quality of the food). It's a really nice town; makes me wonder why no-one back here has heard of it. Everyone I mentioned San Antonio to thought I was going to Ibiza.

Took my family to their very first baseball game: San Antonio Missions versus Arkansas Travelers. I was surprised how much they enjoyed it, even if I spent most of the time explaining the rules.

St. Louis: Okay, so when I was ten I saw a picture of the Gateway Arch and ever since, I've wanted to go to St. Louis. It was really great, but we didn't have enough time there. I thought my mother was going to have a heart attack when she saw the little pods you have to ride to the top of the arch.

Went to Six Flags the second day. That Mr. Freeze ride is awesome. As is the new Evel Knievel coaster. I lost my sunglasses on that one.

We had the best food of the trip here. I'd never been in a restaurant that specialises in chocolate before, but I can only hope it catches on in England.

Nashville: Again, nowhere near enough time. I loved it, and could've spent a week there. My family indulged me with a trip around the Country Music Museum. And, again, amazing food.

We drove from St. Louis to Nashville, after picking up a car at St. Louis airport. We got a bit of a surprise when the shuttle dropped us off in front of a lot filled with SUVs and just told us to pick one. Does that happen a lot?

Smoky Mountains: This was where we really, really needed more time. We wanted to go tubing, rafting, riding, and my dad really, really wanted to ride the train. But we didn't have time for any of it. It was really just a stop-off on our way from Nashville to North Carolina. Still, it was really beautiful, and I'd love to go back some day.

We spent the last part of the trip with friends, and it was lovely. I got to drive a boat, and my dad saw some rare birds he's always wanted to see.

The only major hiccup came at 10:45 on the last day, during the drive to Charlotte airport, when we suddenly discovered that our flight to Chicago, where we would pick up the plane back to Manchester, was not at 14:25, but actually at 11:50. Whoops! I've never seen certain people run so fast, and especially not through an airport. We dashed into the last available seats on the plane, praying that our luggage had also made it.

Overall, a fantastic experience, and even though they still drive me crazy at times, it was nice to spend some quality time with my family. Exhausted, though!

Fic: Unthinkable?

Sun, 06 Jul 2008 12:21:58 GMT

Everyone’s gone, now. It’s quiet, so quiet. The Doctor faces the empty Tardis and only wishes it were for the first time.

Sarah Jane was right. He might be lonely, but he’s not alone. When it counts – when it really counts – he can call on some of the best, most brilliant people in the world. Today, if nothing else, has taught him that. But what of the moments when the universe isn’t ending? Today has also shown him that when the crisis is over, his friends – his family – will need their own worlds, their own lives. And after all they’ve given for him, he can’t even suggest that they deny themselves that.

So now, he’s alone again. A selfish, childlike voice in his head wonders, couldn’t one of them have stayed? Just one? Just for a while?

But who? Rose is back in her parallel world, and he senses that now, at last, their paths have finally parted.

Martha … he hopes Martha knows how much he appreciates all she has done. He turned her life on its head, and she never complained. She faced the end of the world, alone … and even now, she continues the fight, dedicatedly, in any way she can. He’s aware that he’s never once shown his appreciation, but … maybe she knows. And the least he can do is let her carve out her own life, find her own way.

Sarah Jane … oh, it was good to see her again. Still strong, still resilient, still cheerful … still saving the world. And she has a son, now. He didn’t doubt that she’d be a wonderful mother, and she deserved every bit of happiness.

In the seconds before they’d parted, he’d considered asking Mickey to stay. Everyone else was leaving, heading back to jobs, families … purposes. Mickey had looked a bit lost, in comparison; a bit directionless. But the last thing he’d needed was more wandering, more danger, more upheaval. He’d finally chosen which world he wanted; now, he had to live in it for a little while.

Which left … Jack. There was a time when he’d thought Jack would travel with him forever. He had a raw strength, coupled with a love of adventure and discovery, that made him perfect for the life. Then Jack lost the ability to die and, once the Doctor recovered from the horror of that situation, he’d wondered if he’d finally found a companion who wouldn’t leave him, who wouldn’t get old or get tired or get killed. But, much to his surprise, Jack had chosen to return to Cardiff, to the ‘new’ Torchwood. Mourning the loss of the Master, and then caught up with the Titanic, the Doctor hadn’t given it much thought.

This time, he hadn’t even hoped that Jack would stay. Something about him had changed … something was subtly different. He’d discovered that Jack had just lost two member s of his team … two dear friends. He’d been able to perceive the sense of love and sadness surrounding the man, and yet –

Much more so than the last time they’d met, Jack seemed happy. He’d always been an upbeat, cheerful sort of chap, but this went deeper … there was, about him, an air of peace, and contentment, that seemed remarkable in its very presence.

Something else about his friend had seemed odd, though it had taken him a while to realise what it was. Donna, bless her, had flirted outrageously with the Captain, as seemed to be the reflex of … well, of just about anyone with working senses. Jack obviously still enjoyed the attention, and clearly still possessed that easy charm, but he’d been friendly rather than flirtatious in response.

Come to think of it, Jack had rather seemed to be on his best behaviour. Put the two and two together … the Doctor’s jaw dropped, his eyes open wide. He leaned into the screen on the Tardis console and zoomed in. Earth … Great Britain … Wales … Cardiff. He stared at the map in fascination.

Humans … they really were amazing. They stood and they fought and they faced monsters, they adapted and evolved and survived at the end of the universe. And one of them, one of them down there, in that city … one of them had made Captain Jack Harkness happy. Happy to stay, to settle in one place, to be with one person. Imagine that.

That must be quite a human. He wouldn’t mind meeting that person. His hands hovered over the console for a moment, toying with the idea of setting the co-ordinates for Cardiff.

Ficlet Four

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 10:23:18 GMT

Jack rushed forwards through the underground tunnel where he’d been hunting Weevils, trying to find his way out of the maze. He fought the small inner voice that urged him to panic.

He knew Ianto had made it out. It had just been the two of them; an evening together under the pretence of Weevil hunting had turned into actual Weevil hunting when Toshiko had called them, after finding evidence that the Weevil sightings, disappearances and the discovery of this subterranean prison were indeed connected.

Ianto had located the woman with the baby who’d disappeared and got them both to the surface. Jack had been following behind, watching their backs, but then he’d heard a roar further back in the tunnel. Unable to leave the thing, he’d doubled back. He’d killed the thing – he’d had to – but now he was lost. Trapped. The exit had disappeared.

Something caught his attention; something so small he wasn’t even sure, in the first few moments, which of his senses had been alerted. Had something moved? Was there a flash of light? Or a noise? Yes, it was noise. He paused, listening intently, neither blinking nor breathing, cursing the fact that his heartbeat in his chest was so loud. And then he heard it again.

It wasn’t a threatening sound. It sounded … wary. Not quite frightened. He wasn’t stupid. When he was younger, when he first returned to Earth in the middle of the nineteenth century, he’d been taken in by the seemingly innocent cries coming out of the darkness, and paid for his naivety with several painful deaths. By now he knew that anyone who was truly afraid would fear him, at first. It was a trick used by sly and cunning enemies, and the one he despised the most.

It was a breathing sound, as if a sob was being stifled. He couldn’t quite identify the source, but if he had to guess, he would’ve said it sounded human. Taking a deep breath he turned a sharp corner, ready to fight, expecting to fight. At eye level the room appeared to be empty, but when he looked down he saw an old man, half sitting, half lying on the floor, clutching his side.

He rushed over to the man, still cautious, but no longer braced for combat. He saw the man look at him slowly, familiar confusion in his eyes. People never knew what to make of Jack at first; comfortable and familiar in a strange world, subtly but clearly out of place. Oh, and more drop-dead-gorgeous than any person had the right to be. Some people trusted him, and deferred to him. Others were suspicious and afraid.

Thankfully, this man fell in the first category. He allowed Jack to check his injuries, and told him his name, and how he had been hurt. His injuries didn’t seem to be too bad, but he was clearly in pain, and Jack wanted him out of there. But without leaving him, all he could do was make the man comfortable and wait for his team.

Suddenly, he remembered a vial of alien painkiller he’d slipped into his wallet as an anti-torture precaution. Owen had assured him that it was ten times as powerful as anything on Earth and completely free of side effects. It would be wrong to administer it without Owen there to give him the green light, but … what the hell. The man had been through enough.

He reached into his inside pocket for his wallet, but as he attempted to remove the tiny top from the vial he let his wallet fall to the floor, open. The man picked it up and looked at it with interest.

“Who’s that?”

Jack froze, vaguely horror-stricken. The photo he carried in his wallet was an absolute secret. Sure, he kept photographs and mementos of old friends and lovers in his office at the Hub, but there was only one he carried around with him.

He took the photograph from the man gently, and ran his fingertips across it. “That’s Ianto.”

“And who’s he?”

“He’s … he’s probably going to be here any minute. He works with me.”

“Son, I never carried around pictures of the lads I worked with!”

Chuckling slightly at being called “son”, he folded his wallet up and slid it back into his pocket. “Well, this one’s special.”

He patted the pocket of his coat, smiled to himself, and returned his attention to the old man, knowing that help was on the way.

Ficlet Three

Sun, 01 Jun 2008 10:17:07 GMT

It’s a rare and magical occasion, a seemingly impossible confluence of a sunny Cardiff and an almost suspiciously quiet Rift. The amazement had affected Jack so profoundly that he’d given the entire team the day off. Owen, Gwen and Toshiko had wondered, briefly, if their boss was feeling all right, but understandably hadn’t hung around long enough to ask. Only Ianto had remained in the Hub, tidying. He seemed happy enough, enjoying the peace and listening to Jack singing to himself.

He didn’t notice Jack sneaking up behind him until he wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his chin on Ianto’s shoulder. “Come on, gorgeous. Come for a walk in the sun.”

Knowing it was useless to resist, he let Jack lead him up to the streets above.

It was indeed a beautiful day. Ianto had grown up in Cardiff, and had seen all the changes and improvements of recent years, and whilst he missed certain things about the city, he had to admit it was better these days. His home city looked beautiful, almost glamorous, in the bright sunlight.

** ** **

Jack was in an exceptionally good mood, laughing and joking and feeling better than he had in months. It was warm and sunny, the Rift was silent, he was no longer merely passing time and waiting for the Doctor … and he was with Ianto. The promise of days like these had sustained him through some dark moments in a year few people remembered.

He would’ve liked to have taken Ianto’s hand, and possibly engaged in a few naughtier public displays of affection, but he deferred to Ianto’s more modest sensibilities – more modest in public, anyway – and contented himself with fleeting, seemingly accidental touches when no-one was looking.

They wandered into a park, filled with laughing, happy people. Jack, lost in his own world, suddenly realised that Ianto was no longer at his side. He spun around and saw he was standing a few paces back, a vague horror-stricken expression on his face, and two small children wrapped around his legs. A woman, sitting on a blanket on the grass, was waving at him. The children ran off towards her.

Jack walked back over to Ianto and whispered in his ear. “Who’re they?”

Ianto groaned. “My family. My aunt Alison and her children.” He turned to Jack, wincing at the giddy expression on his face.

“Your family? I get to meet your family?”

“Apparently.”

Ianto’s aunt had got to her feet, brushing grass from her jeans. “Hello, Ianto! It’s been a long time. You’re still in Cardiff, then?”

“Yes. Morning, Alison. You look very well.”

She beamed at him, and then her gaze shifted to Jack, a slight question in her eyes.

“Right, yes. Sorry. Jack, this is my aunt Alison. Alison, this is Jack.”

Ianto’s aunt smiled and said hello, but it was clear her question hadn’t really been answered. Jack, meanwhile, was already ingratiating himself with Ianto’s niece and nephew. Ianto smiled; he’d seen this before. Jack was brilliant with children. And children loved Jack. Already they were laughing and giggling with him, and little Thomas had climbed halfway onto his shoulders. Eleven-year-old Megan was a little shyer, but quickly came around.

Ianto nodded at Jack, an amused grin on his face. “Off you go.” Jack instantly dashed away with the kids, and Ianto sat down on the blanket next to his aunt.

“So … who’s Jack? Or did you just let someone you hardly know run off with my kids?”

“He’s my boss.” Ianto wasn’t looking at her as he spoke; instead his eyes were following Jack as he chased around the grass with more energy than both of the children combined.

“Oh. I see. Sandwich?”

For a little while they talked about the weather and the family, and Ianto neatly evaded questions about his job. Eventually Alison went to retrieve the children and Jack returned, dropping down next to Ianto on the blanket, completely out of breath.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Ianto shot him a confused look. “Why would I want that?”

“You know … family time?”

He turned to face Jack directly. “That can include you, you know.”

Jack looked across to Ianto’s family and saw that all of them were looking in his direction. “They wonder, you know. About us.”

Ianto smiled and waved to his family. “Let them wonder.”

** ** **

Ficlet Two

Sat, 31 May 2008 23:34:11 GMT

The next time the Doctor had arrived in Cardiff, Jack hadn’t disappeared without so much as a backward glance, and he hadn’t wanted to. Martha Jones had arrived at Torchwood once more, insisting that the Doctor needed Jack’s help.

Gwen had been a little quiet, almost withdrawn, since the Flat Holm incident, so he left Torchwood in the tenuous dual command of Owen and Toshiko. Ianto accompanied him up to the Plass, within view of the TARDIS.

Facing him squarely, Jack took both of Ianto’s hands in his. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Ianto smiled and shook his head, squeezing Jack’s hands.

“Want to come with us?”

Ianto glanced over at the TARDIS and shook his head once more. “Don’t think so. Besides, someone had better stay here and make sure they don’t kill each other.”

Jack laughed quietly and pressed his forehead to Ianto’s. “Be good while I’m gone.”

A delicious, wicked grin lit Ianto’s face. “And what if I’m not?”

This time Jack laughed out loud, and finally detached his hands from Ianto’s. “I’ll see you soon. Hell, I might see you in twenty minutes, if the TARDIS is on usual form.” Bracing himself, he smiled once more then turned and walked away.

“Jack? Be careful?”

Jack spun on his heel, alarmed at the note of anxiety and vulnerability in Ianto’s voice. Ianto knew, of course, that there was precious little in Cardiff that could harm Jack for very long, but out there in the depths of time and space … well, who knew? He strode back towards Ianto, wrapped his arms around him, and kissed him; a genuine, romantic, sweep-you-off-your-feet kiss.

When it was over, he turned and jogged away towards the TARDIS, knowing that if he didn’t go now, he never would.

** ** **

It emerged that the Doctor and his new assistant, Donna – Jack wasn’t sure; he’d never before met someone who was so immune to his charm – had discovered a village on a distant planet that was being slowly poisoned by the fruits of a wild plant that had mutated. It was simple enough: all they had to do to save the inhabitants was to dig up the small tree and destroy it. Simple enough, yes, but no-one could go near it, not even the Doctor. In the end he’d been forced to go to Jack for help, and they’d picked up Martha on the way, to help treat the survivors.

The villagers, Jack realised, were vaguely humanoid and very attractive, with vivid-hued skin and anywhere between two and six extra limbs. Those in the advanced stages of the disease looked pitiful, small and shrivelled, their bodies wasting away.

Before they emerged from the TARDIS, the Doctor kitted himself and his companions out with full biological-hazard-and-radiation suits, and for the first time in a good long while Jack was grateful for his inability to die. He might’ve been doomed to suffer an inescapable eternity of suffering and loneliness, but at least he didn’t have to walk around this beautiful, exotic world looking like a low-rent Buzz Lightyear.

The villagers were very welcoming and incredibly friendly, and Jack received a “stop it!” warning from the Doctor before he’d even had chance to open his mouth. When they heard of Jack’s plan to go into the forest and destroy the plant, they tried everything to stop him, to protect him. One large, four-armed man even rugby-tackled him on his way through the gate.

In the end it had been ridiculously easy. The poisonous plant had been instantly identifiable – it was the only one that was bright pink, glowing, and emitting clouds of shimmering smoke – and had withered and died as soon as he’d set fire to it. Problem solved. Brushing soot from his hands, he strode back to village, singing to himself.

There was rapture in the village as he delivered his news, and preparations were immediately under way for an enormous celebration. The Doctor, as usual, wanted to quietly slip away, but was understandably shouted down by the combined might of Martha and Donna. As darkness fell, small lights filled the trees and the music of drums and bells filled the air.

Jack danced with several of the villagers, bringing back a long-forgotten discovery that dancing with someone who had more than twice as many limbs as you was quite the challenge. After a while, though, he found himself withdrawing from the party, standing on the outside, watching as Martha danced with two five-legged children, Donna struggled not to trip over the extra legs of her dance partner, and the Doctor scoffed down whole platefuls of party food.

Eventually, the Doctor made his way over to Jack. “Something wrong?”

Taking a sip from his sweet, mysterious drink, he replied. “No. Why?”

“Not like you, not being the life and soul of the party.”

“I’m fine.”

The Doctor gave him a brief, searching look, before drifting off again in search of more snacks.

As the night drew on, darkness fell completely, and the lights in the trees twinkled ever more brightly. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t even notice Martha materialise at his side. She handed him a plate of food, and then leaned against the wall next to him.

“I’m exhausted. Haven’t been to a party like this … well, ever!”

He smiled at her, almost absent-mindedly, before putting his plate of food to one side, untouched.

“What is it?”

“I’m not hungry.”

She waved her hands impatiently. “Not that. What’s up? I’ve never known you be so quiet.”

“It’s nothing …”

“Jack …” she turned her big eyes on him fully, not letting him brush her off.

He pushed his hands deep into his pockets, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Then he gave her an ironic smile. “I miss Ianto.”

He expected her to laugh at him, but instead she put her arm around his waist and gave him a comforting squeeze. “I know. Don’t worry, you’ll be back soon.”

** ** **

Ficlet One

Sat, 31 May 2008 23:21:49 GMT

When he sleeps, Jack sleeps so deeply that for many minutes after waking he’s certain of very little. One thing that is certain is that he sleeps more, far more, now that he’s not alone in the narrow bed.

The first thing he’s aware of is the quiet. Not silence, exactly, but quiet enough for the lack of sound to be noticeable even in a half-asleep state.

The warmth comes to his attention next, and with it, awareness of the heat of the body next to his. Ianto’s still fast asleep, and Jack doesn’t blame him – not after what they got up to the night before. He smiles down at the face resting on his chest, remembering.

He’s comfortable … so comfortable. He feels like he could lie here all day, just enjoying the quiet and the warmth, and watching Ianto sleep. And, of course, if Ianto should wake up … well, that would be no reason to get up, would it?

He wraps his arms around Ianto’s bare shoulders and settles down for a little longer, and …

BRRRRRRING!

He shoots bolt upright, toppling Ianto roughly to one side, still dozy enough to wonder what the hell that sound is, and what Rift-related disaster it signifies. Ianto, however, reached over to his side of the bed, silencing the dreadful noise, before yawning sleepily and pulling Jack down next to him.

“Morning …”

Wide awake now, Jack stared down at Ianto. “Morning? What the hell was that?”

“Alarm clock,” Ianto murmured, still sleepy, waving his arm in that direction. “But we can have five more minutes.”

Jack’s gaze followed Ianto’s fingers and finally spotted the noisy offender: an old-fashioned alarm clock; black, with a round face, and two dome-shaped bells on top. He hasn’t seen one like that in many years. But of course that’s the alarm clock Ianto would have. What else?

“Why did you set an alarm clock?”

Apparently realising his snooze was not to be, Ianto sat up slightly, rubbing his eyes. “I set it every night.”

“I never heard it before.”

“I usually wake up before it goes off, and switch if off. But I was especially tired this morning. Tired out, you might say.” He grins at Jack, a wicked grin that sends tingles through Jack’s entire body.

Undeterred, Jack asks, “But why do you need an alarm clock?”

Ianto raises his eyebrows. To make sure we’re up – and decent – before everyone else gets here, of course.

“Oh.” Mystery solved, Jack’s mind goes back a few moments. “So, you don’t by any chance have a list of games involving alarm clocks, do you?” He leans over Ianto and kisses him, hard, and Ianto abandons any hope of distracting him.

They’re both too preoccupied to notice the quiet has lessened somewhat. Then a voice neither of them wants to hear right now shatters the moment. “Ianto? Ianto!”

Ianto sits bolt upright. “Oh, my G- … Owen! We’re late?”

“Ianto! It’s pissing down with rain, the buses are on strike, I’m having a bloody awful morning – where’s my coffee?”

Jack whispers in his ear. “Does he know you’re here?”

Unconsciously, Ianto pulls the sheets up to his chin. “Don’t think so.”

“Jack? Jack!”

Irritation mounting, Jack bellows back, “What?”

“Let the poor bloke out of your bed for ten minutes so he can come and make my coffee!”

Jack’s eyes meet Ianto’s for a split second before he starts to laugh. Ianto appears to be finding it less funny and pulls the sheets right up over his head.

“Right, he’s coming.” Jack calls, putting all the emphasis on the last word, and immediately hearing the expected snort of disgust from above.

“And make sure he puts some clothes on, would you? I just ate a full English breakfast and I don’t want to see it again!”

Ianto gives a muffled shriek of horror into the covers, and Jack finally gets up and begins the hunt for their clothes.

Mythical Simplicity (Epilogue)

Sun, 27 Jan 2008 18:59:12 GMT

An Epilogue, Or Is It A Bridge?

If anyone had peered through the dusty window, they would have seen two men lying, unconscious, on the rough stone floor. They would have seen the taller man with the unruly brown hair sit up, slowly, touching his arms and his face, as though it had been a while since he’d felt them. Then they would have seen him stand, open the door to the mysterious blue box, and drag the shorter, slightly tidier man inside.

And, before seeing the blue box somehow disappear, they would have seen the tall man stick his head through the door for one last look around, and smile a wicked smile.

** ** **

The Doctor woke, feeling as though he’d been hit by a cargo ship. He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, and stared up at the roof of the TARDIS. Now, how had he ended up unconscious on the floor of his ship?

He stood up, slowly and shakily, and peered at the screen on the console. Earth, London, 2008. Nothing unusual there. So how had he been knocked out? He reached out and pressed a button, bringing up some more data.

Oh, yes. The Chameleon Arch. He’d been back to 1913. He could only remember tiny fragments, but they were all waving around like rags in a strong wind, not staying still long enough for him to focus on them. He couldn’t quite remember, either, why he’d decided to go away and leave the Master in the TARDIS. That sounded quite mad. He looked around, wondering where the Master was. Off sulking somewhere, if he was lucky. Wreaking unimaginable havoc, if he wasn’t. He’d have to wait until he got his composure back, at least, before facing him.

But none of that explained how they’d found their way back to London, to the twenty-first century. Unless the TARDIS had come here of her own accord? She had been quite wilful lately.

Suddenly, something strange caught the Doctor’s eye. It wasn’t on the screen … it was on his hand. There was a ring on his fourth finger. He looked closer … it was the Master’s ring. He looked around suspiciously. This could only be a trick of the Master’s. But what could this hope to achieve? He ran his hand through his hair – and got another shock. His hair was gone. Well, not entirely gone. But it was much, much shorter than it should have been. Feeling a sudden chill, he wriggled slightly inside his shirt. No. He no longer had a mole.

Panicking now, he ran from the console room into other rooms, looking for a mirror. When he found one, his worst suspicions were confirmed. Instead of looking at his own face, he was looking at the Master’s.

Furiously, he searched his pockets for the fob watch. Finding it, he examined it closely. No, no, no! This wasn’t his watch. His had the number 931, shown by a short line at 202 degrees, and four dots in the centre of the north-east sector. This one had another number entirely …

One of the fragments of memory finally stopped waving long enough to read it. The Master … the Master had a watch too. They’d opened them together …

They’d opened the wrong watch. Which not only meant that he was currently inhabiting the Master’s body, but that the Master had taken his, and absconded. After centuries of attempting to steal the Doctor’s body, the Master had finally managed it … by accident.

** ** **

The Master strolled down the London street confidently, admiring the way the long, brown coat swirled around his ankles, appreciating the extra few inches in height. The long legs made walking much faster, which was fortuitous. The Master was eager to arrive at his destination; he couldn’t wait to see the look on a certain person’s face …

Fic: Mythical Simplicity (Chapter 6)

Sat, 26 Jan 2008 20:07:24 GMT

Author's Note: This one hurt, people. This one hurt.

Chapter Six

Harry made a light salad for dinner, sensing that John would probably not be up to eating much. When John finally came downstairs, he’d changed into some lighter clothes, and some of the haunted look had left his eyes, although he was still pale.

“Did you find everything you needed?” Harry asked, pulling a chair out for him and setting a plate down on the table.

“Yes, thank you.” John picked up his fork but didn’t begin to eat. Harry brought his own plate over to the table and sat down.

“I’m sorry, you know. I’m really sorry. I never imagined you’d lose your job …”

John sighed. “Don’t be sorry. I’m … I’m not. It’s only a job.”

“What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. I expect that getting another teaching position will be hard, as they’re unlikely to remember me well to anyone who asks. Perhaps look for some office work …”

He did not, Harry noticed, look very happy at that prospect. He hesitated for a moment before speaking. “You could write. Books, I mean. Textbooks and things. You like the subject. And I could help, maybe.”

“Work together, you mean?”

“We could.”

“Yes, we could.” John smiled, at last; a small but genuine smile.

True to Harry’s predictions, John scarcely touched his meal, just pushed the vegetables around his plate for a while before Harry took it away. He watched Harry eat, and he noticed for the first time the unusual ring on his finger; like a sovereign, but different. It didn’t look quite right on Harry’s hand, but he said nothing, shifting his gaze to take in the much more pleasing view of Harry’s face.

When darkness came, Harry stood and reached for John’s hand. “Come on. You must be shattered. I’ll show you the bathroom and everything.” He pulled John to his feet and headed off up the stairs.

Harry pointed out the doors upstairs once more; John hadn’t seemed fully aware when he’d done it earlier. “My room’s at the end of the corridor … then there’s a spare room here … and then there’s the bathroom, and then your room.” He turned and looked at John, full of concern. “Will you be all right?”

He’d asked him that question so many times since the morning, but for the first time there was a note of conviction in his voice when he answered. “Yes. I’m going to be fine.” He stepped right up to Harry and kissed him, reaching down and taking his hands in his own, drawing out the action so it lasted many moments.

Harry swayed every so slightly on the spot. “Good night,” he whispered, but John only gave him a mysterious smile, and walked away.

“Sorry,” Harry said, realising John was walking in the wrong direction. “Wait a second. Your room’s over here.”

“I know,” John replied lightly, and kept walking down the corridor towards Harry’s room.

** ** **

Inside the room, behind a closed door, was safe and secure. Harry lit a lamp on the dresser, and before he could turn around John had taken him in his arms and kissed him. All of their reserve was melting away, and Harry wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pulled him closer, pressing their bodies together.

His temperature rising quickly, Harry kicked off his shoes, and his hands moved to the buttons on John’s shirt, unfastening them as quickly as he could, fumbling them in his haste. Losing his patience, he tugged the material upwards, pulling the shirt off over John’s head. Pushing back together, he trailed kisses down John’s neck and onto his chest, feeling his own shirt being loosened and pulled away.

Stepping forward, Harry backed John up against the footboard of the bed, and with his hands on his shoulders, pushed him backwards. John landed softly on the bed, his hands still gripping Harry’s arms. Harry fell forwards, his hands resting either side of John, and kept kissing him. John’s hands were everywhere; running up his back, brushing across his chest, and finally undoing his belt. Harry rolled onto his side and pulled John right up next to him. He took a couple of deep breaths, calming himself down. He took John’s head in his hands, fingers brushing softly through his hair.

John met his gaze hungrily, but steadily.

“John … “

“Mmm?”

“I … I love you.”

“Oh, I love you too.” And John rolled Harry back onto his back, resting above him, and before long all their clothes were strewn in an untidy fashion across the room. Their arms and legs were wrapped around each other tightly, blood pounding in their ears, the day’s events wholly forgotten.

** ** **

When John woke, he wasn’t entirely sure where he was. He was lying on his back, staring at a strange ceiling, and it took him a few moments to notice the sleeping Harry, lying across his chest. He sighed contentedly, gave the bare shoulders a fond, gentle squeeze, and closed his eyes once more, still drowsy.

In flashes, memories of the night before returned to him …

Resting on his elbows, he was looking down at Harry, their faces barely an inch apart. The words he’d just heard were ringing in his ears, heart pounding so hard it almost hurt. But it was a good pain, a wonderful pain …

He was taking his time exploring Harry’s body, moving downwards slowly, feeling a wild thrill at the obvious effect he was having. Harry’s hands were running through his hair, and he was gasping and writhing beneath him …

Harry’s hands took hold of his shoulders, pulling him back up the bed to kiss him once more. John’s inhibitions were truly lost, and he kissed Harry back just as fiercely, until they were both out of breath. Harry’s left hand held the back of John’s neck, while his right hand stroked his chest, sliding lower and lower … he took hold of John gently, and he gasped audibly …

Harry was lying on his front, and John was running his hands firmly down his back, taking in the breathtaking sight. Harry murmured contentedly. John slid his hands lower, somehow knowing what to do …

He was inside Harry, lying pressed against his back, moving slowly, their fingers clasped together against the sheets. John’s face was buried in Harry’s hair, and the pleasure when he came was more intense than anything he’d never known …

He lay on his side as Harry pressed against his back. He was so light-headed he barely noticed the pain as Harry pushed inside, and within seconds he was pushing back, adding his own strength to the force of Harry’s hand on his hip. He twisted his head backwards and the look in Harry’s eyes made him feel hot, and desirable, and loved, and excited, and safe …

Harry woke with a slight start, and his left hand found John’s right, interlacing their fingers. “Good morning,” he murmured, barely able to keep the smile out of his voice.

“It’s a very good morning,” John whispered, kissing Harry’s forehead. With nowhere to go and nothing to do, he drifted off back to sleep.

** ** **

When he woke, the bed was empty. He dressed quickly and went downstairs, and found Harry sitting in the dining room, reading the morning newspaper. He gestured at a tray on the table.

“I’ve made a pot of tea. Should still be warm.”

“Thanks.” John poured himself a cup, and went to look out of the window. It was another glorious summer day – the sun was shining, and a light breeze was ruffling the tops of the trees. Harry set down his paper and came to stand behind John, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his shoulder.

“See, the world didn’t even end.” He nuzzled John’s neck affectionately.

“Mmm. How inconsiderate of it.”

Harry took John’s hand and led him out into the garden. They sat, in two sturdy wooden chairs facing a fishpond, and John noted that the garden was perfectly private, surrounded by huge, old oak trees. They were a perfect barrier, but the world beyond them had changed; it was now foreign, and hostile.

“We can’t stay here, you know.” Harry said, gently.

John sighed. “I know.” He wasn’t terribly sad at the idea; he hadn’t been there long enough to form any great attachment to the place. “Where will we go?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, sounding a little sad that he couldn’t provide all of the answers.

“London?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Harry stood up and ran his hand through his hair. “It’s still … there are so many people. Which does provide a degree of anonymity, granted, but … it’s so crowded. Perhaps somewhere quieter … out of the way. What do you think?”

John closed his eyes, tilting his head back and sighing deeply. A life of isolation, of self-imposed exile? “That sounds wonderful,” he answered honestly.

** ** **

After a light breakfast, John decided to sort through the boxes he’d brought from the school. One box, he knew, was mostly full of books, and he noticed that Harry must’ve taken it into the study himself, and he saw that a small space had been cleared on the bookshelves.

He smiled, deeply appreciative of the subtle gesture, even though he couldn’t quite see the point of unpacking if they were to leave soon.

Harry had gone into the village to see his solicitor, wanting to start sale proceedings on his house quickly, but footsteps in the hall told John he had returned. He walked straight over to John and kissed him softly, before settling down in his desk chair. “I’ve been assured that everything will go smoothly. I’ve told them I’m prepared to accept a lower price for a quick sale.”

John looked away guiltily. “You … you shouldn’t have done that.”

Harry said nothing, only picked up one of the leather-bound books and leafed through it.

Timidly, John asked, “Will you be sad to leave here?”

Not really,” Harry shrugged.

“But this was your childhood home.”

“I suppose. But I haven’t lived here since I was very small. And I never really wanted to return.”

“Don’t you have good memories of this place?”

Harry frowned, as if trying to remember, trying to recall a happy childhood memory. “I don’t. Really. I barely remember it at all. It doesn’t matter, anyway.” He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t want to stay here. As you said, the past doesn’t matter. All that matters is the future. With you.”

John felt more guilty than ever. His career was over, and he had no real home. Nothing to lose. Harry was giving up everything. He went and stood behind Harry, leaning over and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “Thank you,” he said, kissing him lightly on the top of his head.

Suddenly, Harry leaned forward in interest, reaching into one of the boxes. When he pulled out his hand, he was holding an engraved fob watch. “What’s this?” he asked, examining it curiously.

John looked over, and for a moment, he was confused. He’d almost forgotten he had that; he certainly didn’t remember packing it.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he answered, and instantly dismissed it; it was nice enough to look at, but nothing special.

But Harry seemed to feel differently. He was still peering intently at the watch, as if it were something rare and exquisite.

“Where did you get it?”

“I don’t remember. I think I’ve always had it. Why?”

Harry didn’t answer, but he stood and walked away towards a large wooden bureau. He rummaged for a while before walking away again to a glass-plated cabinet. After searching for even longer there, he scratched his head, and opened the middle drawer of his desk. From within, he retrieved an identical watch, which he placed next to John’s on the desk.

John’s eyes widened in amazement as he slowly sat down. He reached out and traced a finger over the engraving, following the circles around and around.

“That’s a remarkable coincidence,” he said quietly, looking up at Harry. Harry nodded, sitting in the other chair.

“Where did you get yours?” John asked, never taking his eyes off the two watches.

“That’s the strangest thing,” Harry replied. “I don’t remember, either. I think I’ve always had it.”

“Are they identical?”

Harry examined them closely. “Yes, I think … no, wait. There’s a line across this circle, here. And … look! There are four dots at the edge of this one. It’s definitely not a fault; it’s part of the design. Look!”

John took it from him and stared at the design. He’d never noticed how … strange … it was before. The etchings were not particularly beautiful, and there didn’t appear to be any rhyme of reason to them. Lots of circles, certainly. Some concentric, some overlapping, some broken, some distorted, and all of them different sizes. He placed it back on the table and picked up Harry’s. Now that he looked closely, he could see that they were definitely different.

His hand shaking slightly, he placed it back on the desk. “What does it matter? It’s just a watch …”

Harry, who had been looking thoughtful, glanced up and smiled. “You’re right. Come on. Let’s go back out in the garden for a while. Shame to waste such a lovely day.”

** ** **

They sat in the sunshine for a while, but the odd coincidence of the watches was clearly still on their minds, and little was said. After a while, John offered to go in and fetch drinks. After a few minutes he hadn’t returned, so Harry followed him in.

He found John in the study. He was holding the watch, not picking it up, but holding it gently between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, staring at it in confusion.

Harry went in and sat next to John, holding his own watch in a similar way, pushing it over next to John’s, for another comparison. A soft clunk sounded as the metal cases touched, and then lights exploded in front of Harry’s eyes.

He can see a man, surrounded by fire. It’s definitely John, but he looks so different. There is a burning rage in his eyes that he’s never seen before, could never have guessed his gentle, sweet-tempered lover was capable of showing.

The scene changes, and he sees a different man – a little older, perhaps, with longer, curlier hair and a softer, sadder face. What is he doing here? But, no … this is John, too. He looks different to Harry’s John, and he feels different, too, but there’s something elementally the same about them. He sees other men … old, young, tall, short, fair, dark. How can all these men be John? Or how can John, with his quiet manners and simple pleasures, have been all these other men?

Strange, too, that nearly of them look oddly familiar. He feels like he’s known them all. He wants them all, he needs them all … he loves them all …

Dizzy with shock, he pulled his hand away, breaking the connection between the watches.

When his vision returned, he realised John was looking at him, the shock on his face equal to what Harry was feeling.

“What … have we … are we …?” Harry’s voice was little more than a whisper.

John shook his head dumbly. “I don’t know. But … whatever it is, it’s definitely something to do with these watches.”

“But what on earth …?”

John stood up. “I really don’t know. But I saw something very strange, and I think you should see it, too. Pick up your watch.”

Harry dropped the mysterious timepiece into his pocket, and John grabbed his hand and led him out of the house, and away down the lane. Eventually he stopped at an old, disused farm building. Harry merely stared in confusion, but John pushed a clump of brambles away from the door and walked inside, pulling Harry after him.

Harry’s jaw fell open. Inside the dark barn, lit only by shafts of sunlight streaming through the broken roof, was a big, blue, wooden box. It had a door – indeed, it was only as wide as its door – and small windows around the top. There was a light on the roof, and the words written on it read, “Police.”

“What is that?” Harry moved closer to John, feeling deeply uncertain.

“I have absolutely no idea,” John whispered, sounding equally unsure. “But when those watches touched, I saw things. Lots of things, and one of them was this. And I knew it was here. But I didn’t see what it really is, or what it does.”

“What else did you see?” Harry asked, turning to face John.

John smiled, shyly. “You, mostly. You, smiling and laughing. And some other people I didn’t recognise, but they all reminded me of you.”

Harry smiled.

“What did you see?”

“The same,” Harry answered. “I saw you. But it was strange. I saw old and young men, tall and short men, but they were all you. I’m certain of it. So those strangers who reminded you of me were probably … me.”

John shook his head in confusion. “But how can we have been other people?”

“I don’t know.”

John took the watch out of his pocket and looked at it again. “The other thing I saw - well, I felt it more than saw it – was a warning, not to open the watch. I didn’t see what would happen if I did, but I felt sure that I shouldn’t open it.”

Harry took out his own watch and, now that John had pointed it out, felt the same reluctance to open the case. “Do you think all of those … things … we saw, will come about if we open them?”

John met his gaze evenly. “Perhaps. But I also think it’s probably the only way to solve the mystery.”

Harry sat down on the dirty floor, not giving a thought to his clean clothes. John sat down facing him.

“So …” Harry said, his mind working frantically, “ … if we don’t open them, we’ll never know what this all means?”

“No,” John answered. “But I don’t want to do it if it’s going to change anything between us … I’m truly happy for the first time in my life.”

Harry looked up at him quickly. “I won’t leave you,” he said, so intensely it was almost fierce. “But … the only thing I saw was you. And you saw me. So it looks like, whatever happens, we’re still together.”

John nodded. “We are. I think maybe we’re meant to be together, somehow. Maybe this will show us the reason. I think we should do it.”

Harry nodded his agreement, and set the watch down on the floor. He leaned across and kissed John, his hand holding the back of his head. John gave an involuntary moan, and the kiss went on for many moments.

Eventually, Harry sat back and picked up his watch once more. “Are you ready?”

John’s jaw was set. “Let’s do it.”

Together, they opened the cases of their watches, and both sets of eyes went wide as golden light and mysterious voices filled the room.

And John Smith and Harry Saxon saw no more.

Mythical Simplicity (Chapter 5)

Fri, 25 Jan 2008 07:34:18 GMT

Author's Note: Checking this, I remembered that writing bits of it (well, most of it) was like being dragged over red hot shards of broken glass by wild, incontinent horses while listening to fingernails and cats' claws on a blackboard. So I'm sorry if bits are tiresome. I was trying to keep to the period, and some of the people are irritating. The dream conversation was fun, but that's only about six lines long. The whole thing's short, but I didn't see the point in drawing out the tedium. Sorry. The next part's better, gearing up for the big finish.

Chapter Five

That evening, John made his way down into the village once more, to the large, impressive house that belonged to Harry. He paused before he knocked on the door, imagining the looks on the faces of his colleagues - the things they would say! – and wondered whether he really wanted to do this. But the idea of seeing Harry again was much more powerful.

A few moments later, Harry opened the door, smiling instantly when he saw John. He welcomed him inside, showing him into the large living room. For a few moments they stood awkwardly; Harry folded his arms across his chest and looked at his feet, smiling almost shyly, while John rocked backwards and forwards on his heels, his arms swinging aimlessly at his sides.

In the end it was Harry who spoke first. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Oh … yes, please.”

“What would you like?”

“Mmm … whatever you’re having.”

“Make yourself comfortable.” Harry gestured to the cushioned chairs and left the room, reappearing a few seconds later carrying two glasses. He handed one to John – whose hands, he noticed, were shaking slightly – before sitting down himself. He found himself moved by the anxiety his friend was obviously feeling. “I’m so glad you came.”

He saw John take a deep breath, and the tension in the room finally seemed to fade. “Me, too.”

** ** **

They talked for a little while, about their jobs, and current events, and John was surprised by how much they seemed to agree on things. Of course, he didn’t have particularly strong views one way or the other, but the way they saw the world seemed remarkably … compatible.

“So … how did you get into teaching?” Harry seemed to want to steer the conversation in a more personal direction, and John shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Oh … I don’t know. I liked school well enough, enjoyed reading history at university. It just seemed the natural thing to do.” He couldn’t think of anything more interesting to add, couldn’t remember when he’d first felt drawn to the profession, couldn’t tell him why he loved history, couldn’t remember doing anything unusual at university, so he said nothing, taking a sip of his drink.

Harry looked at him for a long moment, and then nodded as if that made perfect sense. As he had before, John tried to turn the conversation around. “London must be an exciting place to live.”

Harry’s eyes widened, as if he’d never really considered that. “Yes,” he answered, after a long pause. “I suppose it is.” But if he could honestly think of anything exciting that had happened, he didn’t mention it. He looked back at John. “You don’t like to talk about your past, do you?” His tone was gentle, not accusatory, but it still made John slightly uncomfortable.

“It’s not that I don’t like to talk about my past.” That much was true; he already felt like he could talk to Harry about anything. “It’s just … I don’t think about it much. It won’t do any good to dwell on things. Keep looking forward, keep moving on.”

Harry smiled, looking fondly amused. “That is,” he remarked, “a strange philosophy for a teacher of history.”

For the first time in ages, John laughed.

Silence fell on the room, but it was no longer an awkward or uncomfortable silence. Instead it felt pleasant, companionable. It felt wonderful just to be here, and the very air felt contented and relaxed. John finished his drink, and perhaps emboldened by this, went over and sat next to Harry, leaning close and resting his head on his arm. Harry moved his hand to John’s knee, and they sat for a long time in blissful silence.

As the night grew darker, John sighed. “I shall have to leave soon. Can’t return to the school at midnight.” His voice was much slower and sleepier than usual.

“When do the school holidays start?” Harry asked, running a finger backwards and forwards over John’s knee.

“End of the month,” John answered.

“That’ll be nice,” Harry murmured in his ear. “Whole days – weeks – when you don’t have to leave.”

“Sounds wonderful,” John whispered, pressing his cheek into Harry’s shoulder briefly, before reluctantly standing up. He slid his feet back into his shoes – he’d taken them off earlier, feeling so relaxed – and gathered up his coat and hat. Harry got to his feet, next to him, and took hold of his hand, turning John to face him.

“Good night.”

“Good night.” And Harry kissed him, gently, and it took all of John’s strength to turn and walk out of the house.

** ** **

The next day was Sunday, and shortly after John arrived at Harry’s, they had decided to take a drive in the country. The summer had turned warm and pleasant once more, and , as Harry pointed out, there was little point in having a car if you didn’t use it.

John didn’t know a great deal about cars, but Harry’s seemed very wonderful. Harry drove well, if a little quickly, around the bumpy country roads. As midday approached, it became hot once more, and both men took off their jackets and their ties, enjoying the fresh summer air.

As they drove out of the village, John suddenly looked across at Harry. “I had a dream about you last night.” He felt a swell of fondness as he saw the pleased, slightly embarrassed look on Harry’s face.

“Oh, yes? What about?”

“I can’t quite remember. But you were definitely there. I can only remember tiny fragments.” He shut his eyes tight, concentrating. When he opened them, though, they were round and wide, and a distinct blush was creeping up his face. He quickly looked away.

Harry smiled to himself, feeling his own face turn slightly pink, and didn’t press for details.

** ** **

Harry felt wonderful, as he always did when he was out in his car. Free and unburdened, enjoying the sensation of motion. The sun was beaming down and the air was hot, but the wind blowing through the car was very pleasant.

He looked across at John. His top button was unfastened, his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, unruly hair blowing in the wind, head tilted back, eyes closed against the sun … Harry had to wrench his attention back to the road. A moment later, he slowed down and pulled over, and before John had a chance to realise what was going on, Harry leaned over and kissed him, hard and fiercely. Almost losing control, he found himself climbing on top of John, never breaking the kiss, and after a long moment he realised John’s hands, which had been firmly around his shoulders, were sliding down his back, lower and lower …

Harry forced himself back into his seat, gasping slightly. “Should we … go home?”

John nodded. “Shouldn’t really be doing this. Not here, I mean. Not out in the open.”

Sighing, Harry turned the car around and set off back towards the village. They had been out all day, and it was late afternoon. They were only a mile or two away when an unpleasant thumping noise came from under the car.

Cursing, Harry stopped and jumped out, and a quick glance told him all he needed to know. A tyre had burst. John stood beside him, giving the tyre a perplexed look, scratching his head.

“What do we do now?”

“Change it. There’s a spare one in the boot. This has happened a couple of times before.”

It quickly became apparent that John had no idea what to do, but he helped Harry as best he could. Eventually, the wheel was changed, but Harry had torn his shirt, which was grubby and covered in oil, and there were black smudges on his face.

It was strange, seeing the usually neat man like this, but John felt more attracted to him than ever. But the hour had grown late, and by the time they got back to the village, all Harry could do was drop John off back at the school.

** ** **

Early on Monday morning, John was in his classroom, preparing his lessons when a message was delivered. His lessons for the morning had been cancelled, and his presence was requested in a meeting with Mr. Blackwell at once.

Feeling extremely puzzled, John made his way to the headmaster’s office. He couldn’t imagine what could possibly be so important as to cancel lessons first thing on a Monday morning. He felt confused, but not particularly worried.

That changed, quickly, when he entered the office and saw not only the headmaster, sitting behind his desk, face grim, but Harry, sitting in one of the facing chairs.

“Have a seat, Mr. Smith.” The headmaster’s voice was stern and cold, completely lacking the good-natured pomposity it usually held. John sat down in the chair next to Harry, not daring to look across, a dull noise buzzing in his ears.

“Before I begin, I want you both to know that I am extremely uncomfortable having this conversation. However, following an emergency meeting with the chair of governors last night, it was decided that I should deal with this situation as quickly as possible.”

John had to force himself to breathe.

“I am sure you are aware of the situation in question.” He looked at both of them questioningly. Avoiding the man’s gaze, John turned and glanced for the first time at Harry, and saw there a look he hadn’t expected. Shock, to be sure, but a total lack of fear. Resolve, perhaps … and defiance.

Encouraged by Harry’s boldness, John turned back to face the headmaster, but neither of them acknowledged the question.

“Please, don’t make this any more difficult than it already is,” Mr. Blackwell’s voice sounded strained, and little exasperated. “You were seen together on Saturday night by a member of our staff. Now, I believe your lives are your own business, but you must understand that a school with our reputation must set a higher standard …”

John felt his face turn scarlet, the heat rising from his chest, making him light-headed. They’d been seen, seen being … intimate. Everyone would know. He looked at the floor, unable to meet the gaze of anyone in the room. But he looked up quickly when he heard the note in Harry’s voice.

“And exactly what standard would that be, Mr. Blackwell?” he asked icily. He was glaring furiously at the headmaster, but every now and then his eyes would glance sideways, for the shortest second, at John, and at those times they only seemed to hold concern.

The headmaster looked genuinely shaken, but he refused to be cowered. “Don’t play the fool with me, Saxon. I know all sort of things go on in London, but you can hardly believe that kind of behaviour is acceptable conduct for someone in your position!”

Harry opened his mouth to say something, then appeared to change his mind. He rolled his eyes slightly, shot one more worried glance at John, and then returned to glaring coldly across the desk.

“Now, only the chair of governors and I are aware of the situation at present, and there’s no reason it can’t stay that way. Obviously, this would be the best scenario for the school; I can only imagine the complaints, or worse, we would have to deal with if this became common knowledge. But I will have to ask for letters of resignation from both of you, immediately.”

John stared at him in horror. He knew what they’d been doing was … unconventional, generally frowned upon. But was it really that bad? So bad that he could no longer stay here?

“Tell me,” Harry demanded, his voice so full of restrained fury John could hardly stand to hear it, “why anything we may or may not have done outside of this school takes away our ability to do a good job when we’re here.”

“It’s not the ability to do the job, Saxon, it’s the positions of influence you both have. A school governor and, worse, a teacher, of a boys’ school … now, I’m sorry, but if you do not submit your resignation by the end of the day it will be left to a governors’ vote, at which point it will become widely known. Is that really what you want?”

Harry’s expression plainly showed that he did not care, but one look at John, pale and drawn, changed his mind.

“No, it’s not,” he gritted, through clenched teeth. “You’ll have my resignation by the end of the day.”

Satisfied, the headmaster looked at John, who could only nod, tightly. “It would be best if you left the school as soon as possible, but … do you have anywhere you can stay?”

John glanced around, lost. Of course he didn’t.

“Of course he does. He can stay with me.” Harry arched his eyebrows at the headmaster, challenging him to argue.

“Very well. But for goodness’ sake, show some discretion. You’re still associated with this establishment.”

Harry made a sound that sound that resembled a snort, although it was so quiet that perhaps only John heard it. He stormed over to the door, holding it open for John. Outside in the corridor, John leaned against the wall, worried his legs might not support him. Harry stood close and whispered, “Pack some things. I’ll bring the car up in an hour. Will you be all right?”

John made a visible effort to pull himself together, and nodded. Harry walked away, pausing after a few steps to look back at him, giving him an encouraging smile.

** ** **

John made short work of his packing. He didn’t have a great many possessions, and one suitcase and two boxes full of books were all it really amounted to. Glad that everyone in the school was still busy in lessons, he carried his things out to the front gate, where Harry was waiting. He took the suitcase and a box from John, placed them in the back of his car, and climbed in.

Rolling down the drive, John felt the shock start to wear off. Being asked to resign in disgrace was awful, of course, but it could have been much, much worse. He still had Harry.

It only took one trip to carry all of John’s things up the stairs to Harry’s spare room. He looked around him, feeling shaken and disorientated, but surprisingly safe. He smiled weakly at Harry, who crossed the room in three quick strides and wrapped his arms tightly around him, and he held him for a long time.

** ** **

Mythical Simplicity (Chapter 4)

Thu, 24 Jan 2008 07:53:13 GMT

Chapter Four

John must have fallen asleep at some point in the night, because the sharp beams of sunlight cutting through his curtains in the early morning woke him abruptly. The confusion that had been puzzling him during the night was gone, taking the strange ideas with it, leaving him with the reality of mundane, wonderful everyday life.

He made his way down to the dining hall a short time later, fetching a pot of tea and sitting in the light of a large bay window, reading the local newspaper. Eating slices of toast almost absent-mindedly, he skimmed through articles on London politics and wars in distant parts of the Empire. The stories in the middle of the paper were less dramatic, but often equally interesting. One in particular caught his eye.

This weekend, scientists from across the country will be gathering in northern Oxfordshire to witness Saturday’s lunar eclipse. A total eclipse has not been seen in Great Britain for more than twenty years, and the opportunity to observe the phenomenon has generated great excitement in the scientific community. Whilst the eclipse should be visible all over England, it is expected to be clearest in the south east, with Oxfordshire expected to receive the best views. Because artificial light can bleach the sky, aspiring astronomers are advised to find somewhere dark from which to observe. Optimum viewing time is expected to be between 22:45 and 23:30.

John read the article with interest. He’d always taken a mild interest in the night sky; perhaps he was one of the “aspiring astronomers” the article referred to. He knew the perfect place from which to watch: a hill, only a small eminence, really, less than a mile from the school.

During the day he mentioned the eclipse to Richard Stanley, but his friend merely chuckled and said he was interested in events closer to home, before beginning to discuss the rugby. The Latin teacher and the music master were equally disinterested, though polite.

In the end he raised the subject with Alfred Trimley, the science teacher. He was the obvious person, really, and John wondered if perhaps the students ought to be given the opportunity to witness the phenomenon. But he was hesitant; of all the staff, Trimley had been the least friendly and welcoming. Perhaps it was because John had pointed out a flaw in an experiment he’d been describing. John couldn’t imagine where the idea had come from – science had never been his strong point – and it wasn’t like him to contradict another teacher, but he was still sure he’d been right.

“Mr. Trimley, do you have a moment?” It was a few minutes before the end of the lunch hour when John finally decided to go and speak to him.

“What is it, Smith?” The science teacher was abrupt and gruff; an older man whose dark hair had only recently started to turn grey, and he wore thin, pointed glasses that didn’t suit him.

“Well, I was wondering if you’d read about Saturday’s lunar eclipse …”

Trimley cut him off with a withering look. “Of course I’ve read about it, Smith. What has it to do with you?”

“You see, I was thinking about going to Major’s Hill to watch on Saturday, and I wondered if perhaps you might like to think about taking a few of the boys … only, they’ll never have seen one before.”

The older man looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You expect me to spend my weekend traipsing a group of ungrateful children through the countryside in the dark? Not a chance, Smith. Besides, it’s only a lunar eclipse. And more likely than not, it’ll be cloudy and we’ll miss the whole thing.” His tone made it clear the discussion was closed. “Was that all you wanted?”

John suppressed a disappointed sigh. “Yes, Mr. Trimley. Sorry to bother you.”

** ** **

In the end, John decided to go alone to Major’s Hill. He didn’t want anyone else’s lack of enthusiasm to dampen his own. Contrary to Trimley’s dark predictions, Saturday night was clear and fine, with a large full moon and plenty of stars visible in the black sky.

He made his way along the woodland path just after ten o’clock. It was strange to be out among the trees so late at night, and the silence was almost unnerving. The climb to the top of the hill was gently taxing, an enjoyable little bit of exercise. To his great surprise, however, when he reached the top he found he was not the only one there. Another figure sat comfortably on the ground, eyes resting on the full moon above. John recognised him instantly; it was Mr. Saxon, from the governors’ meeting.

He felt immediately awkward at having interrupted, and coughed slightly to alert the other to his presence. Saxon jumped to his feet and whirled around to face John, who held out his hands apologetically.

“I’m so sorry to have disturbed you, sir. I didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

Saxon seemed to relax as he recognised him. “No, neither did I. You’ve come to watch the eclipse, I presume?”

John nodded. “It’s Mr. Saxon, isn’t it?”

The other man smiled. “Yes, but please call me Harry.”

“John.” He smiled back, more at ease. Harry settled himself back on the ground, and John, a little awkwardly, sat down a few feet away. He fiddled with his bootlaces for a moment; he had no idea what to say. He’d been expecting to be alone.

“So … John. How long have you been in Oxfordshire?”

John cleared his throat. “Not long … about five weeks. Just starting to get settled, really.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Up North. Another school; just like this one, really.” He shifted uncomfortably, an awkwardness that was not caused solely by the hard, uneven ground. He had avoided talking about his past at work, and in the busy, bustling school, it had been easy. Here, it would be harder to avoid. Best to turn the conversation around. “What about you? Where did you arrive from?”

“London.” Harry replied. “I’m a writer.”

“Oh?” John’s curiosity was piqued; he was an imaginative sort, although he rarely got around to writing any of his imaginings down.

“Nothing you’ll have heard of,” Harry assures him quickly. “Just little pieces, here and there. Mostly, I just try and … draw attention to things.”

“What things?”

“Things that need changing.”

He didn’t elaborate, and John didn’t want to pry, but he couldn’t resist turning a curious eye on his companion.

Harry caught the look, and appeared to be a little embarrassed. “Oh, it’s not nearly as important as I’d like it to be. It’s just … there’s so much going on that people don’t know about. Or, they pretend they don’t know. London’s wonderful, it really is. So full of history and culture and wealth. But the other side of it couldn’t be further away from all that. And … my little bits of scribble probably won’t really change anything, but …”

He trailed off, and his eyes looked towards the sky. But John thought he knew the end of the sentence, anyway.

“But, if someone doesn’t try, nothing will ever change?”

Harry looked at him quickly, mild surprise showing on his face. Eventually, he nodded, and his eyes returned to the heavens.

They sat in silence for long minutes, but it was no longer an awkward silence. Eventually, John spotted something.

“Look! I think it’s starting …”

Indeed, a shadow had started to creep over the moon. John stared at it until his eyes watered, not wanting to miss a moment. If you keep looking, he thought, you barely even notice it changing its shape. It happens too slowly. It’s only obvious if you look away.

The moon was half obscured before either of them spoke.

“It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?” Harry asked quietly, not really expecting a response. “I mean, it’s amazing. All that light … and it has absolutely none of its own. A mere mirror, reflecting brilliant white light from millions of miles away. Such a perfect circle … it’s hard to believe it’s a globe. Hard to believe it’s so massive, when it appears so small. Held there, forever close, but forever at a distance. Never able to touch, yet never able to escape.”

John turned his eyes away from the moon and looked at his companion in mild amazement. He was sure he’d never heard anyone speak this way before.

“And then there’s us.” Harry continued, his voice almost dreamy, as though he’d forgotten John was there. “Sitting right in the middle. For tiny, minute intervals in the whole of creation, the constant movement of the heavenly bodies coincides so perfectly as to cast a shadow on that perfect surface. That shadow,” he nods upwards at the darkening moon, “that’s our shadow. All that light is gone because we are sitting in its path. But we harm only ourselves, because only we see the light go out. And what proof do we have that it’ll ever come back?”

John didn’t know if Harry expected him to answer that; the only answer he can think of sounds ridiculous, even to him. It always has …

The night grew darker, and only the small oil lamps provided any worthwhile light. Their heat created a smoky mirage in the warm night air.

Eventually, John felt he had to speak. “You must be very good at your job. You truly sound like a writer.” He smiled appreciatively at his new friend, although the darkness was almost too complete to see.

“Thank you,” Harry said, and his tone made it sound like he was unused to receiving compliments; at least, sincere ones. He turned his head and looked John in the eye. “It’s been nice, having someone to share this with.”

John suddenly felt as if the humid night had become many times hotter. His eyes filled with water; the fumes from the lamps, perhaps. He felt … confused, and flustered, and that same familiar feeling he’d had when he and Harry met had returned, but it was a hundred times stronger because they were closer, and they were alone, and the beauty and poetry of the eclipse had made him dizzy already …

Seeing his distress, Harry had reached out instinctively and taken John’s hand, although the contact between their eyes had never broken. John’s mind was gone, his reflexes had taken over. He wasn’t sure who leans forward first, him or Harry, but neither resisted. His eyes closed, and every nerve ending was tingling, primed for touch …

The screech of an owl made his heart skip several beats. His eyes flew open and he saw Harry, looking at him in the same shock and consternation he felt. John leapt to his feet, grabbing his light coat and scrambling for his oil lamp. He was aware that he was talking; babbling half-formed words and sounds; nothing that approached a sentence. He was less aware that Harry was doing the same.

“Well …”

“Yes …”

“I’m s…”

“Goodbye.”

John fled, rushing away down the hill at far too great a speed. He didn’t stop, or indeed slow down, until he was home, safely within the walls of the school. He lay on his bed, fully dressed, still wearing even his shoes, eyes wide, staring into the darkness and listening to his pounding, frantic heartbeat.

** ** **

He didn’t sleep a wink all night. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop replaying the moment in his head. The screech of the owl sounded even louder and more vivid than it did at the time. His heartbeat had slowed, eventually, but in place of the thundering rhythm was a churning in his stomach, and a heat throughout his body that felt like fever. In the middle of the night he punched his solid wooden headboard, hard, just for the feeling of pain radiating through his hand and up towards his shoulder.

He couldn’t deny he had been lonely. Ever since his arrival here, really, he’d shut out the world to prevent it from hurting him, but the sadness it had taken him so long to notice had grown and spread. His mind had been chaotic with thoughts and ideas, and he had no-one to talk to about it. Of course he’d been lonely, desperate for company, for anyone to reach out and understand and touch …

But Harry … Harry was a man! His stomach churned more violently as he considered that fact. Of all the people in the world that he could’ve been drawn to, why did it have to be another man? Because he had been drawn to him, irresistibly. No point denying that. He’d never felt an attraction like it. An emotional response, feeling understood and admired, and at the same time, understanding and admiring … together, in that close, companionable silence. A vague sense, he realised, that he’d finally found someone who saw the world the way he did. But it wasn’t solely emotional. He summoned his courage to explore this thoughts further.

It had been a physical attraction, too, stronger than any appeal he’d ever felt. The heat coming from a body close to his own, hearing his breathing, and the touch of his skin as their hands had met …

John couldn’t stand it any more. He left the bed and walked straight to the bathroom, filling the basin with cold water and splashing it relentlessly over his face and neck.

When morning came, it appeared the weather had finally broken, and the humid heat had given way to a mild, rainy day. Still feeling restless and plagued by his thoughts, John went running, round and round the muddy playing fields, soaked to the skin, ignoring the strange looks from teachers and pupils alike.

** ** **

By the time Harry had reached his own house, he had almost calmed down. He poured himself a tall glass of water, which he drank slowly, and then slowly and deliberately dressed himself for bed. He was asleep within seconds.

The scene that greeted him when he drew back his curtains the next morning was unwelcome; he was not fond of dark, gloomy days. He abandoned his plans for the day and settled into his study with a book, but no novel could have been stimulating enough to keep his mind from wandering to the evening before.

He couldn’t quite understand it. He knew, in his life, that he had encountered many interesting and wonderful people, and yet he’d scarcely known the attraction they seemed to see in each other. He’d never allowed himself to think about it, of course, but occasionally it had struck him as strange.

But this new person, this … John Smith. Such an ordinary name, but Harry was certain he’d never met a less ordinary man. Funny, that, when John had spoken so little, and volunteered almost no details about himself and his life. But his eyes had seemed so deep, so full of knowledge and understanding and appreciation. Not to mention, they were the most beautiful eyes Harry had ever seen. Together with the moonlight shining on his hair, and his shy, charming smile … Harry shivered, but it was not, he thought, an unpleasant shiver. Not unpleasant at all.

** ** **

The shock of a return to classes full of noisy pupils on Monday morning jolted John back to reality. His mind was finally able to stop replaying Saturday evening in his head, finally able to stop burdening him with guilt and blame. By lunchtime, he was feeling almost back to normal again, as if the weekend had just been a strange dream, and he felt well enough to venture into the village, to the post office, to buy some stamps.

The post office was crowded at lunch time, full mostly of chattering women. The elderly man behind the counter made small talk about the sudden awfulness of the weather, for the rain that had arrived on Sunday had never really stopped. He collected his stamps and turned to walk out of the door, and walked straight into Harry. He froze, suddenly keenly aware of every inch of his body. Aware of the way the blood had rushed to his face, the way his heart rate had quickened and his breathing had grown shallow and erratic. The shock he felt was mirrored on the face he was staring at. He felt, irrationally, as if all the eyes in the room were on him.

“G-good morning, Mr. Saxon.” His voice was higher than usual, his speech a little quicker.

“Good morning, Mr. Smith.” Harry, he noted, sounded much more composed, and possibly … quite pleased to see him?

Not sure what to do or say next, he smiled ever so slightly, and fled.

It occurred to him, sitting back in his dull, safe room at the school, that there had been no reason to worry about what the other people knew. They knew nothing, would never guess. Come on, you could’ve grabbed him there and then, and they still wouldn’t have known anything. Might’ve done them good, though.

He sat up, sharply, his eyes wide. Where had that thought come from? The very idea … It made his face burn once again.

** ** **

Feeling uncomfortable again, he went out that afternoon for a walk along the river. The rain had finally stopped, although the sky still looked black. He’d needed to get out; he was aware that he was becoming fixated on his problem, and sitting around thinking hadn’t helped. A walk, he guessed, was bound to do him good.

The ground was still wet, and there was no-one else about. He walked about a mile before coming to a narrow place that was difficult to pass. In the dry weather, when the river had been lower, it had been possible to squeeze between the trees and the water, but the rain had made it impossible. There was nothing to do but turn around and go back. It was at that point he realised that he couldn’t remember any of his walk so far. He had still been far too busy thinking about his impossible situation … and about Harry. And, try as he might, that was all he could really think about all the way back.

He reached the end of the path and, reluctant to return to the school, he stood and looked out across the river, to the far bank. There was no path on that side, only overgrown bushes and weeds, and gnarled tree roots. He had no idea how long he stood, before a voice from behind him broke into his thoughts.

“Please, don’t leave.”

His stomach lurched as he turned around, so fast he almost made himself dizzy. It was Harry, of course, wearing a long, tan raincoat but no hat, smiling at him, cautiously.

“What are you doing here?” His voice came out as a whisper.

Harry shrugged, and his smile grew wider. “I like it here.” His eyes cast around the scene, taking in the swirling river and the heavy sky, before coming to rest on John.

Feeling almost as if he had nothing left to lose, John forced himself to ask. “That night … did we – almost, I mean – did we …?”

Looking away, Harry took a deep breath before replying. “Yes. We very nearly did.” He lifted his head to look at John once more. “Are you sorry?”

Uncomfortably flustered, but still compulsively honest, John couldn’t bring himself to lie. “No. I’m not sorry. Not if you’re not.”

Harry sighed and moved half a step closer. “I’m not. It’s all I’ve been able to think about. But it is strange. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before …”

“Nor me,” John broke in, without stopping to think. He smiled, shyly. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about, too.”

“The thing is,” Harry began tentatively. “Nothing can really happen, can it? However much we want it to?”

John couldn’t mask his disappointment. It was hardly a surprise – the same thought had been echoing around his mind ever since Saturday – but he was hoping, desperately, that Harry would have some miraculous solution. He shook his head, dropping his gaze to the ground.

“Unless …” Harry continued, and John looked up, hopefully, biting his lip. “There’s no reason we can’t be … friends. Spend time together. You’d always be welcome in my home.” His smile turned quite mischievous. “And it’s not like anyone here would guess there was anything else to it …”

John’s eyes widened, catching up. The idea was beautiful, and wonderfully tempting. A voice in the back of his mind – his conscience, he supposed – wanted to ask if this was really happening. Was this man, this man he’d met only a week ago, proposing a secret love affair?

And was he considering accepting?

“I’d like that,” he answered softly, so quietly his voice was almost lost in the noise of the river.

Harry took another step closer. “There’s something I’d like …” he began, and he looked at John curiously. “I’d like to see you smile. A real smile, a genuine smile. Forgive me for saying, but you seem so very … sad.”

John looked up in surprise. He knew he’d been feeling glum – well, it had been a bit worse than glum, actually – but he thought he’d been covering it well. Nobody else had seemed to notice. But then again, nobody else had really been paying attention.

“I have been feeling a little low of late …” he started, but the sudden feeling of Harry’s hands in his own cut him off abruptly.

“Not any more. I swear. From now on, you’re only going to be happy.” There was something in Harry’s face, or in his voice, that made John certain that was true. His hands, in Harry’s were shaking, and he seemed to have gone a little light-headed. Impulsively, he leaned forward and kissed Harry.

It was only meant to be a quick kiss, a thank you and a promise, but both seemed reluctant to end it. Harry returned the kiss just as eagerly, and the fingers of their joined hands intertwined and grasped hard. Eventually, John moved his hands away and used them to pull Harry closer to himself, and Harry’s hands moved upwards until they rested on the back of John’s neck. They lost themselves, completely, in the moment.

And neither had any idea they were being watched.

** ** **

Mythical Simplicity (Chapter 3)

Wed, 23 Jan 2008 07:35:36 GMT

Chapter Three

The crowing of the village rooster woke him sharply. He groaned inwardly for a moment, not ready to rise yet. Then he sat bolt upright with a start. What time was it? Was he late?

He had an appointment at nine in the village. It would be just his luck to be late. But … no. Just this once, he was in plenty of time. He wandered downstairs, yawning. Stopping by the front door to collect the post from the mat, he headed into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He found it hard to start the day without it.

He put the kettle on to boil and sat down at the table, sorting through the envelopes in his hand. All addressed to him.

Mr H Saxon.

He seemed to be getting an awful lot of post these days.

An hour later he was fully awake, dressed, and ready for his appointment. He had a large, fine car parked in the driveway, but as it was a pleasant morning he decided to walk.

“Good morning, Mr. Saxon!” An elderly lady carrying a basket over one arm greeted him.

“Good morning, Mrs. Parker. Lovely weather we’re having.” He smiled and waved, and continued on his way.

He’d only been living in the village a matter of days, but everyone seemed to know him. Of course, his father had been a prominent and respected figure in the village until his recent, sudden death. And Harry himself had grown up in the village, although he’d gone away to university at sixteen and, other than one or two visits, he’d never really returned. But the people had been so kind, dropping in to welcome him, often bringing gifts.

It had never really been Harry’s intention to come back here. After leaving university he’d gone to London, where he’d found work writing for one of the newspapers. Whilst his colleagues wrote about politics and royalty and business, he had found himself drawn to the working people in the city. He had been horrified by the conditions they lived their lives in, but it had made him feel good to finally bring this injustice to light. He liked feeling like he was making a difference in the world, even if it brought him little recognition or prosperity. But the recent death of his father meant the family business was left unattended, and Harry had been forced to take a break from his work.

He turned a corner in the lane and almost fell over two small boys, the older boy comforting the younger. It did not appear to be working, however, and the little one was clearly distraught.

Harry stopped and dropped to one knee, looking the small boy in the face. “Whatever is the matter?”

The sandy-haired boy rubbed tears from his face and pointed up into the tree. Harry looked up and saw a few colourful ribbons wrapped around the branches.

“It’s his kite, sir. It got stuck in the tree. I told him not to fly it here, but … well, he only got it this morning. It was his birthday present.” The older boy appeared to be his brother; they had the same dark blue eyes.

Harry reached out and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder, smiling kindly. “What’s your name?”

A sniffle, and then, “Michael, sir. Michael Hobbs.”

“And is it your birthday, Michael?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mine, too. How old are you, Michael?”

“Six …” He had stopped crying, and was now looking at Harry with mild interest.

“Oh, me too!” Harry widened his eyes, trying to look convincing.

All signs of distress vanished from Michael’s face, and he giggled. “No, you’re not” You’re a grown-up, like my daddy.”

Harry looked down at his arms and legs in exaggerated surprise. “Oh, no! Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m not six. Well, if I’m a grown-up, I should be able to get that kite down for you …”

He jumped back to his feet and looked upwards, taking in the situation. He could climb the tree, if he had to, but he didn’t fancy turning up at an important meeting looking like he’d been playing in the woods. He looked around him and saw a long branch that had fallen from a nearby tree.

Even with this help, he was only just able to reach the high branches. He tried and failed to dislodge the kite, so in the end he simply threw the stick up into the tree. It had the desired effect, and Harry deftly caught the kite in his right hand and the stick in his left, as they fell.

“Well, there we are. Happy birthday, Michael.” He handed him the kite, smiled at his brother, and continued on his way.

“Happy birthday, sir!” The boys’ laughter could be heard as they ran away down the lane.

** ** **

Harry arrived at the small office used by his family’s solicitor and checked the time. Unfortunately he was late again, his early start offset by his rescue of the kite. He rapped politely on the door, which opened a moment later.

“Good morning, Mr. Saxon. How are you?” The well-dressed gentleman on the other side of the doorstep had neat white hair and a thin moustache.

“Very well, Mr. Grant. I’m sorry I wasn’t earlier … I got delayed. Are you well?”

“Mustn’t grumble. Although, we good do with a bit of rain, for the garden! Do come in.” Harry stepped inside the building, removing his hat as he went. “Now, I shan’t keep you, it being Saturday and all, but there are some forms that require completion, as regards your inheritance of your father’s business. Only a legal formality; shouldn’t take long. Have a seat.”

Harry sat down in a carved wooden chair next to a matching desk and took the small pile of papers he was handed. He removed heavy fountain pen from his pocket and began to write.

Name: Harold Saxon.

He hadn’t been called Harold for years; he’d always felt the name archaic and pompous, preferring the more relaxed Harry.

Date of birth: 28^th May, 1880.

He was thirty-three years old today.

The rest of the questions were no more challenging, and Harry was soon finished. He handed them to Mr. Grant and put on his hat, preparing to leave.

“Oh, Mr. Saxon, before you go, Mr. Blackwell from the school asked me to remind you there is a meeting of the governors on Monday afternoon. You will be taking your father’s seat, won’t you?”

“Yes … for the remainder of the school year, at least.” He bade the man farewell and began to walk back home. Across the green fields he could see the school buildings. He hadn’t attended this school, of course; his father had been wealthy and Harry had been very bright, so he had been sent away to Eton at the age of eleven. To his right, near the river, he caught sight of Michael and his brother, flying their kite. They made him smile; he liked children. It made him a little sad that he’d never had any of his own, but marriage and family had never happened for him. He imagined it would’ve disappointed his mother, but she had died when he was very small.

Shaking off the melancholy thoughts, he began to walk once more, back to the large, grand, empty house.

** ** **

John Smith dismissed his last class on Monday, and gazed out of the open window. His pupils’ day might be over, but his was not. There was a governors’ meeting this afternoon, and although he was a junior member of staff and not required to be present at such events, he had been asked to attend this meeting in order to be introduced to the governing body. It was the hottest day of the year so far, humid and airless. A heat haze had reduced the visibility from his window to less than a mile, and even the school, with its high ceilings and thick walls, was uncomfortably warm inside.

Even so, as he stared out of the window he wasn’t thinking about the heat. He was more than a little nervous about the meeting; he enjoyed the day-to-day work of teaching, very much, but the politics of the higher levels made him anxious. School governors are usually important figures, and many are large contributors to their schools. It is critical to make a good first impression.

He arrived at the meeting a little early, and only the headmaster, Peter Blackwell, was present. Soon, the other governors started to arrive, and John became involved in conversation with the vicar, whom he’d met several times before. Eventually, all were asked to take their seats. After the usual words of thanks and self-congratulation, introductions are made, and to John’s surprise he is not the only new face.

“After the recent sad death of our friend Edward Saxon, his son Harold has agreed to take on his responsibilities for what remains of the year. Edward served as governor for this school for more than three decades, and while we will miss him terribly, I’m sure we’d all like to welcome Mr. Saxon and thank him for giving us his time.” Mr. Blackwell reached over to shake his hand, and John’s attention is directed to the newcomer.

Harold Saxon was, like himself, much younger than most of the other men in the room. His hair was short and neat, and his clothes, though simple, appeared expensive. He looked friendly, and modest, as he politely shook hands with the headmaster and several other men, before Mr. Blackwell cleared his throat, preparing to continue.

“And today we are also welcoming a new member of our teaching staff. Mr. John Smith was, as you know, appointed at the end of last term to take over the teaching of history, and I would like to take this opportunity to formally welcome him to the school.” John smiled. Mr. Blackwell could be a little pompous, but he seemed like a good man. John shook the hands of those to either side of him, before reaching across the table to shake the hand of Mr. Saxon.

As he did, he suddenly wondered if he’d met the man somewhere before. He couldn’t tell if it was in his handshake, or his eyes, or his smile, but there seemed to be something … familiar … about him.

“Nice to meet you Mr. Smith.”

“And you, Mr. Saxon.” He released his hand, and his mind was swept up in the matters at hand.

** ** **

Harry sat quietly through the meeting. He had little to contribute at so early a stage, he felt, and attempted to pay close attention to the discussions. But most related to finances and funding, and his mind kept wandering.

And when it did, it invariably wandered to the man sitting across from him. John Smith, he thought, looked almost too young to be a teacher; at least, in Harry’s mind, where teachers were all middle-aged men with greying hair. But there seemed to be something unusual about the man, besides his youth. He’d given Harry a strange, searching look when they were introduced, even though he’s certain they’ve never met before. Harry looked across at him once more, and the immediate impression was one of quiet, but deep, unhappiness. He seemed so very sad. Being a generally cheerful sort of chap, Harry felt sympathy for him, but he told himself it was none of his business. He really didn’t intend to stay here for very long, anyway.

** ** **

When the tedious, seemingly endless discussions finally drew to a close, Mr. Blackwell turned to Harold Saxon. “Well, I think that concludes our current business. Would you like to say a few words?” John recognised that the headmaster is being polite; he’d noticed that Mr. Saxon hadn’t said a word during the meeting, and was trying to involve him. Give him the chance to ask any questions, if he hadn’t understood.

Mr. Saxon got to his feet slowly, looking somewhat embarrassed. He opened his mouth to speak and then paused for a moment, as if torn between two choices. “Thank you, all, for making me so welcome. I know how highly you thought of my father, and the great regard he was held in. All I can do is endeavour to carry on his good work, and I look forward to the task.” The men around the table applauded politely.

John excused himself soon afterwards. The heat in the air hadn’t dissipated as night grew nearer, and he cut short his evening walk, retiring to bed a little earlier than usual.

Late into the night, however, he lay awake. It was easy to blame his insomnia on the heat, and he was sure that was partly responsible, but his mind had become involved in a puzzle. Why had that stranger tonight, Harold Saxon, seemed so familiar? He wondered, idly, if perhaps they had known each other in childhood. But Saxon’s father had been a governor here for years, so his son must have lived here also, while John had grown up in Nottingham, far away. It was impossible. But the feeling of familiarity had returned, and wouldn’t leave, although he couldn’t imagine why.

** ** **

Mythical Simplicity (Chapter Two)

Tue, 22 Jan 2008 07:53:37 GMT

Chapter Two

He glanced around, half curious, half anxious. He had the impression that the TARDIS’ solution to any problem involving the Master would simply be to jettison whichever room he’s currently inhabiting. Of all the beings the Master hurt, the Doctor is alone in his forgiveness.

In the end, he was struck dumb by the suggestion his ship has presented him with. She had lowered the Chameleon Arch from the ceiling, and an engraved fob-watch now lay on the console.

“What?” His ship must be more damaged than he thought. His experiences as a human had brought indescribable pain and loss to many, including himself. She had to be aware of that … so what was she thinking?

He picked up the watch and turned it over and over in his hand. This was, of course, not the same watch as last time. That had been left behind. But there were others and, in fact, no two were the same. The watches belonging to John Smith and Professor Yana had certainly been similar enough for Martha to make the immediate connection, but she would never have noticed the subtle differences in the inscriptions. They weren’t significant differences, just enough to tell two of them apart.

The screen on the console was flashing, and the Doctor stared at it in curiosity. Now there was an interesting development. Had the TARDIS done that all on her own? His ship was still full of surprises.

Perhaps it was actually very simple. The watch was, after all, a watch. With a tiny bit of twiddling, and the addition of some slightly anachronistic parts, it could be set. Set to open at a particular time, keeping the process firmly within the control of the Time Lord who initiated the change, rather than the innocent human created as a result. The human would never have to know.

In spite of himself, the Doctor found he was intrigued. If his time in 1913 had taught him anything, it was that life as a human wasn’t as blissfully simple as he’d always rather fancied it to be. Being human didn’t mean you stopped thinking and caring so deeply about the important things … it just meant that different things were important.

But one aspect of humanity appealed, strongly. To have a smaller sense of time, to stop seeing everything as a cog in the great machine of eternity …

That, he thought, was why being here with the Master was driving him so close to desperation. The past they shared was so long, and great, that they were trapped beneath the weight of it, caught in the same patterns, over and over …

The past was so large and strong it had bound their limbs and hidden their eyes, preventing them from ever finding their way to the future.

But here … here was an escape from that. A place he could go to where the past wouldn’t rule the present, wouldn’t lie around his ankles like a ball and chain. And it wasn’t giving up, it wasn’t abandoning the Master … it was just giving him a break from it all, and giving them both time to calm down.

He stopped. Did he really want to be human again? After last time, he’d sworn never to take that option again. He’d come close to destroying the Chameleon Arch. Idly, he entered some information into the TARDIS. 1913’s not such a bad time – sophisticated enough to live comfortably, but before the horror and cynicism of the great twentieth century wars – but he can’t go back to the same place. He’d enjoyed the profession, though. It seemed to come naturally to him.

The TARDIS would need to stay firmly locked, providing enough life support systems to keep the Master alive, while he was away.

He wondered how much time away he would need. Last time had fallen just short of two months. He decided three months would be more than enough. That would be a good time for the watch to automatically open.

He ran his fingers over the controls, still undecided as to whether this was a good idea. Altering his biology and hiding in the early twentieth century because the Master was getting on his nerves sounded a bit excessive.

The sound of footsteps getting closer told him the Master was on his way. He couldn’t face him, not now, not after what just happened. Quickly, he set up the equipment and jammed the machine onto his head. He clenched his teeth as the waves of pain shot through him, but he didn’t scream. It seems less, somehow, than last time.

** ** **

John Smith stood on the playing fields, supervising the boys on their cross-country run. He breathed deeply, admiring the pleasant view of the river and the gentle hills.

This move had been just what he had needed. He’d left the school in the north, and taken a position here, in Oxfordshire. It hadn’t been a choice, really.

He couldn’t understand, quite, how his life had gone so badly wrong. The school he worked for had been attacked, and people had been killed, and that was awful. But the attackers had seemed particularly interested in John – for no reason that he could fathom – and whilst nobody had openly blamed him for the tragedy, the sense that he was implicated somehow had made people suspicious and generally unfriendly. Unable to stand it, he’d written to other schools, asking if anyone needed a history teacher. He’d taken the first offer he’d received.

It wasn’t so different, this place. Children of this age seemed to be largely the same wherever you went. The other teachers were friendly, but John kept mostly to himself. He taught his classes, and spent his free time reading, and walking in the hills. Alone, but he was getting used to that.

He reasoned that the move must’ve done him good, because he slept much more soundly. His nights used to be filled with vivid, chaotic dreams – often nightmares – but they have stopped. Indeed, he’d quite forgotten what the dreams had been about.

It was a slightly dull, but very peaceful life, and John was happy with that.

** ** **

On Friday, he sat quietly at lunchtime, reading the essays his second form class had written. They were not terribly good, but they were a great deal better than when he had first arrived. He noticed someone come and sit down next to him.

It was Richard Stanley, who taught Mathematics. “Good afternoon. Have you had a good morning?”

Stanley was a friendly, polite man, a little older than John. “Yes, thank you. How about you?”

“Oh, blasted sixth-formers.” He shook his head in frustration, although it came with a small amount of fondness. “They’re getting a little too big for their boots, now they’ve realised they’ve only a month left at school. Now, John,” he said, changing the subject abruptly, “my wife really does insist that you come for dinner. She feels terrible that we haven’t welcomed you properly.”

The Stanleys had invited John for dinner several times since he’d arrived. John hadn’t really felt up to it, preferring his own company, but was beginning to feel rude and uncomfortable about the rejected invitations.

Not only that, but he was running out of excuses.

“Yes, I’m so sorry about that. Relocating does leave one with rather a lot of loose ends to tie up. But that’s all seen to, now.”

Stanley beamed. “Excellent. Katherine will be delighted. Would you like to come tonight?”

John looked uncertain. “Tonight? Isn’t that a little … soon? Wouldn’t Mrs. Stanley prefer to know when to expect company?”

Stanley had dismissed that with a tut and a flap of his hands, and John found himself, four hours later, walking away from the school with his colleague, down the lane that led into the village.

** ** **

Stanley’s home was a modest little cottage, the epitome of an English village home, with its thatched roof and ivy-covered walls. Two little girls in summer dresses were playing in the front garden, and they rushed to greet their father in a flurry of childish affection. John stood back a little, taking in the idyllic scene.

“Girls, this is Mr. Smith. Run and tell your mother he’ll be joining us for dinner tonight.” He smiled at John as he held the gate open for him.

Katherine Stanley was a small, dark-haired woman with a warm, welcoming manner. “It’s so good to meet you at last, Mr. Smith! I’ve been telling Richard for weeks he must invite you. What must you think of our manners?”

John smiled, instantly put at ease. “Not at all, Mrs. Stanley. It’s entirely my fault. I’ve been so busy since I’ve arrived, I haven’t been able to accept any of your husband’s invitations. I’m sorry to have been so rude. It’s very nice to meet you.”

Once inside, Stanley sank into a chair and pulled his youngest daughter onto his knee, while Katherine took John’s coat, handed him a drink, fussed with pots and pans, and sent her eldest daughter to set another place at the dining table, apparently all at the same time.

John chatted politely with them, cheered by the scene of cosy harmony and warmth. Over dinner, John noticed that the food was excellent; far better than anything served at the school. Afterwards, Katherine left to put the little girls to bed, and John followed Stanley out into the garden. Midsummer was approaching, and late in the evening the air was still warm. Stanley asked John some questions about work, until Katherine joined them.

“So, Mr. Smith –“

“John, please.” Mister always sounded so strange, no matter how often he heard it.

“John, Richard tells me you’re living up at the school?”

“Yes. The staff quarters are very pleasant.”

“You’re not married, then? I wondered if perhaps your family might be joining you at a later date, as you’re new to the area …”

John shook his head. He had no idea why the question should make him so uncomfortable. He should be used to it by now. Stanley rolled his eyes, slightly, at his wife’s inquisitiveness and went to fetch another drink.

“No, Mrs. Stanley. I never married.”

“And there isn’t anyone …?”

He shook his head again. “There was, but …” he trailed off. Even if he wished to discuss the pain that was still fresh in his mind, he couldn’t describe it. He’d been so happy with Joan. Why hadn’t he been able to make it work?

Katherine must have seen the pain in his eyes, because she quickly changed the subject, asking for his impressions about the local area. John quickly relaxed again, and in the end he even began to feel glad that he’d come.

When the hour grew late he thanked them both for their hospitality, and walked briskly back up the lane towards the school. But as he walked his pace slowed, and his mood changed. He felt odd, somehow, low and … empty. He never felt he’d disliked his life; he had a job he enjoyed, he had time to learn and read and think, and this new place was undeniably picturesque and idyllic. He’d never felt it wasn’t enough for him.

But perhaps the reason for that had been that he simply hadn’t felt anything since he’d come here. The atmosphere at the school was proper and formal, but cold. It was easy to live in that world and forget you had emotions. That, he thought somewhat bitterly, was probably the plan. But having been enveloped in a world of warm, homely comfort for an evening, the idea of returning to that emptiness was almost distressing. He felt unhappy, in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time. He felt … lonely.

** ** **

The Master’s sense as a Time Lord told him the Doctor was gone long before he reached the console room. The TARDIS had righted everything, erased or hidden all evidence of the Doctor’s activities. His first thought was to try to escape, but the doors were still firmly locked. They shocked him when he tried to open them; only mildly, but a mild electric shock is still an electric shock. In fury, he yanked and hammered at the controls. “You moody, spiteful, decrepit piece of junk! Tell me where he’s gone!”

Whether the TARDIS felt fear or sympathy at the note in his voice, she relented a little, and let him see the note. It was written in rushed, messy handwriting and, unlike any verbal communication from the Doctor, used the fewest possible words.

I need some time. We both do. I’ve gone where I know you won’t follow. Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it. Take care of yourself, and try not to … you know.

The Master seethes, keeping a firm grip on his temper until he can figure this out. The only thing that made being held captive here the slightest bit bearable was the knowledge that, for all intents and purposes, the Doctor was a prisoner too. And the Master, full of malice, made their joint captivity has difficult as he possibly could. The Doctor was simply not allowed to escape, certainly not whilst the Master was still unable to do so.

He glowered at the TARDIS, knowing she had assisted him. He felt like ripping her apart and turning her into a Paradox Machine again. Just for spite.

Realising the note tells him nothing, he crunches it up in his hand and flings it on the floor. Where he won’t follow? There are few places the Master fears to tread. His first guess, of course, would be that the Doctor had run away to Earth. It almost had to be a reflex, by this time. But the Doctor knows the Master won’t hesitate to go there. And the last thing the Doctor would want to do at the moment is lead a furious, malevolent Master right back to the scene of his latest devastation.

Finding the Doctor was usually easy. But once his usual stomping ground was ruled out … well, the universe was a big place.

** ** **

The first day the Master spent alone in the TARDIS wasn’t too bad. He had a good poke around the ship, finding out things about the Doctor he hadn’t known. Nothing about the end of the Time War, an event the Master was desperate to know more about. When he discovered that the Daleks had survived he was taken by a fury that almost – almost – distracted him from the anger he felt towards the Doctor. Not that the two furies were entirely separate. He knew the knowledge that he had ran, while the Doctor had stayed till the end, had been the end, would torment him until at least his next regeneration.

He learned a great deal, though, about the Doctor’s adventures since then. He works out that the Doctor must now be in his tenth incarnation. He hadn’t known that until then. That meant he’d missed both the eighth, and ninth.

He’d missed a lot, stuck in a human body, at the end of the universe.

** ** **

By the second day, however, the Master was bored.

Without the Doctor there to irritate, time felt twice as long as usual. There wasn’t even any point plotting or scheming, because he knew he wasn’t getting out of there any time soon. Although, to be fair, he did pass a couple of hours planning the many and varied ways he’d make the Doctor pay when he returned.

More conscious of the time than ever before, he found himself looking at his watch constantly.

** ** **

By the end of the third day, he was at breaking point. When the boredom settled in, long-forgotten thoughts had started to fill his mind. And the thoughts were uncomfortable to start with, painful as they develop, and excruciating by night.

He knew, now, why he kept himself so busy. He can’t bear to be alone with his thoughts. Even trapped in the TARDIS he’d occupied his mind with the Doctor – anything, but think about himself.

He retrieved the Doctor’s note from where he’d flung it on the floor, and unscrewed it. I’ll be back before you know it. That was the Doctor, all right. Forever making promises he couldn’t possibly keep.

The Master sat at the TARDIS console, and kept his voice low and controlled. “Tell me where he is.”

A short “bleep” came back from the controls. Perhaps, she couldn’t.

“Right then. Show me where he is.”

A whirring noise started up, and all the lights went dim. Impatient, the Master jumped to his feet. “Come on, then! Show me!”

He screamed as something landed on his head. He panicked, recognising the agonising feeling, but he was too paralysed by the pain to do anything about it.

Mythical Simplicity (Chapter 1)

Mon, 21 Jan 2008 18:59:16 GMT

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The chair was soft and comfortable. The lighting in the study was perfect; warm and cosy, but bright enough to read. Gentle strains of music were streaming from the aged gramophone in the corner. A plate of delicious snacks rested on the desk. It was wonderful, really.

And the Doctor was about eight seconds away from completely losing his mind.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He’d come here to try and escape, try to relax. He’d put the gramophone on to blot out the noise a little, but he didn’t dare turn it up any higher. He put his book down on top of the snack plate, and added his glasses to the pile. Rubbing his face, he turned and gazed behind him into the TARDIS corridor, torn between concern and frustration and desperation.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

It had been, he reckoned, about nine weeks since he’d brought the Master back to the TARDIS after the horrendous Toclafane incident. The Master had sworn to make him suffer, and he hadn’t broken his promise.

At first, the Master had been blindly destructive. Full of rage, he’d turned his fury on the TARDIS. He couldn’t touch the controls – the Doctor had made sure of that – but that hadn’t prevented him from attempting sabotage on everything else.

The worst moment had been when he’d found the tiny room in the attic, no more than a cupboard, really, where the Doctor stored things he never wanted to see again …

As he walks up the stairs and sees the heavy, thick metal door open, the Doctor mentally kicks himself. Then he physically kicks himself, too. He deserves it, and worse. He’d sealed this door with Time Lord DNA, but he hadn’t been specific about it. Hadn’t needed to be, really.

What a mistake that had been …

Many of the alien plots the Doctor has foiled have left more than memories. Some have left items – artefacts – that the Doctor has been forced to requisition for the safety of the planet. He doesn’t particularly want them in his ship – his home – but there was rarely any other option. So he sealed them away, up here in the attic, and tried to forget about them.

He’d been so successful at that, he hadn’t even remembered to increase the security when he brought the Master on board.

Most of the items are of no use to the Master, not while he’s trapped here. Oh, doubtless he could wreak havoc with any of them, given a free rein and a working TARDIS, but without them, most will be frustratingly useless.

Mostly.

And it’s a jumble to be sure, but the Master’s always been particularly efficient at working out what can be useful to him, and what to dispose. So the Doctor peers around the corner very cautiously …

Oh, this is not good. The Master has the Carrionite portal, the glass sphere the witchlike creatures were trapped inside after William Shakespeare – with some help – foiled their plan to replace humanity with their odd branch of science.

The Master is shaking the sphere, like a human child with a snow globe. He shakes it violently, then presses it to his ear and listens to the Carrionites scream in pain and fury. His eyes close, and he smiles. Strange how the smile does not look evil.

Then he sees the Doctor.

“Carrionites, Doctor? You have been busy.”

The Doctor climbs the last of the stairs, folds his arms, and stares down at the Master in disapproval. The Master looks innocently childlike once more, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by curiosities, holding one of his prizes to his ear. Just like a little boy on Christmas morning.

“You didn’t know? I thought you somehow planned all my journeys this year.”

“No, not this one. So, how did you trap them in here?”

Remembering the moment, the Doctor almost smiles. “Magic.”

The Master arches his brows at him.

“Really. A spell. A brilliant joint project between William Shakespeare and J.K. Rowling. Helped along a little by Martha Jones.”

Smiling mockingly, the Master retorts, “How sweet. And ... Shakespeare. The Carrionites must have been able to use his power over words to release themselves.”

Trying to control his expression so the Master can’t see how shocked – and impressed – he is, the Doctor nods slightly.

“Such an ingenious plan,” the Master continues, rolling the glass ball over and over in his hands. “And yet, perhaps … overcomplicated? Did any of them wonder what would happen if they just did THIS!”

With that, he hurls the sphere against the wall. It hits a metal strut and shatters into a billion shards. The Carrionite swarm fills the room and spills over, into the rest of the TARDIS. They are screeching, cackling, incoherent with glee. They haven’t realised they are still trapped. The Doctor knows he only has seconds before they are attacked.

He tries, so hard, to remember the correct sequence of words the great playwright had used to stop the Carrionites. He remembers the end, naturally, but the beginning is lost forever.

In the end, as the invading witches become more frantic, he realises he only has one option. After binding himself and the Master to the console, he pilots his ship to the edge of a giant star. Then he turns off some of the TARDIS’ life support systems, and opens the door.

The Carrionites are pulled by the intense gravity into the heart of the star, to be burned up forever. Their shrieks seem to reverberate through the ship.

When it is over, he unties the cords around the console, releasing both Time Lords, but he can’t bring himself to look at the Master. He really, really hadn’t wanted to do that. He is furious, his eyes full of darkness and guilt and betrayal. This is the face he finally turns to the Master.

The Master tilts his head back and laughs, before rising and walking away. Today was a game, and he knows he has won.

The Doctor sits on the floor of the console room for many hours, waiting for the ringing in his ears to stop

** ** **

As the Master calmed down from the rage he had reached when the Paradox reversed, and as he asserted some control with his spiteful games, he became more pointed in his attacks. He really didn’t need Carrionites or any other aliens to get to the Doctor. He knew him well enough to do it on his own.

And whilst he knew he was mad, he was sane enough to know that to hurt someone truly, they have to care about you. Using someone’s feelings against them is such a low, human thing to do, but the Master was not above it. Not when the Doctor made it so easy.

He never understood the Doctor’s need to save people. He understood that some people were important and useful and should be preserved, but as often as not the Doctor seemed to be saving people who had no right to expect such grace. And they were rarely grateful.

The Master smiled ironically as he realised he himself probably fell into that category. Of course, “saving” had been the last thing he’d wanted. Being “stopped” by the Doctor made him angry and embarrassed and indignant, but he was used to that by now. The idea of being “saved” by him really was too much. And the Doctor had to know that …

Waking one morning, the Doctor gradually becomes aware that something’s wrong. He’s not in a bed – he’s not even lying down – and his head hurts. That, and he can’t move. He’s almost afraid to open his eyes.

When he does, he wishes he hasn’t. He’s tied to the chair in the console room and the Master’s face, smiling vindictively, is about eight inches from his own.

Apparently having learned from past mistakes, the Master wastes no time on small talk before he begins. This is an impressive accomplishment; he always rather enjoyed the sound of his own voice. The Doctor understands, of course.

Counting on his fingers, he reels off names. “President Winters. Professor Yana. Chantho. Captain Jack, time and time and time again. All the little Utopia humans …”

The Doctor raises his eyebrows in a question, one to which he suspects he already knows the answer.

“All people you couldn’t save. And those are just the ones you couldn’t save from me!” He wiggled his fingers to demonstrate. “I’m sure I don’t need to go on. After all, it would take all day. Reaching back through time, naming all the people who trusted you … the ones you failed, the ones you abandoned, the ones you lost.”

The Doctor visibly flinches, but he doesn’t break. It’s horrifying to hear this, more so to hear it in the Master’s voice, but it’s nothing he hasn’t already thought a thousand times before. Nothing the Master can do to him can be as bad as what he does to himself.

The Master stands and roams around the room as he talks. “But let’s not forget the most important one. There was one person it was most important to save, wasn’t there, Doctor? One person you didn’t just want to save, but needed to save. Who was that person, Doctor?”

He’s finding breathing a little difficult by this point, and he’s not certain that’s due to the bindings around his body. He refuses to be ashamed or embarrassed, however, and lifts his head to look his captor in the eye.

“It was you, Master. It still is.”

“Oh, he never learns! Does he?” The Master is almost shouting by this point. He’s standing next to the Doctor once more, leaning down over him, his hand resting on the chair, right by the Doctor’s head. His face is, again, mere inches away. His body language couldn’t possibly be more intimidating. “Some people can’t be saved. Some people don’t want to be saved. There’s nothing you can do, Doctor,” he spits the name, sarcastically, “nothing in the universe, that can make me who you need me to be.”

His voice is lower now, and deadly. He releases the Doctor from the ties with a tug, and punches him in the face. The Doctor bends forward, winded and hurt, and the Master walks away towards the door.

He pauses at the door and looks back, ready to deliver his knockout blow. “And every time you try to save me, and fail, you push me further away, closer to the edge. So you should really know: everything I’ve done, everything I am … it’s all because of you.”

Job done, he floats almost giddily from the room.

** ** **

Some of the defiance, the stubbornness, had left the Doctor after that. The Master wasn’t sure whether he still believed he could save him (probably; he did hang onto these ideas with extraordinary tenacity) or whether he simply couldn’t bring himself to release him.

The Doctor had started avoiding the Master, keeping the TARDIS in the Vortex and staying in faraway, long-forgotten rooms of his ship. It was the first real concession he’d made to the Master’s presence, and the Master felt like he’d won another small victory.

But things had gone quiet again, and the Master had decided it was time to take his plan to the next level. He was a little surprised he’d waited so long, and this phase looked like being the most fun, by far …

Unable to sleep, the Doctor lay in the darkness of his bedroom, his hands behind his head, thinking. About the Master, of course. It was rare, these days, for any other thought to hold his attention for long. He’d never found out what the pounding, thumping noise had been, but it was entirely possible that the Master was just trying to provoke him. A straw, to break the camel’s back. How did it come to this?

He wasn’t aware that he was no longer alone in the room until he felt the bed dip away next to him.

“What do you want?” There were so many emotions he was trying to keep out of his voice; fear and defeat, and guilt, and hope, that he couldn’t disguise them all.

The Master’s voice was lower than usual. “I’ve come to your bedroom in the middle of the night. You’re barely dressed. What do you think I want?”

“What? Stop it. Now.” He tries to sound commanding, or horrified, but he knows he’s not convincing anyone. It’s too complicated, but in truth, he does want the Master to leave. One phrase is resounding through his brain.

Not like this. Not like this. Not like this.

He tries to sit up, but the Master presses his arms down on the bed and kisses him fiercely, crushing him into the mattress, holding his wrists so tightly he’s sure to leave bruises. To match the fading purple one on his cheek, perhaps.

Eventually, the Master pulls away. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

Summoning the last of his resolve, the Doctor complies. “I don’t want this.” His tone is one of dangerous neutrality.

“Oh, but I don’t think you mean that …” The Master kisses him again, this time pressing his whole body against the Doctor’s. Through the thin sheet, the Doctor can feel the Master’s arousal. Fighting an urge that might be instinct, or memory, he battles to keep from wrapping his arms and legs around the Master’s body.

As the Doctor fights a war with his strongest impulses, the Master pushes him to breaking point. He removes his own shirt and slides upwards, his chest over the Doctor’s face. The Doctor is unable to resist opening his mouth and licking the soft, cool skin.

Above him, in the darkness, the Master smiles confidently.

He slides back down, and now his hands are removing the Doctor’s clothes. Once or twice the Doctor pushes his hands away, but there is no strength in the action. Soon the Doctor’s clothes litter the floor, and the bedsheet has been cast to one side.

The Master looks down at his prize. He can’t see the Doctor, lying naked and aroused, but he can picture it clearly. His hands roam all over the Doctor’s body, possessive and demanding. After one more deep, fierce kiss, he rolls the Doctor over onto his front and lifts his up on his knees.

“Tell me you want me to stop,” he growls at the Doctor.

“I … I want … I want you …,’ he trails off, apparently unable to finish. The Master laughs silently.

Reaching around with his right hand to stroke the Doctor, he grasps his hips with the left hand and begins to force his way inside. He’s feeling wildly energetic, and it shows. From time to time he grunts in exertion. Beneath him the Doctor gasps and moans.

The Master comes first, but the sensation triggers the Doctor’s climax. Caught up in pleasure, he reaches a hand up to stroke the Master’s hair. “I … I love you.”

Frozen in time for a second, the Master wonders how long it’s been since the Doctor said those words. He hadn’t been expecting this, certainly not the first time.

He pulls himself away from the bed quickly, grabs the Doctor’s shirt and pants from the floor, and throws them on the bed. “Put your clothes back on,” he spits, voice full of venom. He storms from the room and slams the door behind him.

** ** **

Lying in the dark, the Doctor felt numb.

He didn’t know why he’d said that. What had possessed him? He’d just been … overwhelmed. For a few moments he’d truly lost control.

The truth was, it had been more than a few moments. He should never have allowed the Master to do that. It was cold and cruel, a twisted perversion of the passion they had shared as young men. And, occasionally, as not-so-young men. But the Doctor had always avoided surrendering so completely, knowing the dangers.

The Master had shown him no consideration, no respect. He’d shown him nothing but contempt. That had never happened before, and … the Doctor had allowed it. He felt sick.

He dressed and left the room, unable to lie there any longer. His feet took him, almost unbidden, to the console room. He sat in the chair and stroked the controls with a finger. Talking to the only one he had left, he asked his ship. “What do I do now?”

A clunking noise was heard, and things started to move.

** ** **

Epilogue

Sat, 05 Jan 2008 21:12:18 GMT

Author's note: The very final word in this story, and more fun to write than the other four chapters put together! Of course, it helps that it's so short. But sweet, I hope.

Many days later, the Doctor lies half asleep in his bed. Keeping the Master happy has turned out to be exhausting work, albeit of the very best kind. With permission, he’s left him listening to some music, to slip away for a nap.

Without speaking, the Master enters and begins to undress him. First, he removes his tie and moves it upwards, fastening it firmly around his eyes. The Doctor smiles, responding to the touch, and makes his pleasure plain. The Master hates it when he fails to show enthusiasm.

He can’t see the Master’s satisfied grin, but he feels him restrain his arms and begin to tease his bare skin. Their knowledge of each other’s bodies has skyrocketed; now they now all the fine details of their latest forms. Soon the Doctor is gasping and begging, shouting the Master’s name, and nothing affects the Master like that. He’s so close to ecstasy. A moment later, though, and the real heat will begin … their minds have never been so connected, so free of barriers or hidden areas. The resulting explosion is incredible, every time. It can blow both of their minds for a good couple of hours.

They never get there. The shrill sound of the Doctor’s mobile phone interrupts. This happens fairly frequently, as the Doctor’s human friends try to smooth out the recent alien encounters their planet has experienced.

The Master instantly releases the Doctor, loosening the tie from around his eyes. He feels a swell of satisfaction as he notes that the Doctor seems even more frustrated than him.

“Go. Go on.”

The Doctor wavers. This is what he does – or, at least, it’s what he’s always done – but he has other priorities now. “I don’t have to …”

“I said go …” the Master’s tone is firm without being angry. “But I want you back by six.”

The Doctor breaks into a grin, a cheeky irresistible grin. “Yes, Master.”

“And you’ll have to do something extraordinarily special to make up for it when you get back.”

Another brilliant grin. “Yes, Master.” He disappears.

The Master stretches on his back and waits for the tension in his body to subside. He knows the Doctor probably won’t be back by six. Emergencies keep their own schedule. But if he isn’t … well, it’s an excuse for some delicious punishment, isn’t it?

The Doctor arrives back at exactly two minutes past six. The Master makes him pay, exquisitely, for every second of those two minutes. This time when they get close, there are no interruptions. It is four hours before they recover; an hour before they can even speak.

In that time, the Doctor stays inside the Master’s mind, enjoying the sound of … silence. There’s no noise any more, hasn’t been since the first time their minds connected fully. Neither can properly explain it. It doesn’t matter. He rests his head on the Master’s chest and listens to the heartsbeat instead.

FIN.

Chapter 4, Part 4: The Road to the Unknown.

Fri, 04 Jan 2008 10:22:42 GMT

Author's Note: Here we finally are. I really do apologise for the several, erm, months it took me to write this last chapter. It's completely finished now, even the epilogue, and will be posted through the next 24 hours. And I'm never, ever attempting a project this size again!

The Master watches on a fuzzy data screen as Peliera and the Doctor squeeze into the maintenance pod. The Doctor’s having trouble folding his long legs inside the tiny cabin without whacking his head on the roof, and the Master would’ve been mildly amused by this if it hadn’t been for the way Peliera – a sharp, hard-bitten, middle-aged scientist – was suddenly grinning and giggling like a teenager. The Master’s eyes narrow and his fingers grip his chair tightly. An involuntary noise, not quite a growl, escapes his throat.

Unfortunately, the remaining crew members notice his rage.

“Hey, mate, keep those feelings to yourself. People are prosecuted for that sort of thing around here, you know.”

His nerves close to snapping, the Master turns and gives the buffoon a blistering glare. “You’d do well to shut up. I haven’t survived countless deaths and a Time War to listen to ignorant ranting from two idiots who were too stupid to get the hell away from a planet that’s about to go into a ten-thousand-year deep freeze. Now be silent, before I fuse some of these wires and create a spring thaw that’ll drown you all.”

He’s not serious about that … he’s far too distracted by the data screen to form a coherent scheme, even after all these years of practice. But he knows his own tone, his own power, well enough to know that he’ll hear nothing more from the crew.

He can hear, just about, the voices coming from the maintenance pod.

“It’s just such a good thing you arrived when you did. I mean, we’re well prepared, but nobody here had any idea about this problem. And then you arrive … and you know what it is instantly! And you think you know how to stop it. We could’ve done with someone like you in the crew from the beginning.”

The Master rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. Flattery. He dislikes it intensely. Flattery is only effective on a wounded, insufficient ego.

He recognises the feelings rising inside of him … jealousy, and possessiveness. Neither are new to him. His irritation is growing and the pounding in his head intensifies. He’s almost sure his vision is starting to blur …

Then, suddenly it calms. From a tiny, rational corner of his mind, he notices that the flattery and flirtatiousness is having absolutely no effect. The Doctor is chattering away about Illethian viruses and isn’t remotely affected by the mood of the woman pressed against his side. Indeed, he doesn’t seem to have noticed.

A wry smile crosses the Master’s face. Before their latest meeting, in these young, strong bodies, he would’ve witnessed this behaviour and accused the Doctor of being irritatingly chaste, even frigid. But he’s sure, now, of something he suspected all along … that demeanour was never real. He’s tasted the fire that burns in that cool body, that composed and controlled mind. It’s always been there, but highly selective. It’s only for him, for the Master. The smile on his face is changing, and even he’s aware that it’s unbearably smug … it’s fuelled by satisfaction and another emotion, one he can’t identify but has felt increasingly frequently in recent days …

He notices that the maintenance pod has reached its destination, and the Doctor has leapt out and begun, he assumes, to investigate the generator. He can no longer see him; only the empty interior of the pod.

Then he sees a flash, hears a bang and a rumble, and the picture disappears. Seconds later he feels the ground under his feet tremble. The crew members leap into action, noisy and panicking. The Master sits, dumbstruck. For a second, even the drums are silent. When they return, they are low and quiet, but steadier and more insistent than ever.

He stands, his face set. He sees a protective suit on the wall and pulls it down, shrugs off his jacket, and starts to dress.

A crewman spots him. “Hey, you can’t go out there! We don’t know what happened. It isn’t safe.”

The Master doesn’t even bother to silence him with a glare. He simply ignores him, closes some fasteners, and descends the ladder, heading for the water duct.

Even moving at a surprisingly fast speed, the journey down the tunnel seems to take forever. He wonders, in some part of his mind, why he’s doing this, why he’s bothering. The Doctor has been in many worse scrapes than this before, and many of them have been as a result of the Master’s scheming.

Something has changed, now. He enjoyed their old life, their old battles. Not the ends, unsurprisingly, but the plotting and scheming, the matching of wits and wills, the inevitable confrontations … he’d loved those moments. He knows, now, that they are gone forever. That time has passed. They can never go back to being that way. Things have changed too much. He has changed too much.

As the generator starts to come into view he breaks into a run. He’s not surprised at the scene of devastation. The maintenance pod is in pieces. Peliera is dead, he can tell that just by looking at her. The Doctor lies, unmoving, next to the generator.

The Master approaches him and sees his chest is rising and falling slightly; he is, after all, alive. Then he sees the nest, the pulpy mass the virus had been living in, attached to the generator. It is no longer moving or pulsating or shimmering. The Doctor killed it and, with it, the virus. The base is safe.

Chances are, the Master realises belatedly, that the Doctor himself caused the explosion. But before he passed out, he did manage to see the job done.

The strange feeling rushes back at him, and suddenly he recognises it. It’s pride. It’s such a strange sensation to be proud of another person. And, perhaps oddly, it doesn’t make him feel disgusted. It feels natural to be proud. It feels good.

The Doctor won’t wake – he’s clearly not ready yet – so the Master gathers up his surprisingly light body and carries him back to the base. The crew members dash out immediately, as he tells them about Peliera.

It’s many minutes before the Doctor comes around. He has many questions, but the Master insists they go back to the TARDIS before the crew return.

* * *

The Doctor sleeps for many hours after learning he saved the Habitation Station, leaving the Master to wander listlessly through the many rooms. In some ways he feels better than he has for many long years, but at the same time he feels chaotic and a little panicked, as though everything he has known and counted on is gone.

The Doctor, on waking, finds the Master in the library. The Master looks up from his book and nods at him, still uncertain. The Doctor lifts his own head and smiles.

“I have the answer to your question.”

The Master looks at him, puzzled. “What question?” He can’t remember asking the Doctor anything recently.

“You asked me what you would be Master of, if you weren’t Master of all things.”

The Master looks away in trepidation, not certain he wants to hear the answer. The Doctor has a way of turning things on their heads, and the Master has seen enough of his world view destroyed in recent days. The Doctor rarely tells him anything he wants to hear.

In the end, though, his curiosity gets the better of him.

“And what will I be Master of?”

The Doctor smiles once more. “Me.”

He doesn’t breathe for a moment. “You?” His tone is neutral in shock.

“Isn’t that enough?”

The shock deepens. Of course it is. What a foolish question. As far as the Master’s concerned, you could add up every galaxy, every star, every wisp of matter in the universe and it wouldn’t come close to equalling this. He stands and faces the Doctor, and willingly initiates their contact for the first time, firmly but gently kissing him, his head held between his hands. All of the time showing him images and notions … how much he wants this, wants to be the Doctor’s Master. But only as he is. No more, no less.

Deciding some of the images he’s sharing are too good to ignore, he turns the Doctor’s back against the desk and pushes him down, never breaking their contact. Something about this, this time, seems more tempting than ever before. Perhaps that which is given freely is better than that which is taken, after all.

The striped pyjamas worn by the Doctor are soon discarded, draped across books which have fallen from the desk. The Master falls on top of him, their bodies pressed together tightly. The Master is still fully clothed, and he can feel the frustration in the Doctor’s mind, yet he doesn’t attempt to remove the expensive garments … until he is told to. Then, slowly, the suit, shirt and tie fall next to the pyjamas on the floor.

Eventually, at the Master’s suggestion, the Doctor rolls onto his front. The desk is large, and made of solid wood, but it’s not really up to the challenge they’re putting it through, and soon it’s creaking and groaning. Not that they notice.

The Doctor can’t really think, but if he could, he’d think that this was the happiest he’d felt for several regenerations. He’s not alone, he’s with the Master, the way they should be. And there’s no threat, no peril, no dangerous game. Just the Master, and him, connected deeply, perhaps more deeply than they’ve ever been. And it feels good to submit to this, to let go completely.

The Master feels simply ecstatic. Powerful and energetic, and … free.

Eventually both are exhausted. The Master collapses on his back next to the Doctor, who rests his head on the other’s chest.

The Doctor asks his question half-teasingly, in a tone that suggests a joke but that conceals the barest hint of concern. “Are you sure this life will be … fulfilling … enough for you?”

The Master, in an uncharacteristically agreeable manner, ruffles the Doctor’s hair and whispers into his ear, “I can’t wait to find out."

The Road to ... (Chapter 4, Part 3)

Thu, 15 Nov 2007 22:00:46 GMT

Another part, should've been part of Part 2, but was too long!

For a while, they wander the base in silence. The Doctor is distracted, greatly involved in examining his surroundings for any sign of alien interference.

The Master’s bored. Their last conversation, back in the TARDIS, has left him in a melancholy mood. He wants to leave, and he knows they’ll have to solve this problem first. But he doesn’t care enough to help.

The Doctor lifts the communicator and speaks into it. “Where did you say the last body was found? By the water tower?”

A crackly confirmation arrives moments later. They’re standing at the base of the water tower. While the Doctor starts to examine the ground and the struts, scanning every so often with the sonic screwdriver, the Master sits on an upturned box, rests his head in his hands, and frowns. As the time passes, he wonders why he’s not speaking his mind – he’s not usually slow to do so. He wants to snipe at the Doctor, wants to insist they leave, wants to take over just to get them moving slightly faster … but he doesn’t. And he doesn’t know why.

To distract himself, he looks around at this bleak, barren world. So empty. On the edge of destruction, of annihilation. Staring into despair. And then he looks back to the Doctor, still scanning, still searching.

Inside the TARDIS, on the strange, unnamed contraption that showed thoughts and memories … he saw, at the end of the Time War, a look of total defeat on the Doctor’s face. That look of resigned submission to a fate worse than death … the loss of everything. He’d thought, then, that look appeared less pleasant than he had always imagined.

In his darkest and loneliest times – and there have been many of those – he’d imagined his triumph over the Doctor … imagined how it would feel to finally win, to crush his will, and have total control. The image has seen him through some low moments.

But now … with the memory of that look still burned in his mind, eyes now watching the Doctor busily working, talking to himself at the speed of sound, the idea that sustained him across the centuries seems empty, hollow. He can’t understand the appeal of it at all.

He breathes in, and as he does, he realises he doesn’t want the Doctor to be any more or less than he is now … full of life, and energy, and will, and sparkle, and intelligence.

Which is not to say that he does not want to be Master. But suddenly he sees that being Master of this wilful, amazing creature – keeping him close by means of his own desire for him, and by stretching his own will to greater heights – is so much more of a challenge than keeping a broken, desperate man who has no choices left.

This challenge is, after all, far more worthy of a true Master.

His thoughts are interrupted by an abrupt, “Aha!” The Doctor has jumped to his feet, and is pointing the sonic screwdriver at … something … he is holding in his palm.

This time, he’s almost glad of the interruption. “What is it?”

“Have a look at this … I found it around the base of all of the struts. Does it look familiar to you?”

Without touching, the Master peers into the Doctor’s hand. Particles, too small to see their colour, particularly in the blue glare of the screwdriver, are hovering just above the skin, quivering slightly in the air.

“Wait a minute … I’ve seen that before … is that …?”

He can’t believe what he’s seeing. It’s like looking at a ghost. Memories are flooding back into his mind, and he stumbles. His hand brushes against the Doctor’s, and suddenly he knows their both seeing the same things, in their minds’ eyes …

They’re young again, still yet to experience the heady rush of the first regeneration. They’re away from Gallifrey – not their first time, not quite – and they’ve landed on a planet they thought was uninhabited. Certainly, the TARDIS the Master persuaded someone to lend them didn’t show any life forms. It had been the Doctor’s idea to land here; the Master hadn’t seen the point.

They’d been taking their first deep breaths of the new, strange air, when they were attacked. The Master remembers it clearly: everything seemed to freeze, and then he was doubled over in pain. It felt as if … something … was inside his body, moving through it, causing him agony. It hurts so much, he’s sure at least one of his hearts has stopped beating. Once glance at the Doctor tells him he’s suffering the same.

Half carrying each other, they stagger back to their borrowed TARDIS, gasping and writhing, stumbling through the door and collapsing on the hard, metal floor. They lie there for many minutes, until the pain subsides.

Later, they discover their bodies are scattered with these strange particles. Further examination shows them to be a highly dangerous substance. A living organism, in fact, but greatly modified.

They destroyed it, of course; but the Master knew even then that someone had laid a trap for them on that barren sphere. They hadn’t returned to Gallifrey until he’d hunted down the Illethian warlords who’d planted the substance and, against the Doctor’s protests, destroyed them, too.

He hasn’t thought about it for many years.

Blinking, the Doctor confirms his suspicion. “It is, indeed. But whatever is it doing here?”

Shaking away the cobwebs, the Master answers, logically. “Well, I’d guess that it’s infecting the inhabitants of this station and, because they have no escape, it’s killing them more or less instantly.”

The Doctor waves his hand dismissively; this much he knew. “But why?”

The Master rolls his eyes. “Because someone didn’t want this base to survive. Who knows? Perhaps this is happening at bases all over the Earth. They don’t exactly seem to be in close contact.”

The Doctor takes one last squint at his palm, and then rubs his hands together, shaking them clean.

“But the better question might be …” the Master says, slowly, “ … why are we all right? We should be in agony right now. But you’ve been holding those things for a good couple of minutes, and you’re fine. Why?”

Raising his eyebrows, the Doctor thinks out loud. “I dunno … perhaps there weren’t enough of them … or perhaps they’ve passed the attacking stage.”

Rolling his eyes once more at this naivety, the Master retorts, “Or, perhaps, they’ve been genetically modified even further to attack only a specific group? Say, humans? Even young, male humans?”

The Doctor stares at him in disbelief. “Of course. It’s a perfect plan. They don’t have to kill all the humans in the base. They can just kill all the men of reproductive age and wait for the community to die out.”

Without warning, he sets off running, back towards the other people. “We’ve got to warn them. This thing was far too easy to find. It might be spreading.”

The Master watches him run, and once more wonders why he would ever have wanted to change him. He scolds himself, mentally, for his sentimentality, but the feeling doesn’t fade.

***

The woman, now identified as Dathia Peliera, listens intently to the Doctor’s explanation of the situation. Nodding, occasionally, she doesn’t speak until he’s finished.

“So, how do we stop it?”

“We – wait a minute,” he stops suddenly, turning to face the Master. “Those Illethians … d’you really think they had the technological sophistication to target their biological warfare at a particular demographic? A species, sure, but that specific?”

The Master shrugs. “Who knows? That was aeons ago, on the Earth’s timeline.”

The Doctor stares into space for a moment. “Yeah, maybe …” Then he appears to dismiss it as unimportant, turning back to face Peliera.

“It has to be coming from somewhere really warm. These things don’t work well in the cold. Can you think of anywhere they could be kept?”

“Well …” she pauses, thinking. “The main generator’s the warmest place we can think of. But it’s about a mile away from the main station.”

“Why? Why keep the biggest heat source miles away? In case you haven’t noticed, it’s a bit chilly in here.”

“Because it melts the ice, of course. We don’t want that too close to the station, but it serves for a water supply. The heat and power are pumped in along parallel ducts.”

“Is there any way of getting to it?”

“Yes. If we switch off the water supply, we can travel along that pipe in a maintenance pod.”

The Doctor stands. “Then that’s what we’ll do.” He looks at the Master, who groans inwardly, and lifts himself from his seat.

Peliera looks at him uncertainly. “The only problem is … the maintenance pod is designed for a single worker. At a push, you might squeeze two people inside.”

Recognising a golden opportunity when he sees one, the Master grins and a filthy grin and wraps his arm around the Doctor’s waist. “That’s all right. We’re very close. We don’t mind.”

“That … wasn’t the problem I was thinking of. One of us would have to go with you. We’re familiar with the layout of both the base and the generator. You’re not.”

It is now the Doctor’s turn to look uncertain. Looking sideways at the Master, he asks, “I should go, right? You’ll stay here?”

The Master drops his arm, curtly. “Damn right, you should go. I’m not travelling through a mile of solid ice, sealed in a tiny capsule with one of them.” The two men give him dark looks, but he barely notices.

“Actually,” Peliera says, “I think I should be the one to go. If this infestation is clustered around the generator, it would be unsafe for my guards to go. They’re the very group it’s targeting.”

She looks at the Doctor expectantly, and the Master suddenly realises he really doesn’t like that look.

But, in a whirlwind of motion, odds and ends are gathered up and the two are gone … downstairs, to the maintenance pod … speeding away over the ice.

While the two guards watch a screen that shows the inside of the vehicle, the Master watches the pod disappear into the white expanse, his straight back and folded arms almost disguising his great unease.

The Road to ... (Chapter 4, Part 2)

Thu, 15 Nov 2007 21:58:24 GMT

This is Part 2 of 4, thanks to LJ and their size limits. It's not as sappy as the last chapter, but I've made up for the sap with wacky skience! No idea if it makes sense. It may not, actually, until you read the final part. All will be revealed. (Bear with me, please?)

The Doctor jumps up and rushes away; the Master stomps after him, caught between irritation at the interruption, and relief that the awkward moment has been brought to an abrupt end.

“Another distress call? Is this usual? Have you set up some sort of ultra-sensitive disaster-meter on here that’ll respond to a human who’s forgot their keys?”

The Doctor’s rushing round the console, switching off alarms, looking at display screens, answering distractedly. “Yes, another distress call. No, this many isn’t really normal. And no – this must be an actual disaster.” He’s now standing at the main display screen, sonic screwdriver between his teeth, staring at the screen in intense concentration. It is, the Master notes laconically, the very image that had been troubling him mere moments ago: the Doctor, distracted, attention elsewhere, and the Master standing uselessly to one side …

“But … this can’t be right!” The Doctor bangs the screen a couple of times with the side of his hand, but apparently nothing changes.

“Are you planning on sharing?” The Master asks, not out of curiosity, but more to bring the Doctor’s attention back to him.

“Well … it’s a distress call. From Earth. In the four hundred and seventeenth century.”

“What’s that, then?”

“It’s the start of the New Ice Age. The time when the ice caps begin to advance again, covering most of the inhabitable parts of the planet. But I’ve seen this before … there were no great emergencies.”

The Master snorts. “I find that hard to believe.”

The Doctor looks upward in confusion and frustration. “Well, they had their little hiccups, certainly, but they had plenty of time to prepare for this. Ice caps advance slowly. Everything was so well-organised: people moved to places nearer the equator, formidable bases set up further north and south. But that’s where the distress call’s coming from …”

“So what do you think it is?”

“I’ve no idea. I suppose it’s possible that they’ve lost power, or something … but this wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“Well, maybe it’s the same thing as I said at that … what was it, that desert battle you took me to?”

The Doctor shakes his head a little, unable to remember.

“I said there was a ‘big alien nasty’, remember?”

Understanding dawns on the Doctor’s face. “Oh, of course. If something’s gone wrong, it must be some sort of interference from outside!” He starts fiddling with the controls again, preparing for landing. Then, suddenly, he lifts his head and looks over his shoulder.

“You’re good at this, you know.”

The Master doesn’t dignify this with an answer. Nothing has been resolved, and now he knows it will have to wait until this crisis has been averted.

***

They land, and the Doctor finally turns to face the Master, giving him his full attention.

“Do you … do you want to come? I mean, you don’t have to, but if you’d like to … but only if …”

“Relax, Doctor. I solemnly swear I will get up to no mischief here. Natural disasters bore me, rather, as I grow older.”

The Doctor looks at him uncertainly. “So … are you coming, or not?”

Sighing, the Master answers. “Oh, I suppose so. Better than sitting around here.”

***

As they leave the TARDIS, it becomes glaringly obvious that they’ve landed in the middle of an ice age. They’re inside, but even here, the temperature is decidedly chilly. Even for a Gallifreyan.

Rubbing his arms, the Master asks, “So what exactly is this place?”

The Doctor checks a panel on the wall. “Habitation station.”

The Master stops trying to warm himself and gives the Doctor a sardonic look. “Oh, please be joking.”

Wide-eyed and innocent, the Doctor asks, “What? Why?”

“Habitation station? It bloody well rhymes. It sounds like something from a cartoon.”

Grinning, the Doctor shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry,” he replies with a toss of his head. “I didn’t call it that.”

“No, even you’re not that bad,” the Master retorts, stamping his feet on the ground, still shivering. “Come on, let’s have a look around. And you can tell me a bit about this place. Take my mind off the cold.” He sets off down the tubular corridor, giving the Doctor little choice but to follow.

“Well, when the ice caps started to advance, most of the cities and towns that would eventually be covered were abandoned. But in case of any great disaster striking the equatorial zone, they decided to set up these habitation stations – about twenty in the northern hemisphere, and ten in the southern. They stationed about a hundred people in each one, but the bases are massive. The thing you have to remember is, an ice age on Earth can last ten thousand years or more. A hundred people now, will be many, many more by the time the ice melts.”

Abruptly, they reach the end of a corridor and are greeted by a most unusual sight. Under a high roof, is the basic layout of a town. Paved roads, signs, lamps, even the foundations for a few buildings.

“See what I mean? They’ve got everything they need for a working city … ten thousand years in the future.”

The Master’s had enough of playing tourist to the Doctor’s guide. “So, where’s the emergency? I thought we’d arrive to find the place in ruins.”

The Doctor runs his hand through his hair and looks around. “Well, someone must have sent out that call.” In the window of a building some distance away, he sees a glowing light. He nudges the Master, and sets off in that direction.

***

As they enter, something odd catches the Master’s attention, and he grabs the Doctor’s arm, preventing him from going any further. “Wait a minute. Super high-tech ice base … and no security? How come we can just walk in?”

The Doctor smiles. Some things about the Master will never change, and this is one. He’ll always have a suspicious nature. Deep down, the Doctor admires a lot of things about his oldest friend, but he’s glad he doesn’t think that way. “I told you … there are only a hundred people within a mile of here … no, make than a thousand miles. And every one of them was carefully chosen. They don’t need security – at least, not from each other.”

The Master shakes his head, and the Doctor can see that this sort of logic is lost on him. They make their way up a narrow metal staircase to a well-lit room, where a woman and two uniformed men are examining papers and computer screens. All three jump to their feet as the two Time Lords enter, confirming the Doctor’s theory that these people never imagined they would be invaded.

“Who the hell are you?” The shorter of the two men barks at them, his eyes darting around the room, probably looking for something to use as a weapon.

“We’re … travellers. We were just passing, and … my ship picked up your distress call.” The Doctor is holding out his hands, the Master notices, in that way he does, that tries to show he doesn’t pose a threat. The Master’s never felt the need to do that.

“Your ship?”

“My space ship. You did sent out a call, didn’t you?”

The woman gestures to the two men, appearing to be in charge. “Yes … we sent out the call in the hope that one of the colony shuttles would answer. But we’re in need of information, nothing more.”

“What information?”

“What do you know about Habitation Station Six?”

“Not a lot. Like I said, we were just passing.”

She gestures at them to sit down. All of the seats are covered in paper. The Master stands and looks at his distastefully, until the Doctor notices, and moves the papers from the Master’s chair before his own.

“I assume you know our objectives, Mr. …” She lets her voice trail off, waiting for him to volunteer his name.

“I’m the Doctor. And this is the Master.”

Her eyebrows raise slightly. “Oh, academics, are you? Well, perhaps you will be able to help us.”

The Doctor smiles broadly. “I hope so. And yes, we’re familiar with your objectives.”

“Excellent. Well, then, you know that one of those objectives is to increase our population at a set rate; specifically, doubling it every five hundred years or so. The intention being, to have a large enough population at the end of the time to begin a small city.”

If this is news to the Doctor, he covers it well. The Master finds it easier to control his own expression, as he isn’t really interested.

“Well, this shouldn’t be a problem at this stage in the mission. Obvious, as we’ve only just started. But things are happening that are going to give us great problems before very long.”

“What things?”

“People are dying. We allowed for that in our calculations, of course, but people are dying at an alarming rate. And the deaths are falling exclusively within the most problematic demographic.”

“Which is?”

“Our young men. Our current population covers all demographics, but we have lost eleven young men of breeding age in the last two months. We gathered data based on post-mortem examinations and sent that out with the call. Did that not reach your ship?”

“No … only the distress call. Sorry, my ship’s a bit …”

“ … dilapidated …” interjects the Master.

“ … temperamental.” The Doctor says, more loudly, rolling his eyes slightly at the Master. “Still, the most important message got through: we’re here.”

“So you are,” the woman says, dryly, looking at them appraisingly. “So tell us, Doctor … Master … what do you think is happening?”

The Doctor stands and puts on his glasses, looking at three different computer screens and a sheet of paper before sitting down.

“Is anyone else ill? Any women? Any children?”

“No. And none of the victims showed signs of illness before they died. So, that do you think?”

“Well, I think you won’t find the answers in this data. But we’ll keep looking. We’ll have a look around the station, if that’s all right, and see what we can find.”

“Certainly.” The woman says briskly, handing the Doctor a small communication device. “If you need anything, we’ll be here.”

The Road to ... (Chapter 4, Part 1)

Wed, 14 Nov 2007 18:27:52 GMT

Firstly and most importantly, huge apologies for how long this update took. Nightmare writer's block, coupled with work problems, coupled with the chest cold/stomach bug combo from hell .... but I'm back now. The fic's finished, and I'll be posting the final three parts over the next day or two. Hope you enjoy, and are happy to know I have a zillion more fic ideas up my sleeve (shorter ones, thankfully!)

Also, this is by *far* the mushiest chapter - ie, the one where things are likely to go most OOC. Look at it as a balance - everything will be back in sync by the end.

Eventually, the Master pulls away and sighs. He stands, dusts himself off, and reaches for the Doctor’s hand, to help him up. Stunned at this action, too stunned even to anticipate a trap, the Doctor reaches up and takes it.

The Master is stronger than he looks; he hauls the Doctor to his feet with little effort. The Doctor wonders at this sudden thoughtfulness, but doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t want to draw attention to it.

They walk back to the TARDIS together, shoulder to shoulder, in silence. Back inside, the Doctor feels very tired. After he has performed all the necessary locks and guided the TARDIS back into the Vortex.

“I’m going to go … rest, or something … for a little while.” His tiredness can be heard in his voice. The Master nods, and fiddles with the data screen on the console, which the Doctor has not made off-limits. He appears disinterested, but he watches the Doctor’s retreating back curiously. The Doctor is never tired, ever. He is constantly possessed with boundless energy, and always has been. In this body, it seems more so than ever before … ever since the first. He’s not … worried … exactly. Just … curious.

He waits a good long while before he follows the Doctor. He knows that patience has always been one of his virtues. When he finds the Doctor he is lying on the bed the two of them left earlier that day. He’s not asleep, the Master feels sure, but he’s lying very still, his eyes closed, still fully dressed.

The Master stands at the foot of the bed and folds his arms. He coughs, to alert the Doctor to his presence, even though he’s sure he already knows.

The Doctor opens his eyes and smiles, slightly, as if nothing could make him happier than waking to find the Master standing over him.

This makes the Master uncomfortable. Tilting his head, he asks, “Did you really think that would work? Did you really think I would suddenly want to join you on your little crusades?”

Sighing, and rubbing his face hard, the Doctor sits up. “No. I didn’t. I wanted to show you a different way, and to show you that it’s not stupid or pointless. And I did that. You told me, you understood. It’s not right for you – that’s fine, I suppose – but you saw it, and you understood it. That’s enough for me.”

The Master narrows his eyes. The Doctor acts so much like an overenthusiastic child, he’d forgotten how truly sharp his wits are. A match for his own. “You knew it wouldn’t work.” His tone is slightly accusatory, as if the Doctor has tricked him.

With a shrug, the Doctor nods his agreement. He looks – to the Master – far too smug, too self-assured. But he can stop that in its tracks.

“So, tell me, Doctor. What’s next?”

Now it’s the Doctor’s turn to narrow his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You want to help me. You’ve shown the drums are not really a call to war. Well done. But you haven’t solved the problem. I still hear them. What are they? How am I going to live with them, if not by running around saving the universe? There must be something; without anything else to do, I’ll just go back to trying to take over…”

“Why would you?” the Doctor asks, sharply.

The Master rolls his eyes, sure this innocent, optimistic naivety of the Doctor’s is a pretence, put on to annoy him. “Because I still hear the drums. All the time – da da da dum, da da da dum –“ he taps the rhythm on the bedstead to reinforce his point. “It can’t be ignored, can’t be reasoned with. So without anything else to do …”

Now, maddeningly, the Doctor sits bolt upright and smiles once more. “That’s why I did it. That’s why I took you to the evacuation of Earth. I think the drums are a call to action. Not necessarily war.”

Dumbstruck for a second, the Master stares. In that moment, before the idea settles, he can’t honestly see the difference. A call to war, a call to action – it’s the same thing, isn’t it?

But, no. The Doctor must have thought – or at least hoped – that an act of heroism would be as good as an act of war.

Suddenly feeling a little tired himself, the Master sits on the edge of the bed. “War was the only natural conclusion.” His tone is cold, logical. “I always loved to see things … ending. Burning, exploding, disintegrating, cracking, tearing.”

The Doctor nods as if this is obvious. “I know.”

Turning sharply on the Doctor, the Master demanded, “And what about you? I played your game, looked into your world, and I said I understood it. What about you? What do you see when you look into my world? Do you understand it? Can you see the … beauty of destruction? Can you grasp the satisfaction that comes with causing it?”

The Doctor shifts uncomfortably. Everything about the Master has suddenly become much more intense. His face, his body language, his tone … it’s not pleasure, not rapture, exactly – but it has an intensity that seriously unnerves the Doctor.

This discomfort is not lost on the Master. Without ever pausing in his speech, he reaches around with his right hand and begins to run it up and down the Doctor’s leg. The Doctor twitches, slightly, but there is nothing particularly sexual about the movement, just the lightest touch of fingertips moving along a shinbone. No, his voice if far more seductive than his actions.

“Do you see how … amazing it can be? A world, in a delicate but enduring balance … no-one understands that balance but you. And because you understand it, you can undo it. It’s such an intricate process … drawing people to you, switching them to your point of view. You convince them to take part in their own destruction, and they do it so easily. And the balance starts to tip … the world starts to crumble, and nobody can see it but you. And once it starts, there’s no stopping it. There’s nothing left for you to do but watch as it unravels. It’s different every time, but they’re all beautiful.” His hands stop moving, and he grasps the Doctor’s knee tightly as he repeats, “Burning, exploding, disintegrating, cracking, tearing.”

In a flash, the Doctor moves his hand and grips the Master’s wrist, his grip and his voice harder than they usually are with the other Time Lord. “Is that what you’re doing with me?”

He doesn’t expect the honesty in the reply. “Yes. Or, at least, that’s what I used to think. There’s always been something … inescapable about you, Doctor. So much more … intricate … than any of those worlds. Just think of the satisfaction of watching you break … but there was always a bigger purpose.”

The Doctor just looks at him, the question in his eyes.

“If I broke you, I wouldn’t destroy you completely. You’d join me, and all of this could end.” He turns and looks at the Doctor directly, aware of the irony. “So it seems we both want the same thing, after all. We just have different ways of getting it.”

Raising his eyebrows, the Doctor withdraws his hand, but doesn’t speak.

Changing his tone completely, the Master stands up. “Now, all this sharing has got me completely sick. I’ll be in the console room whenever you decide what you’re doing next.”

The Doctor falls back on the bed and runs his hands through his hair. He has no idea what to try next. He has the feeling that if only this had all happened a century or two back, perhaps things could be different. But surely it was almost – almost – too late, now, to change.

But one thing has given him cause for optimism. At no point in this last conversation had the Master sounded mad. He hadn’t sounded insane at all. Buoyed by this thought, he smiles, and allows himself another moment or two of rest.

* * *

Eventually the Doctor lifts himself from his bed and walks slowly down the corridor to the console room. His steps are heavy with trepidation; he feels like the whole situation is coming to a critical point … a point at which everything will change forever. For the better, or for the worse, he can’t say.

He finds the Master staring at the data screen. Peering over his shoulder, he sees that he has been reading early theories on Time Lord biology. He can’t imagine what he’s gaining from these texts – which were, after all, written not long after the discovery that their species had two hearts – but it’s nice to see him taking an interest in something besides destruction. And drumming.

The Master doesn’t turn around, but sits back in his seat. The Doctor rests his hands on the back of the seat and asks, without preamble, “If I ask you one question, just one, will you promise to answer with the truth?”

“And where’s the fun in that?”

“No fun at all. But unless you want this ridiculous, pointless stalemate to go on forever … I can’t find the answer to this question myself.”

“Okay, then.”

“You’ll do it?”

“One question, one truthful answer. You have my word. And it better not be anything about San Francisco.”

The Doctor almost grins before he speaks. “It’s not. What I want – what I need – to know is, if I were to land on any planet right now and just let you walk away, you’d begin your campaign of control and destruction again. You said it yourself. My question is, why?”

The Master is silent.

“I want you to take as long as you need to think about that, because I want as much of the truth as you can give me. I’m not even sure if you know yourself, now. But I want you to think about it until you do.”

He walks away until he’s almost back in the corridor, and turns to find the Master has watched him leave. He looks directly into his eyes for a long moment, before asking again, “Why?”

***

Knowing he must occupy himself, he’s settled into the library and chosen a book he knows is gripping. He’s been reading it for the last two hours but he hasn’t absorbed any of the words. He’s just flicking his eyes, turning pages … waiting.

Eventually, the Master appears in the doorway, more silent and calm than he’s looked in an age. He enters the room and sits on the desk, looking down at the Doctor in his chair.

“I have your answer.”

The Doctor doesn’t speak, merely waits. He closes the book and rests it on his lap.

“But before I tell you, I want you to promise me something, too.”

Anxiety grips the Doctor immediately, and he’s mentally kicking himself. He should’ve anticipated this; the Master never gives anything away without demanding something in return. He still doesn’t speak, but looks askance at the Master.

“I want you to promise me that you won’t interrupt me until I’ve finished. I know you’re a good talker, Doctor. Now you need to learn to be a good listener, too.”

Nodding, the Doctor hopes his face doesn’t show his surprise at the Master’s astonishingly simple request.

The Master takes a deep breath before he speaks, and this, coupled with the promise he’s just asked for, makes the Doctor wonder if it wouldn’t have been simpler to just communicate telepathically.

“If I were left alone an a new planet, I would do something you’d disapprove of. I’d take it over, or start a war with a neighbour, or at least severely disrupt the social balance of the place. And it wouldn’t be about power, or control, or war, or destruction, or chaos.

It would be about you.

The only way I know you get you back … alongside me, against me, doesn’t matter. That’s always what it’s been about. Some of it’s been about impressing you … forcing you to see and admire my brilliance, my power. But don’t be flattered, because it’s been about so much more than that.

It’s been about hurting you. More and more as the years – the centuries – have rolled on, I’ve wanted to hurt you, Doctor. And if you want to know why … well, you already know the first reason. But the second is that … if all I can make you feel is pain, then so be it.

So I control, I kill, I destroy. I create chaos. Because I know it’s the one thing you truly can’t resist.”

Exhaling as if that has cost him more effort than anything else in his life, the Master stands and turns to leave. He’s kept his end of the bargain, now he wants to leave here and never have to deal with the consequences.

But now the Doctor’s seen he’s finished, he’s got plenty to say.

“Wait.”

The Master stops, but doesn’t turn back to face him. The Doctor stands up and walks up behind the Master, until their bodies are almost touching. He doesn’t move in front, doesn’t force the Master to face him.

“So … what if I promise to always be there, so you’ll never have to draw me back? What if I promise never to leave?”

The words hang in the air like the atomic bombs they really are.

***

The Master feels a surge through his mind and body as one image floods his mind. It’s an image of pure peace … pure contentment at the very idea of knowing that the Doctor will always be there. Not on his way, not having just defeated him, just … there. For a moment the drums seem to slow, until there is a second of silence in between the beats.

He doesn’t deny that the schemes and battles between them have been fun, challenging and engaging, but they always end. This is something … different.

But as the image settles and the drums resume their normal tempo, he realises that he can’t actually picture this life. For a moment he doesn’t know why, but then it hits him. He spins on his heel.

“You’ll still go off all the time to save worlds. Even if you don’t visit any new worlds, or make any new friends, that lot on Earth seem particularly capable of getting themselves in over their heads. You’ll go off to save them, and where will that leave me? What will I do? That’s all I’ve done for centuries … strive for power, be stopped, and start again. What else am I supposed to do?”

The Master is at his wits’ end. He’s just been promised the one thing he’s sought for all his long life … and realised it won’t be enough. His mind is at breaking point, so it’s something of a shock to see the Doctor laughing.

He’s laughing softly; ruefully, and fondly, as he smiles at the Master. Almost unaware of his action, he reaches up and brushes the Master’s face gently with the back of his hand. The Master is too stunned to stop him.

“You know what you sound like? Someone just retired! Like someone who doesn’t know how to spend their time now they don’t go to work anymore … or now they’re no longer trying to take over the universe, in your case!”

For an instant, the Master wants to lash out at the Doctor, hurt him for being so flippant, but something stops him. He’s not sure what, something about the way the Doctor’s smiling at him …

“It’s not just a question of how to spend my time, you floppy-haired idiot. It’s more than that …” His voice quietens as he speaks. “It’s … everything. My purpose. My identity.”

He walks once more towards the door, turning at the last to face the Doctor. “I’m the Master. If I’m not Master of all things, what am I Master of?”

The Doctor pauses, not sure how to answer. And he never does, because in that instant, sirens echo from the console room.

The Road to ... (Chapter 3, Part 2)

Mon, 15 Oct 2007 06:34:55 GMT

At a magnificent mahogany desk under a tremendous skylight, an important, harried-looking man is staring at a small screen is his hands, stabbing at it frantically with his fingers. Other than his tortured expression, he appears oblivious to the noisy, angry crowds surrounding him. People are shouting, waving papers, banging their fists on the desk.

The Doctor can see instantly that he needs to talk to the man, alone, but he can’t imagine how to get around the crowds. Fortunately, the Master is one step ahead.

“If I could have your attention … thank you, thank you all. If you’d like to proceed downstairs to D-sector, we’ve assembled a team to deal with all of your enquiries.”

There’s something about his tone, and the people calm themselves instantly. They quickly form an orderly line for the lift, which dings as it closes, and disappears. The Doctor can only watch in wonder; he’d always thought it was purely hypnotism, this …persuasiveness of the Master’s. But it’s more than that. He just seems to be able to order – to lead – almost as if it’s a birthright. It’s not hypnotism, it’s just part of his character. Part of who he is.

Side by side, they stride over to the desk, pleased to see the man has finally looked up.

“Who are you? There isn’t any D-sector. There’s no team.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” The Doctor says brightly. “But it got rid of them, didn’t it? Never mind, you can thank us later. Now, what’s that you’re looking at?”

The man drops the screen onto the table in frustration. “Oh, it’s only the cost projection figures for the next launch, but the blasted thing’s broken. Damned radiation, these days. Gets into everything.”

Curiously, the Doctor picks up the screen, flips it over, and pops open a panel. He produces the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and activates it, pointing it into the inner workings of the device. Underneath his hands, the screen lights up. Smiling, he pops the panel back in, and hands the whole thing back to its owner.

“Thank you,” the man says, his surprise evident.

“Not a problem. Now, I wonder if you can help us.” He stands squarely in front of the desk, his hands in his pockets. The Master has stood behind him, a little, his arms folded.

“But … who are you?”

Briefly, the Doctor whips out the psychic paper and flashes it in front of the man’s eyes. “Regional experts. Sent to help. We understand you’re in a bit of a fix.”

“Oh … yes. Yes, we are. Simply put, we don’t have enough fuel for all of the ships. For all of the cargo.”

The Doctor’s tone takes a turn for the darker. “You mean the people?”

The man’s face is drawn and pale. “The people, yes. That’s the worst part. There are other things, too. Relics. Artefacts. Documents. Things that really shouldn’t be lost. But the most awful part is … we don’t see how we can possibly carry all the people.”

“Why?”

“It’s the fuel. We were left a certain amount of fuel, to power the last nine ships. It’s self-replicating fuel, you see, and it can’t be produced here on Earth. But the radiation’s limited it’s replication pattern, so it’s only about forty percent as effective as it should be. With this fuel, and with the cargo we’re supposed to carry, we’d barely make it outside the solar system. No … I’m not even sure we’d do that.”

The Doctor runs his hands through his hair and turns to face the Master, whose face is expressionless. “Well, that is quite the fix.”

It is, too. No fuel on Earth these days is strong enough to power space flight over long distances; he knows this. And its entirely possible the radiation will have affected the efficiency of the fuel. He turns slightly and sits on the desk, running through a million possible scenarios in his mind. Perhaps the Master’s idea of shipping families away in the TARDIS isn’t such a bad one. He can fit a lot of people in there, after all …

“Doctor. A word in private.”

It isn’t a request from the Master – it never is – and he follows without asking. Out of earshot of the man, the Master leans close and whispers, “Presumably this fuel is currently being stored in a magnified conservation vehicle?”

“Of course,” the Doctor nods.

“Well, this radiation must have broken through, obviously. But if we were to magnify the radiation to a high enough level, surely it would destabilise the fuel to a degree where it replicates more efficiently?”

The Doctor’s eyes go wide and he looks at the Master in surprise. “Yes!” He shouts, and then instantly lowers his voice. “Yes – if we can magnify the radiation – increase it by more than forty percent – then it should reverse the effects and cause it to begin replicating again! That’s it! You’re brilliant!”

“I know.” The Master says, matter-of-factly. “Go on, then. Go save the world.”

“I’ll need your help.”

The Master rolls his eyes. “Oh, but of course. Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

***

The man behind the desk – they never did learn his name – directs them to the technical department. They board the lift once more, and this time there is no time for games. The Doctor is talking again, nineteen to the dozen, and the Master seems to have been swept up in his enthusiasm.

“How did you come up with that plan?” The Doctor is more animated that he’s been for a while, completely caught up in this new project. Almost nothing energises him like a problem he knows he can solve. The Master knows this, and he watches him. A feeling he’s unfamiliar with is rising in his chest, but he squashes it before it gets to his face and make him smile.

“You’re not asking the right question: why didn’t you come up with that plan? It is, after all, one of the principles of radiation. Different levels have different, sometimes opposite, effects. Why didn’t you think of that?”

The Doctor stops in his tracks. “I … I don’t know. It’s obvious, now I think about it. Yeah … oh, well. I probably would have thought about it in a minute or two.”

“Mmmm …” the Master says, in a long, drawn-out way. “But you have to wonder why I thought of it first …”

The Doctor rolls his eyes, slightly, but grins at the same time. The Master is reminding him of the earliest games they used to play, as children. Before it all got complicated, really. As small children they used to compete constantly over intelligence: who would solve a puzzle, work out the solution to a problem fastest; who could calculate most accurately; who could recognise the most stars. They were the games of children, but they helped define the rules of their relationship. The Doctor remembers that they were fairly well-matched. He was better at some things, the Master was better at others. But the Doctor worked out quickly that the Master hated to lose, so often he just … let him win. Gave him the illusion of victory. Winning just meant less to him. These small triumphs made the Master happy, and he’d always loved to see the Master happy. Sometimes he wondered if the Master knew he was letting him win. He was sure he did. Did the Master simply not care that his victory was false?

He shakes himself out of these memories, into a more urgent and current problem. Why hadn’t he realised that solution himself? It was obvious, easy, staring him in the face. So obvious, in fact, that he started to think that, had the best minds on Earth not left on previous ships, even a human scientist could have found the answer. Why had he been so slow?

The answer, of course, is staring him in the face, but he doesn’t want to see it. When the Master is around, when they are on the same side … the Doctor is different. His mind is not working so quickly, because he knows the Master’s is. The Master will take care of it.

This is an uncomfortable thought.

Once more, the bell of the lift cuts into the moment, and they walk through the doors into a massive an unusual room. It’s like a cross between a sterile laboratory and a launch pad. There are no humans around.

“Right,” the Doctor says briskly, attempting to get back to business. “We need to find the fuel tank – we’ll have to check that fuel before we start irradiating it – and then we’ll have to find the radiation filter.”

“Well,” the Master says, “I’ll venture a guess that that’s the fuel tank.” He gestures to a large, raised, rounded object at the end of a long, straight tunnel that runs between all the lab equipment.

The Doctor turns and grins delightedly at the Master, and then they start running. They are completely in step, all the way down the tunnel.

“Okay …” the Doctor points the sonic screwdriver at a data screen on the side of the container, which lights up with green numbers and symbols. He screws his face up in distaste. “Oh, yeah, look at that! That would barely get them outside the atmosphere in that state, never mind anywhere else. But hold on … if the radiation’s strong enough to do that, why is anyone here still alive?”

The Master shrugs slightly, looks upwards, and guesses, “Perhaps because this fuel doesn’t originate on Earth. If it comes from a planet where solar radiation is practically non-existent, it’ll decay much faster in an irradiated atmosphere.”

Considering this, the Doctor nods. “Yeah … that’s possible. Self-replicating fuel was never really possible on Earth – all their base fuels were too volatile. I don’t know where this came from, mind you … still want to try it?”

The Master replies with cold, hard logic. “What is there to lose? You said it yourself, this fuel’s worthless in its present state.”

“Right, then. Better go and look at the radiation filter.”

“We passed that on the way down here. About halfway back up the tunnel.”

And they’re off, running again, still in step.

The screen of the radiation filter is already lit up. The Doctor bends over the screen and stares at it for a few moments. This should be easy. He can see on the schematic the area of the filter that covers the fuel tank. All he has to do is reduce that – forty percent, they said – and everything should click into place. He presses some buttons quickly, tapping them lightly with his fingers and … nothing happens.

“What?” He stands up quickly, looking back along the tunnel at the fuel tank.

“Ahem,” the Master taps him on the shoulder and points at a small - but bright red and flashing – icon in the corner of the screen. ALL SYSTEMS MAXIMUM SECURITY – MANUAL OPERATION.

“Oh, for …” throwing back his head in frustration, the Doctor turns around and glares at the screen. “Maximum security? In this place? Guarding worthless fuel that wouldn’t power a small car? You really have to wonder, don’t you? What good’s putting everything on manual operation going to achieve at this point?”

The Master remains the very image of calm, watching the Doctor’s little tantrum. Once more he feels that … that odd feeling, and once more he ignores it.

Taking a deep breath, the Doctor gets himself back under control. “Right. What we’ll have to do it … one of us can go down there and manually release the security, and the other can stay here and increase the radiation.”

“No, we can’t.” Again, the Master sounds devastatingly calm and logical; so much so, in fact, that the Doctor wonders once more if it’s possible that the Master is insane.

“What? Why not?”

The Master grins his most “humour the lesser life-form” grin and points at his wrist.

Ah. The Doctor rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment, and then decides there’s nothing else for it. He points the sonic screwdriver at his own wrist for a moment, releasing the link device.

They share a look at this action, and deep down the Doctor feels most uneasy, knowing everything that’s at stake. He breaks the look and turns his attention back to the data screen.

“Well, I’d better go,” the Master says lightly. He takes off, running … to the fuel conservation tank. The Doctor wants so badly to grin, but he blocks it, pushing it away.

“Ready?” The Master shouts from the end of the corridor.

“Counting down,” the Doctor confirms, fingers poised over the keypad. “Three … two … one … now!” The manual security icon stops flashing, and the Doctor begins to lower the shield, increasing the radiation. Ten percent … twenty … thirty … he slows it slightly as it approaches forty, and then stands back at the exact moment, hands now in his pockets. He stares at the screen, watching the numbers flashing, seeing alerts being send all over the place, responding to the high radiation levels. His eyes never leave the screen.

“Did it work?” asks a voice in his ear, and he turns to find the Master behind him. Eyes wide, he turns back to the screen and flicks a few more keys, finding a diagnostic to run on the fuel. A few seconds, and -

“Yes! Oh, yeah – it’s self-replicating again! Up and up and up! Yes! Faster than ever before! You’re brilliant!” He spins around the hugs the Master tightly, just like he would any of his companions, not even realising what he’s doing.

The Master stiffens automatically at the action, and his brain tells him to stop the Doctor and his ridiculously demonstrative display of emotion … but that strange feeling’s back, and it’s cancelling out all the messages his brain is trying to send.

***

“Sorry,” the Doctor mumbles, as he disentangles himself from the Master. It’s strange; he feels awkward now, mere seconds later, but at the time it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

“Still,” he says, as he realises he’s knocked the Master’s tie askew, and straightens it. “We still make one hell of a team.”

This time the Master does not smile. The Doctor’s too happy, too high on the success of their endeavour, to notice. They make their way back to the top of the tower, where the crowd has returned. The Doctor wriggles his way to the front of the queue and whispers something in the old man’s ear, then stands back and grins as the good news is announced.

Only then does he realise he never reattached the link device around his wrist. Frantically, he gazes around the room, searching for the Master, and doesn’t see him.

At first. Suddenly his eyes land on him, standing with his back against the wall, away from the crowd. The only calm figure in a room full of chaos. It seems the Master has to be different: the calm one surrounded by disarray, or the image of madness in a place of peace. He makes his way over to stand next to him. Once more, now familiar with the action, the Master reaches inside the Doctor’s jacket and pulls out the sonic screwdriver. He can’t operate it, but he places it in the Doctor’s hand, pointing it at their wrists.

Wordlessly, the Doctor obeys.

The man from the desk rushes over to them, suddenly looking much younger than he did before. “Gentlemen … how can I thank you?” He looks at them, beaming expectantly.

The Doctor beams right back. The Master looks uncomfortable and averts his eyes.

“No thanks necessary. Our pleasure, really.”

“Will you be joining us on the ship?”

“Oh … no. Sorry. We’ve made arrangements to travel on …” he trails off.

“Vector Eight.” The Master fills in instantly. The Doctor looks at him in surprise. The man doesn’t seem to notice, and he is beaming even more widely than before.

“Oh, that’s wonderful. You’re going to the same galaxy as us. Perhaps we’ll see you again?”

“Every chance,” the Doctor grins back, and the man hurries away. As soon as he is gone, the Doctor turns to face the Master. “Vector Eight?”

“The name of a ship,” the Master shrugs. “I saw it on that screen downstairs.”

The Doctor wants to ask how the Master knew “Vector Eight” wasn’t the name of this ship, but he’s interrupted by a shout from the crowd.

“What? Why do we have to do that?”

The Doctor starts to open his mouth to speak, but the Master nudges him in the ribs. “Shh.”

The old man is speaking once more. “We have a duty … an obligation. More than that, we have a legal responsibility!”

“Why do we? If the councillors really cared about that lot, they’d have taken them before now. Let’s just go!”

The Doctor’s face falls. These people – these Citizens – genuinely want to leave the others behind, the people in the slums. Ashra, and her children, and all the others. He turns to look at the Master, fully prepared for a look of smug self-satisfaction – after all, he predicted this – but the look is not there. He looks unsurprised, to be sure, but not particularly pleased.

In the end it is put to a vote, and the Doctor seethes as he watches the fat and well-dressed nobles vote to leave people behind on this doomed rock to starve or burn. But they do not win, although they do not lose by much, and he swallows his rage.

***

An hour later, the tower is empty. Everyone has left, gone to take their place on the ship. Suddenly remembering something, and grabs the Master’s wrist and runs to the lift.

“What?” the Master asks, looking impatient.

“Ashra. I told her we’d go back.”

“What for? You solved her problem. She’ll have a place on the ship now, just. Why go back?”

“Because I promised.”

“What difference does it make?”

“None at all. But I promised I’d go back. So I’m going back.”

The Master doesn’t hide the fact that he’s rolling his eyes. But he says nothing. This way the Doctor chooses to live, this code he lives by … it honestly eludes him.

They arrive at Ashra’s cellar just in time. She and her children are at the top of the stairs, tired and frightened, but smiling, making their way to the ship.

They don’t speak, but the young woman smiles at the Doctor, and he grins back. He has no idea what awaits this fragile family on another world, but at least now they have a chance. He watches them turn and walk away, and then –

The oldest boy breaks free of the group, and hurtles back towards the Doctor and the Master. Brushing straight past the Doctor, he wraps his arms around the Master’s legs in a tight hug. Then, quickly as he arrived, he darts away.

The Doctor laughs out loud at the look of pure, thunderstruck horror on the Master’s face. He doesn’t speak – nothing he could say would help – but he points to a hill just beyond the city. The Master nods, and they walk away.

***

They sit on the hillside, looking down on the city. The streets are empty, and they wait patiently to see the ship depart. The Master sits on the ground, evidently uncomfortable. The Doctor lies back in the grass, his hands behind his head.

“It’s not over, you know.” The Master is the first to speak, after several hours. There is no spite or bitterness in his voice, just that same devastating logic. He sounds … tired, somehow.

“What do you mean?”

“Those people got their place in the new order by the slimmest of votes. Three less people in that room and they’d be left here to burn. That’s not going to change when they reach the colonies. Any time food, or water, or anything else is running out, they’re going to be the ones left behind. And you’re not always going to be there to save them.”

“Yes.” The Doctor says simply. He knows all this. He’s faced it, in various forms, many times before. Then he sits up slightly, resting on his elbows, and looks at the Master. “Don’t you mean we won’t be there to save them?” He grins.

The Master laughs, once, a shallow, humourless laugh.

“How did it feel, though?” he asks the Master gently, and, bracing himself for the answer, he lies back down on the grass.

The Master waits a few moments before answering. In that pause, they see the ship lift off in the distance, and watch for many long moments as it disappears into the sky. The evacuation of Earth.

“I think I understand, now, why you do these things. I never did before. I know why you help. I understand how it must feel, to be able to do that. But … I didn’t feel it. I didn’t really want those people to fail, and suffer. But I don’t really care if they succeed, either. They’re not anything to me. They don’t matter. This way, this life – it’s not for me. This can’t be my life.”

He looks down at the Doctor’s face, knowing he’s hurting him and, for the first time in centuries, he’s not thrilled by that fact. Impulsively, he leans down and kisses the Doctor, and the tenderness of the action shocks him – almost – enough to stop.

The Road to ... a New Beginning (Chapter 3, Part 1)

Sun, 14 Oct 2007 11:41:04 GMT

In the aftermath of their new understanding, the Master and the Doctor spent a great many hours just lying together. The time they’ve spent together recently has been rushed and frantic, full of anger or frustration, or under the cover of ‘business.’

Now they have reached an agreement, even if it is only a temporary one, they have time to rediscover each other properly. So many centuries of passed since they could spend such leisurely time together. And so much has happened to them both. In a way it’s as if they are exploring each other for the first time, but at the same time, the movements are comfortable and familiar, and they bring back long-lost memories.

The Doctor is finding any excuse to touch the Master, to run his hands over his skin, and the Master is teasing him.

“Oh, you just can’t get enough, can you?”

The Doctor laughs and shakes his head. “I’m just trying to understand … can’t help you unless I know what’s going on inside your mind.”

“Really?” The Master grins lazily. “All business, are you? I’ll have to see what I can do about that …”

***

Eventually, they leave their bed and the Doctor begins to put the next stage of his plan in motion. The Master stands and watches him as he pilots the TARDIS. The contrast in their bodies is stark; the Doctor dashes round the console, switching and adjusting and checking, pressing buttons and levers with his hands and even his feet, going round and round until the Master’s sure he must be dizzy.

In contrast, the Master stands stock still, his arms folded, one hand supporting his chin. Watching. And smiling.

Eventually the Doctor heads towards the door and unlocks it. He looks towards the Master and cocks his head slightly, letting him know it’s time to go. The Master walks towards him and holds out the wrist with the link cuff.

The Doctor swallows hard and shakes his head. “No,” he says firmly. “Not any more. I trust you.”

The Master grins, wickedly, and raises his eyebrows. But he holds his wrist higher. “Do it.”

The Doctor’s expression shifts to confusion. “No …”

“I’m telling you to activate the damn link,” the Master growls. “Now, do it.”

Completely flummoxed, the Doctor finds the sonic screwdriver and reattaches their links.

The Master takes a step backwards and tugs hard, with his arm. The Doctor feels the link device tighten around his wrist.

The Master nods in satisfaction. “Good.”

Then, at last, the Doctor understands. The Master doesn’t really mind this link, any more than the Doctor does, but he wants to feel in control.

The Doctor really doesn’t mind. Smiling, he leads the way from the TARDIS, and locks the door behind him.

***

Outside, the light is dazzling. It fills up everything, limiting the effectiveness of sight. But the sounds are just as overwhelming. Chaos fills the air.

“Where are we?” the Master asks, looking around, struggling to take everything in, in the harsh light.

“Earth, of course.”

The Master rolls his eyes. “Right. Of course. Earth. Don’t you ever get tired of this place? Don’t you ever think I might get tired of it?”

“No. But this is not just any old time in the Earth’s history. This is a momentous occasion. Not just for Earth, but for the whole universe.”

“Go on, then,” the Master groans. “What year is it?”

“Four billion, six hundred and forty-five million, two hundred and eleven thousand, nine hundred and thirty-one.”

“Right. And what happens then?”

“This is the evacuation of Earth.”

***

They make their way to a quieter spot, in a disused archway between two derelict buildings, and the Doctor tells the Master how the Sun has expanded so much that the Earth will not be safe for human habitation much longer.

“It’s okay, though, because they’ve got colonies across the galaxies by now. Between them, they can take all the refugees from the home planet.”

“Oh, good!” the Master says, in mock relief. “Thank heavens for that!”

It’s the Doctor’s turn to roll his eyes, as he continues. “The ships started leaving almost three hundred years ago. It’s left a very strange world. See, the only people left are the very rich – who wouldn’t leave because of pride – and the very poor, who couldn’t afford to go until they were ordered to. In some ways it’s been like a return to the Dark Ages.”

As if to punctuate his comment, the sound of frantic, childish screaming pierces the air. They both look around quickly, and the Doctor realises the sound is coming from the cellar of the next building. Instantly, he dashes away, scrambling down the steps, out of the light. The Master is immediately behind.

In the dim, dirty room, children are screaming. Not playing at screaming – this is genuine. They are terrified, hysterical. The Doctor makes out two small boys, a baby … and a woman. She’s young, not much more than twenty, and she’s very thin. And she has her hands around the baby’s throat. The boys are screaming at her to stop. Begging their mother to stop killing their brother.

The Doctor rushes forward and rips the baby from her grasp. The pathetically thin woman puts up a surprisingly strong fight.

“It’s all right. It’s all right, now.” He holds the baby tight and tries hurriedly to calm the small boys. The woman has collapsed in a heap, and she is sobbing.

A choking baby, two hysterical toddlers and a distraught mother is one more emotional crisis than the Doctor can handle. He shoots a helpless, imploring look at the Master.

The Master returns his look in pure horror. But it eventually turns to amusement, and then to resignation. He bends down and looks at the two boys with his best “trust in me” expression.

“Come on, kids. Come over here. Everything’s all right now.” His voice is soft, not dissimilar to the hypnotic one that helped get him elected Prime Minister. The children look at him and seem to calm a little, but still seem reluctant to leave their mother’s side.

The two Time Lords exchange looks. The Master looks questioningly at the Doctor, having no idea how to calm and distract hysterical children. The Doctor gives him an encouraging, “keep going” look. The Master rolls his eyes.

“Come on, come over here. I’ll tell you a children’s story from long, long ago. It’s about four happy creatures with televisual data screens in their stomachs.”

Grinning slightly, the older boy moves towards the Master, reaching for his hand. The younger follows his brother. The Master can’t leave the room, can’t go more than four feet away from the Doctor. But he sits with the children, as far away from the Doctor and the boys’ mother and the link device will allow, and distracts the children with stories. Like the Doctor, he’s very good at talking.

Meanwhile, the Doctor checks the baby is breathing and then turns his attention to the young woman. “What on Earth were you doing that for?”

She doesn’t answer, just sobs and shakes in return.

Trying a new tactic, the Doctor asks, “What’s your name?”

She takes a deep breath, tries to compose herself, and then answers croakily, “Ashra.”

The Doctor kneels down beside her, still holding the baby.

“Ashra, is this your son?”

She nods, still weeping. “Yes. They all are.”

“So why were you trying to kill them?”

Her voice is so shaky he can hardly understand her. “I was just trying … to spare them. I didn’t want them to suffer.”

“Why would they suffer?”

Ashra gives him a very unpleasant look, taking in his crisp brown suit and warm coat. “Your lot … they’re going to abandon us.”

“I don’t have a “lot.” Honest. I’m not from around here. My lot’s just me – well, me … and him.” He gestures over his shoulder at the Master. “Tell me what’s happening.”

She takes a deep breath and finally seems to calm, just a little. “We were supposed to leave, on one of the last ships. Us, and all the others …”

“What others?”

“The ones who aren’t Citizens. The last remaining Citizens have been ordered to take us with them when they leave. The Global Council left two years ago, and they left enough power to fuel the last few private ships, for the Citizens, on condition they took us as passengers.”

“So why are you here? What’s the problem?”

“They haven’t got enough power. The sun … the radiation’s done something to it, and they’re running out. They’re going to leave us behind …” Her voice trails off into hysteria again.

“So you were going to end their lives?” His voice is more gentle now, understanding her terrible situation.

“Don’t you see?” She starts to weep again. “Once the last ships leave, their lives are over! They’ll be murdered by the others … we’re all on our own – they haven’t even got a father to protect them. And even if they don’t, they’ll either starve to death or the radiation’ll get them! I can’t let that happen. I can’t … I can’t …”

“Now, stop. Listen to me. I … I mean, we … we’re not going to let that happen. We’re not going to let you get stuck here. Do you understand me?”

“No! What can you do?”

“Wait and see. Just stay here – and look after them – until we get back.” He jumps up and turns to the Master, who stands as well. They start to head back up the stairs, the Master going first, and at the last minute he turns back to the sobbing woman.

“Ashra? Trust me. We’ll be back soon.”

***

The Doctor and the Master are striding down the street, side by side. “Did you catch any of that?”

“Most of it. The rich ones are going to go, and leave the poor to butcher each other, starve, or burn. Isn’t the human race wonderful?”

The Doctor chooses to ignore that. “But we’re not going to let that happen.”

“And how exactly are we going to do that? Pack the nice little family into your TARDIS and drop them off on a nice little colony?”

The Doctor stops and looks at the Master, apparently impressed. “We could do that, I suppose. Yes, we could. But that would only help one family. All the others will be left.”

“So, we have to find out what’s wrong with the ships, wrong with the power, and fix it, so they can all set off happily together?”

The Doctor raises his eyebrows, impressed again. “Yeah. That’s about right.” He starts to walk away again, but the Master puts a hand on his arm, holding him back.

“What?”

“Oh, you’re so naïve. So sweet. What makes you think there’s anything wrong with the power? Isn’t it just as likely that the rich and powerful have decided they don’t want the lower classes living alongside them in their new homes?”

The Doctor wants to shake his head, wants to laugh at the very idea. But the more logical part of his brain knows the Master has raised a very good point.

“Well, let’s go and find out.” Together, they stride away down the street, towards a great glass tower rising into the sky. Shuttles are humming around it, landing and taking off from the top, bringing the last humans from all over the Earth to this central point, ready for the final departure.

***

The chaos increases as they reach the tower. Swarming around the base are hundreds of people. These are the rich ones, the important people, who would not leave their home planet until the last possible moment. The colonies are remote outposts in their minds; places where the human race are merely tenants, rather than the rightful owners. They are inflated with the sense of their own importance, and, knowing what awaits, the Doctor looks at them in pity.

The Master looks at them in mild disgust.

The Doctor flashes the psychic paper at the security guard on the door, and enters the lift with the Master at his side. In one smooth movement, he reaches inside the Doctor’s jacket and retrieves the wallet holding the paper. “So who exactly are we supposed to be?” He examines it with interest. “Dr. John Smith, chief genetic engineer with the …” He pauses. “ … the previous year’s evacuation program.” He grins sideways at the Doctor. “Got left behind, did you?”

The Doctor grins back.

The Master looks back at the paper. “And I am …”

“ – never mind!” The Doctor shouts suddenly, trying to grab the wallet out of the Master’s hands. But the Master is every bit as quick as he is, and turns away, holding it out of reach.

“ … your partner?”

Finally, using his height advantage, the Doctor grabs the wallet back from the Master and stuffs it back into his pocket. “Don’t look like that. Scientific partner, I meant. Research partner.”

The Master raises an eyebrow. “I just bet you did.”

The Doctor busies himself with putting away the paper, and straightening out his jacket.

“Your mind was … elsewhere when you handed that over, wasn’t it? And … aww,” He tilts his head in mock fondness. “You’re blushing again.” He moves closer to the Doctor, close enough to feel the heat from his body. “Tell me, does anyone else make you blush like that?”

“Stop it.” He fidgets slightly as the Master’s hands brush against his legs, but he doesn’t push them away. “Stop it … not here …”

The Master doesn’t take the message. He moves even closer and his hands reach higher. “What’s wrong with here? Isn’t doing it in a lift supposed to be … sexy? Dangerous?”

Continuing to squirm, the Doctor gasps, “I think you’re danger enough.”

“And tell me, if I were to start something now … would you stop me? Would you try?” His hands are constantly moving, knowing exactly where to touch, how firmly and how gently. He is whispering directly into the Doctor’s ear, his soft breath warming his skin, and …

DING!

The bell of the lift cuts sharply into the private little world they have created for themselves. The Doctor jumps a foot and struggles to get his hearts back under control. The Master merely stands back, drops his hands to his sides, and smiles, apparently relaxed.

“Good afternoon!” The well-dressed woman outside the lift bids them politely.

“G … goo … good …” Slightly unbelievably, the Doctor is stammering; he, one of the best talkers in the universe. He can still feel the imprints on his body where the Master’s hands recently were, and the skin behind his ear is still warm.

“Good afternoon,” the Master says brightly. “Do excuse my partner. It’s been a very long day.” Imperceptibly, he turns and winks at the Doctor, who groans inwardly, and follows the Master out of the lift.

The Road to ... Understanding (Chapter 2, Part 5)

Tue, 09 Oct 2007 06:45:15 GMT

The final part of Chapter Two ... finally! I've already written bits of Ch3 and Ch4, so they should come a bit more quickly now.

When the Doctor awakes and joins the Master in the console room, there is a feeling of morning, even though there is no time, as such. Both could be forgiven for awkwardness, even for anger – it has been such a long time - but instead there is none.

The Doctor rubs his hands through his air and looks around. “Was I ... was I asleep long?”

“Yes. You must have been … very tired.” The Master gives him a filthy look, but grins as he does it.

The Doctor can’t help but grin back.

“So, what did you do, while I was asleep?” He asks conversationally, walking around the console, checking lots of things, but touching nothing.

“Not a lot. It’s not like I’ve got a lot to do, is it? I watched some DVDs I found upstairs – which, by the way, go some way to challenging my status as the resident egomanic. Not even I had a DVD made of nothing but my face and a senseless conversation.” He grins again, and the Doctor chuckles in reply.

“So, did the 1969 thing happen yet?” He asks, settling down in a chair.

“No,” the Doctor replies, still running his hands through his hair. “Not yet. I’ll have to get round to that. You know, at some point.”

“Well, it looks like just the sort of thing you’ll enjoy. Saving the world, in an absolutely bizarre manner – I have to say, I like your style – from more thirty years in the past and … oh, would you look at yourself?”

The sudden change in direction jolts the Doctor from his thoughts. “What?”

“Could you leave your hair alone for five minutes? You look like a recently electrocuted hedgehog.”

“What? Oh.” Flattening his hair down a little, he drops his hands to his sides, stuffing them into his pockets. “Sorry. Just a habit.”

The Master grins; flirtatiously, confidently. “I bet it feels better when I do it …”

The Doctor grins, raises his eyebrows, and nods slightly, still looking down at the console. “Well, everything does.”

“Well, if you’re a very good boy, we could see about that later. But I’m sure you’ve got something terribly serious planned for today. Which great battle will we be visiting?”

Suspiciously, the Doctor looks at the Master, but the grin has gone from the other man’s face, and there is an uncertain note held within the confident tone of his voice. Wasting no time, the Doctor grabs the screwdriver and reattaches the link between their wrists. “Follow me.”

But instead of heading for the door, he turns and heads back into the TARDIS. The Master has no choice but to follow, but he can’t resist a dig. “I must have blown your mind in more ways than one. The door’s the other way, you know.”

“I know. We’re not going outside.”

“You mean that humanity’s fighting an epic battle in the middle of your ship? Impossible. One cannon firing would blow this creaky wreck apart.” It’s quite hard for the Master to keep joking when he’s tethered to the Doctor; he can move incredibly quickly on those long legs of his, and the Master doesn’t fancy a dislocated shoulder.

The Doctor laughs, and gently corrects him. “It’s not a human battle.”

The Master’s actually intrigued, now. Goodness knows what oddity he’s being taken to, but he’s relieved not to be witnessing another human battle. The last one left him with a sense of discomfort, and intense frustration. And as much fun as that was to … work out, he has no desire to see another so quickly.

“Well, hold on,” he stops in his tracks, bracing his arm so that it’s the Doctor that gets tugged back, gracelessly. “If we’re stopping in, why do we need these?” He points to the ring on his wrist, lifting his arm to illustrate his point.

The Doctor gazes into his eyes, in that imploring way of his, and pushes the Doctor’s wrist back down. “Trust me.”

The Master laughs out loud. It’s a ridiculous notion – the person who’s holding him prisoner, who’s got him bloody handcuffed – asking to be trusted. The Doctor’s expression, however, doesn’t change.

“All right, all right. Go on then.” His voice is hurried and uncomfortable; he just wants the Doctor to stop looking at him like that.

They keep moving, into rooms the Master never even got close to on his explorations of the ship. Eventually they come to a sealed door, which the Doctor opens with the sonic screwdriver, and pushes open. The room is pitch black, and he has to turn the lights on sonically as well.

The Master blinks as his eyes become accustomed, and then his eyes become wide. “What the hell is that?”

He’s looking at the only object in the small room, and it’s an unusual artefact. Circular, about two feet in diameter, vaguely resembling a mirror, but made of frosted glass. The most surprising thing, however, is the edging. The edge of the circle is not fixed or solid, but moving, as if it is made of some sort of fluid. The Master feels deeply uncomfortable looking at it, as if a small part of him were terrified; wanting to run away, but too scared.

“I dunno … it hasn’t got a name.”

The Master is no longer in the mood for games. “Well, where did it come from?”

“Haven’t a clue. It’s always been here. Ever since I … requisitioned this TARDIS. Took me ages to find it. I’d sort of hoped you might know what it was, seeing as it was almost certainly put there by the Time Lords.”

“I’ve never seen one of those things before in my life. Any of my lives.”

The Doctor sighs and moves towards the strange object. “Well, it took me ages to find it, and even longer to work out what it does.”

“And what exactly does it do?” The Master edges as far away from the object as their links will allow.

“It shows thoughts.”

The Master’s visibly uncomfortable now; the Doctor can feel the strain on his wrist as the other man tries to pull away. “Well, don’t bring it anywhere near me!”

With an expression of intense seriousness, the Doctor turns to look at him. “It’s not for you. It’s for me.”

The Master relaxes, the tiniest bit. “So it’s … like the psychic paper?” The Doctor can tell he’s not as scared any more, because there’s curiosity in his voice. It’s one of the things that join them, and that even linked them to all the other Time Lords, when they existed: neither of them could every resist a revolutionary bit of technology. A gadget.

“Nope. Psychic paper shows whatever I want it to show. It lies … if I want it to. This can’t lie. This shows pure thoughts … memories, mostly.”

“So what are you going to show me?”

“Another battle, of course.”

“Well, why don’t we just go and see it?”

“We can’t. This battle … this place … we can’t go there. It doesn’t exist in time or space. Not anymore …”

He trails off, but it’s too late. The Master has caught up completely with his thoughts and the fear is back, multiplied. The strain on the links is back, too, as he tries to escape the room, taking the Doctor with him if he has to.

The Doctor stands firm, and his expression is steady and almost cold. “We’re going to watch the end of the Time War.”

“No … no!” The Master continues to pull, to tug at the links, but they hold firm. “You can’t. You can’t make me watch that. How can you watch that? What’s the matter with you?”

Displaying a pure physical strength the Master didn’t know this body of the Doctor’s possessed, he overpowers him and turns to face the silvery object. “It’s something we both need to do.”

***

The first image that appears is not a chaotic, terrifying one, but a scene that’s comforting and familiar in its dullness. Time Lord Senators, deep in conversation, deep within the Citadel. Only one thing in the scene draws the Master’s attention … the Doctor. Looking much different than he does now, and not at all happy.

“What … what’s happening?” The Master’s voice is croaky, little more than a whisper, full of trepidation for what he’s about to witness. He turns to look at the Doctor, the real Doctor, and sees his eyes are closed.

“Sorry,” the Doctor murmurs, and closes his eyes more tightly, as if concentrating. Sound begins to emanate from the mysterious object; coming, it seems, from the strange, fluid edges.

“It has to be you,” says the rusty old voice of one of the Senators.

“No,” says the Doctor’s younger self. “There has to be another way. We’ll find it. We’ll think of something.”

“Don’t you see? It’s over. We have one more thing we can try, but if that doesn’t work …”

“No,” the Doctor repeats, but with less conviction.

“Don’t be foolish. We haven’t time. The Daleks have control of the cruciform. The Master’s dead. You’re the only one left.”

The Master twitches at this last part. He, of course, was not dead. He’d made himself human and ran to the end of the universe. He sees the old Senator hand the Doctor something. He looks upwards, at the Doctor’s face, and the look stuns him.

Absolute resignation. Defeat. He’s always dreamed of seeing that look … but now he sees it, he wonders why. It looks horrible, hateful … wrong. Would it be any better if he himself had put it there?

He grabs the Doctor’s arm, breaking his concentration, and both the sights and sounds vanish. “What was that? What did he give you?”

“A sample of a microbe that lives on dense gases.”

“Why?”

The Doctor merely raises his eyebrows. “You know Gallifrey burned. This is how.”

“You mean …”

“The heat from those two suns was … intense. The atmosphere was all that protected it. Such a strong atmosphere … a tough shell. Even with those great fires burning such a short distance away … it was still a cold planet.”

The Doctor pulls his arm away, and concentrates once more.

Now the Master can see the Doctor’s TARDIS hovering, in orbit around their home planet. He watches as streams of Daleks come pouring in, ships upon ships upon ships. Devouring his home, it appears. And then the Doctor appears in the doorway, and throws what looks like a hand grenade. The view of the planet becomes clearer as the shell fades away, the horrific scenes all the more vivid.

The Master can barely stand to watch. But it lasts only a few seconds, and then the fire begins. The planet reaches its burning point quickly, the twin suns consuming it from both sides.

Quickly the white and yellow flames turn red, and become deeper. The Master, desperate to escape this horrible spectacle turns to look at the Doctor. His face is screwed up tight, whether in pain or concentration. The Master risks one more glance at the screen, and then turns and screams at the Doctor, as near to hysteria as he’s ever been.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Under his horror and desperation, he’s livid. The Doctor should never have this power over him. He’s never wanted it. And the Master wants it finished. Now. He lashes out at the Doctor, punching him in the face and the stomach, anything to stop this.

The Doctor’s concentration is broken, but it takes the images more than a few moments to fade. He catches a glimpse of the Master’s face and instantly releases their link.

The Master runs from the room, and the Doctor lies on the floor, winded, hurting less from the attack than the memories he’s just been forced to relive.

***

When the Doctor pulls himself together, he leaves the room and seals the door behind him, surprised at how steady his hands are. He has no intention of ever returning to this place. At least, he thinks, it will save him the bother of ever having to name that device.

His hands are lying. They may be steady, but inside he’s deeply shaken. Slowly, he makes his way to the console room. He’s not surprised to see no sign of the Master.

The last time the Master saw something like that, he ran to the end of the universe, hid himself as a whole different person. He might be stuck on the TARDIS, but he’s still going to run, still going to hide.

The Doctor comforts himself for many hours, fixing and tightening things on the TARDIS. He loves the old ship, but she needs constant repairs. He doesn’t mind; the familiar, careful actions are soothing.

And he needs to keep his mind off the Master. He needs to give him time.

But not too much time, he knows. The seconds are ticking away in his mind, towards an invisible breaking point only he knows exists. The Master needs time to accept what he has seen, and to realise what it means to him. But if he thinks on it too long … he’ll become aggressive and uncaring. It’s a habit so long cultivated it borders on instinct.

Of course, no-one else in the universe knows this. No-one knows how the Master’s mind works. Except the Doctor. The Doctor understands it, precisely and perfectly, like a science. The seconds tick loudly in his head, the anticipation building until even his steady hands start to tremble.

He walks away into the depths of the TARDIS, slowly and purposefully. He can sense the Master’s presence, and he heads towards it. There’s plenty of time, still. The science of the Master is very exact, but he is an expert.

He climbs staircase after staircase, feeling himself get closer and closer to the Master. On the last staircase he reaches him. He’s sitting on the steps, resting against the railing, his face frozen and ashen. He glances at the Doctor, then looks away. He doesn’t speak.

The Doctor sits down on the same step, but stays quiet. For many minutes they sit there in silence. The seconds continue to tick away in the Doctor’s mind. He feels the critical moment approach.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Master shudder. Cautiously, but determinedly, he moves closer. He wraps his arms around the Master and holds him tight.

The Master lets him. The Doctor can almost feel the Master collapsing into him, and it makes him feel afraid. But he keeps his arms strong, keeps holding his oldest friend and enemy, and breathes deeply.

***

After many long moments, he runs his hand, cautiously but protectively, across the Master’s hair, and moves away.

“Is that how you imagined it? Did it make me powerful?”

Given the Master’s current condition, the questions seem cruel, but he needs to know.

The Master shakes his head dumbly. “Did you think you’d survive?”

“No,” the Doctor answers, softly and honestly. “I didn’t know it would burn that fast. I thought it would expand, consume me too.”

“I’d probably left only a few hours before … you saw … they all thought I was dead.” His voice is hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it for a long time.

The Doctor takes a deep breath. “I thought you were dead, too. They said it was all over, and I believed them.”

The Master doesn’t speak. The Doctor hates the thing he has to do next, but he closes his eyes and ploughs ahead anyway.

“So how can that noise in your head possibly be a call to war? You were a warrior in the greatest battle ever fought. And you ran away. You ran. If the drums were a summons, you’d have answered and been glad. But you ran as far as you could. And you saw me fighting in the same battle, and you ran again. You ran then and you ran now! It’s not a call to war. Stop using that as an excuse!”

All the colour has drained from the Master’s face, but when he speaks his voice is still low and steady, still angry.

“Then tell me, Doctor. What is it? Why do I hear the drums? Why won’t they ever stop?”

The Doctor reaches out his hand an gently grips the Master’s chin, turning his head to face him. He looks into the Master’s eyes, and for the first time his voice shows the love he feels. “I don’t know. I don’t know what they are. But I’ll help you find out.”

For the briefest moment, the Master rubs his cheek against the Doctor’s hand, and then lifts his head. “Will you?”

“I won’t stop until we find it. And remember … when you and I work together, there’s not much we can’t do!” He smiles confidently, charmingly and the Master, who shakes his head and laughs.

“Okay, then. Let’s do it.”

Laughing, a true, honest laugh, the Doctor leans against the Master’s shoulder. He feels the Master’s strong arm wrapping around his middle, and his spirits soar. He can be the strong one, the protective one, the dominant one when he has to, but that role’s always suited the Master better.

Mimicking the other’s gesture, the Master uses his hands to tilt the Doctor’s face upwards for a kiss. The action is less angry and aggressive than it has been, the Doctor thinks, but it’s still demanding and forceful. And he loves it.

The Road to ... (Chapter Listing)

Thu, 04 Oct 2007 07:01:39 GMT

Right. Because I can't work LJ very well at all, I'm going to try and post a Chapter Listing. Apologies to everyone who got screwed around last time.

But don't be surprised if it doesn't work.

Prologue

Chapter 1.1 (The Road to Nowhere)

Chapter 1.2 (The Road to Nowhere)

Chapter 2.1 (The Road to Understanding)

Chapter 2.2 (The Road to Understanding)

Chapter 2.3 (The Road to Understanding)

Chapter 2.4 (The Road to Understanding)

Chapter 2.5 (The Road to Understanding)

Chapter 3.1 (The Road to a New Beginning)

Chapter 3.2 (The Road to a New Beginning)

Chapter 4.1 (The Road to the Unknown)

Chapter 4.2 (The Road to the Unknown)

Chapter 4.3 (The Road to the Unknown)

Chapter 4.4 (The Road to the Unknown)

Epilogue

***************************************************************************

I really, really hope they work this time!

Also, links to each part of The Ten Truths:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

The Road to Understanding (Chapter 2, Part 4)

Thu, 04 Oct 2007 06:44:19 GMT

The Doctor sleeps for what he knows must be at least twelve Earth hours, much longer than he usually sleeps. After his rest, the exhaustion has faded, and most of his usual energy has returned. He bounces out of bed, only the unfastened buttons on his shirt reminding him of the last few moments before he fell asleep. He fastens them, and heads towards the console room.

The Master is lying on the floor, his head under the console, staring up at the workings. He can’t touch, but he can still look. The Doctor notes that he is back to wearing his “politician” suit, so at some time while the Doctor slept he must have found a way of washing it. He looks immaculate, unlike the Doctor, who slept in his rumpled clothes.

They don’t speak, but the Doctor strides forward and sets new co-ordinates. The familiar noises begin as the TARDIS shoots through the Vortex, towards a new destination. Finally, the Doctor grabs his sonic screwdriver and reattaches their link devices.

The silence is deafening. Eventually even the noise of the ship dies away, as she lands.

The Doctor clears his throat and looks towards the door. “Right. Come on, then.”

“No.” The Master has sat upright, but other than that, he hasn’t moved.

“What?”

“No. I’m not going.”

“Oh, not this again. Look,” he says, swallowing hard, “yesterday wasn’t that bad, was it?”

“No,” the Master allows, and he is maddeningly cheerful.

“Then why won’t you just come? Do you want me to beg?”

The Master grins widely. “Oh, that would be lovely. But, no. I don’t want you to beg. At least, not now.”

“Then, what?”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell it is we’re supposed to be doing!”

Oh. The Doctor walks back towards the console and sits down on the floor. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and turns his face towards the Master.

“I want to help you.”

The Master sighs in exasperation. “Yes, we’ve covered that. But how exactly is taking me to watch humans kill each other in the desert supposed to help me?”

The Doctor looks away, and considers how much of his plan to share. “You said the drums were a call to war.”

“Yes,” the Master says slowly, not sure he likes where this is going.

“Well, when you … when we … when we touch, I hear them too.”

“So?”

“I’m not convinced they’re a call to war. And I think if you see some wars, some of the bloodiest battles that have ever been fought, and Earth has loads of those, you … you might see that too.”

The Master stands and walks away, abruptly, and the Doctor can tell he is angry.

“Don’t lie to me.”

The Doctor jumps in surprise. “I’m not. I … I wouldn’t.”

“You don’t seriously expect me to believe that’s your brilliant plan? I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.”

“I swear that’s the truth.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Thinking quickly, the Doctor stands and walks towards the Master, stopping a few feet away and leaning slightly against the console. He fixes him with a steady look. “Try me.”

The Master’s suspicious, the Doctor can tell, but he’s also tempted. He moves slowly towards the Doctor and reaches out with both hands, catching his face between the palms, fingertips grazing his temples.

The Doctor can feel the Master in his mind, and refuses to close off any doors. But he concentrates hard on pushing certain thoughts, certain images, to the front of his mind. He thinks of how much he wants to help the Master, and how he honestly believes he can help with the drums. He’s closed his eyes to help him focus, so it’s a surprise when he feels the Master kiss him. The action will strengthen the link, to be sure, but he wouldn’t have thought the Master would need to.

Without even trying, he can feel that the Master’s mind is completely closed off, so he doesn’t let himself think about how much he’d like to slip inside. Instead he concentrates on the thoughts he’s trying to show the Master. The kiss, at least, makes that easier.

It’s the gentlest kiss they’ve shared; the Master is holding his face tenderly between his hands, and their lips are touching softly. There’s no anger, no fierceness, this time. It’s as if everything else in the universe, everything that has ever come between them, has simply melted away.

Remembering the Master’s rules, and desperate not to anger him and break this moment, the Doctor keeps his hands by his sides, fighting the urge to touch him, to stroke his hair and his body, to feel the touch of that skin under his fingers. To make up for it, he kisses the Master back, and although the mind is locked away, he can feel the pleasure in the other’s body.

Eventually the Master breaks the kiss, stands back, and looks into the Doctor’s eyes. “That really is your plan,” he states, in quiet surprise.

The Doctor’s voice is low and tender, but deadly serious. “Is there a chance I could be right?”

The Master holds his gaze for a long moment, the pause stretching out … and then he laughs and turns away, his hands, uncharacteristically, in his pockets.

“Of course there isn’t. You’re crazier than me.”

The Doctor exhales the breath he’d been holding, takes another, and asks, “But will you come with me?”

“Why not?”

* * *

Outside the TARDIS, the Master takes one look around and laughs again. “Of course. First certainty: the Doctor goes to Earth. Second certainty: the Doctor goes to Britain. I don’t know why they go on about death and taxes when there are stronger certainties in life.”

He’s right, of course. They’ve landed in England, but that’s only half of the puzzle. “So, when in the history of this glorious nation that I will one day represent are we?”

“First century A.D.”

“Why?” The Master’s tone is one of forced patience.

The Doctor looks around him. They’re standing on the gentle slope of a small hill, looking down at a wide, straight road. He feels certain the Master must know what is about to happen here, but he’ll probably force the Doctor to explain.

“That’s Watling Street. The great Roman road running from Londinium to Deva.”

The Master looks as if he’d just told him that two add two equals four.

“The local tribes, the British, have been on the warpath for weeks. Starting with the revolt of the Iceni, of course. Boudicca. They destroyed Camulodenum, even Londinium, and they’ve been marching north. They’ve left Verulamium burning, but their time’s running out. The Governor’s had enough. He’s summoned a huge force, and chosen this site to destroy the tribal forces.”

The Master nods as if he knew it all along – which, of course, he did. “So we watch?”

“We watch.”

They moved higher, away from the plain below them, to a patch of long, rough grass where they could remain unseen. They watched as the British forces arrived, looking much larger than they were. They’d brought large wagons full of women and children, which they left at the far end of the field. They watched as the Roman legions approached from the forest, and even the Doctor could instantly see the wisdom of their tactics. The narrow pass between the hills flanked the army, protecting them, and only the forest was behind them.

The Doctor winced as the Romans let loose their rain of javelins, scattering the tribal warriors. He looks away as the cavalry is unleashed, slaughtering hundreds upon hundreds. In spite of himself, he watches, horribly transfixed, unable to pull his gaze away, as the legions advance upon the wagons, massacring the women, the children, the elderly – even the animals. The sounds that travelled up the hillside made his skin crawl. Flashes of fire and smoke flashing in front of his mind’s eye.

Eventually, having restrained himself all day, he sneaks a glance at the Master. What he sees there confuses him.

As before, he was braced for an expression of fascination, calculation, appreciation, or disinterest. Instead, the Master looks … uncomfortable. His shoulders are hunched, and he is wincing.

The Doctor can only guess at what this means. He hopes that he’s finally found something to shock the Master, something so horrible that even his old foe will shudder. Of course, it may mean nothing of the sort. It may not even be genuine. The bruise on his cheek still stands as testament to the Master’s last deception.

The Master plants his feet on the floor as if he’s getting ready to stand, but the Doctor reaches across and grips his forearm, hard. He’s determined they’re going to see this one through. They’ll stay here until the light is so dim they can no longer see.

The Master looks at the Doctor as if he’d forgotten he was there, as if he imagined he was sitting there alone. He doesn’t protest; he doesn’t even speak. But, perhaps, his face relaxes a fraction.

The Roman legions are not dignified in their victory; their triumph is raucous, their celebrations crude. As darkness falls they light fires, burning anything they can. The firelight doesn’t travel well up the hillside, and soon all the two Time Lords can do is listen to the shouts and laughter emerging from the smoke.

“Eighty thousand people died,” the Doctor says softly. “The Battle of Paulerspury. Their queen committed suicide - all those glorious victories … and it ends like this.”

The Master stands up and strides away, up the hill, not speaking. Scrambling to his feet, the Doctor follows him, feeling the firm tug around his wrist. He opens the door to the TARDIS and allows the Master to step inside, following closely behind. He locks the door, then opens the link binding their wrists. The Master leaves the room in silence, and, as the Doctor guides his ship back into the Vortex, he ponders.

Unless the Master is attempting a world-class deception, this latest visit has affected him. For now, the Doctor can only guess what his old friend and foe is thinking. Could it be that witnessing such pointless, reckless destruction has shocked him? It seems unlikely, as the Master has always rejoiced in such devastation – but only when he himself was the cause. The Doctor’s not stupid; he doesn’t expect the Master to suddenly see the error of his ways and become a crusader of good.

He grins a bitter, wistful grin at the thought.

No, all he wants him to say – all he wants him to know – is that the drumming in his head is not a call to war. He wants the Master to see that he has a choice in his actions. He knows very well that the choice might still be one of evil and destruction but, hoping against hope, he dreams that it will not.

***

Eventually, he goes looking for the Master. It’s been several hours since they saw each other, and while the Doctor wanted to give him some space, he doesn’t want to leave him alone for too long.

He finds him in the storage room, sitting on a worn-out old sofa. In his hand is a dull brass bowl filled with blue sand. The Doctor knows everything in this room is kept for a reason, but he forgot the reason for this bowl a long time ago. He can’t even remember which body he was in when he collected it.

The Master is running his fingers through the sand, tracing patterns, picking it up and watching it trickle slowly through his fingers. He doesn’t seem to have noticed the Doctor standing in the doorway.

He watches, transfixed. There is something so simple, so pointless, so childlike in the action that he can’t help but stare. From nowhere, a swell of pure fondness rises inside of him.

A moment later, the Master freezes and lifts his chin a little, making it plain he’s aware of the Doctor’s nearness. “Ask whatever you want.”

The Doctor steps forward and sits on the arm of the sofa. “Does watching warfare help with the drums?”

The Master says nothing. He’s stirring one finger in the sand now, tracing the same circular shape over and over and over …

Silently, the Doctor waits.

Eventually, the other man speaks. “There’s something about the rhythm of battle … the marching, the clash of swords, the firing of guns … it all seems to fit so well. The rhythm of battle … and the drums.”

He picks up a handful of sand and turns his hand over, staring at the blue grains on his palm.

“But, no. It doesn’t help. When the battle is done, they’re still there. Just as loud. Just as clear.” He tips the sand back into the bowl, blowing the remaining grains from his palm.

“Then why must they be a call to war?” The Doctor’s tone is gentle; he knows if he pushes too hard, the Master will simply push back.

“I don’t know!” The Master stands, abruptly, sending the brass bowl to the floor with a clatter, spilling blue sand in every direction. “I just … you don’t … oh, listen!”

He seizes the Doctor’s hands and raises them to his own temples, his eyes tightly closed. The Doctor barely has time to be thrilled by the Master’s finally letting him in before the rhythm explodes inside his mind.

Enough of his mind is left to tell him that this is the first true – the first completely open – connection they’ve shared in hundreds of years.

The drumming starts in his mind and echoes through his body: he can feel it travelling down his spine, feel it in the muscles of his legs and the nerves of his neck. Da-da-da-DUM. Da-da-da-DUM. Da-da-da-DUM. And with it, the rage of the Master.

He feels like he’s spinning; he can feel energy pouring into every cell in his body, feel his mind racing, and then –

The Master breaks the connection, pushing down on the Doctor’s wrists and stepping away, but …

Strange. The feeling the Doctor is left with is not one of hatred or rage, but pure frustration.

The Master stares at him, imploring him to understand. “Don’t you see? How can that be anything but a rallying cry? A summons?”

The Doctor reaches out and grasps the Master’s arm once more. “A summons for what?”

“For war! What else?”

“Anything. It sounds terrible, and constant, like it’ll never, ever give you any peace. An endless call to action … but why war? A war on what?”

The Master throws back his head in frustration. “You just don’t understand! You think you know, you hear it for a second, then it’s gone! I’ll show you.”

He pushes the Doctor from the arm of the sofa, sending him sprawling on his back on the cushions. He moves his leg over the Doctor’s body and sits above him, holding him down.

The Doctor looks uncertain. Almost … panicked. The rate of the Master’s hearts quickens.

He leans forward and pins down the Doctor’s arms.

“Master …” It is barely more than a whisper, and his eyes are wide.

The Master throws himself forward until his body is resting on the Doctor’s, and kisses him fiercely, refusing to shield his mind even a little. Eventually he releases the Doctor’s arms, knowing he no longer needs to hold him, and with his free hand shoves the Doctor’s jacket to the side. The Doctor sits up, allowing the garment to be removed. Never breaking the kiss, the Master now starts working on the Doctor’s tie and shirt, until eventually the cool skin of his chest is bare. The Master runs his hands over it firmly, finally breaking the kiss.

“Oh, Master …”

Unable to resist, the Master kisses him once more, raising the Doctor’s hands, giving him permission to remove his own suit jacket. Once this is gone, he moves the Doctor’s hands to his tie. Then he captures them once more, guiding them to his waist.

His own hands move to the Doctor’s trousers, pulling them down beneath him. He is forced to break the kiss to remove the last items of clothing, and the Doctor’s eyes gradually open.

The Master smiles broadly and begins to undo the buttons on his own shirt, eventually shrugging it off his shoulders. He slides forward and leans down until his chest is over the Doctor’s face, and feels him start to kiss him desperately, moving downwards over his stomach.

This time, it is the Master who groans. The Doctor moves his slides his hands down the Master’s waist until they’re over his trousers, and grasps him, hard.

Eventually he slides back, leaning forward to press his bare chest against the Doctor’s, feeling the beating of the other’s hearts against his own, like an echo in a small, tight space.

Fervently, he removes his own trousers, and finally gives in to his desire. As he moves, he places his fingertips once more at the Doctor’s temples, and for the first time in his life hears the pounding of the drums from the mind of another.

He’s never felt better. His spirits are soaring, pure energy pouring into the Doctor and, through his fingers, flowing straight back to him.

Eventually, spent, he collapses, their bodies pressed tightly together.

The Doctor’s asleep within minutes. The Master, his desire exhausted, suddenly feels uncomfortable with this intimacy. Gathering clothes from the floor, he heads out of the room.

But he smiles, slightly, as he leaves.