The last thing he remembers of his body is that it was coming apart at the seams.
…
What most do not – cannot – understand about death is that it is the moments just before you slip away that are the most difficult. It is the moment when your eyes close and your body stops, but the synapses of the brain still fire. The first time it is merely confusing. The second time you learn to panic and by the third time onward, you are scared. What most do not understand about death is that it is terrifying. Everyone sees it, and everyone is scared by it. But very few understand.
It is not about what is coming. Nothing comes. One walks a tightrope all their life and death is feeling the rope cut. Death is falling, death is screaming, but death is just the anticipation of it. The momentary eternity before you hit the ground, but in death, nothing comes. There should be finality, a crash, but death is simply the moment before you lose control of what you are doing. Falling, screaming, dying. Then you simply are, passively. Simply are dead. The act of being dead is passive.
What is coming is worthless. It is nothing but an act that is done as if unto another. You lose control. The moments before are terrifying, the moments after are empty and hopeless. No memory. No inkling. Just blank emptiness.
And it gets worse. If one were to blink again they would find themselves struggling for breath and balance on a rope again. To see behind would be to understand that there is no tether holding either end of the rope, anymore. Once, you had an origin. Now you walk with an empty space behind where you should have fallen. Where you fell. You walk on rope as if it was thin air and suddenly, nothing makes sense anymore.
So waking up is almost just as bad. Waking up means you see the fragility. Waking up means you understand what you are heading through and for when you die again – whenever and however that may be.
…
His eyes are open and his lungs scream with the rattling, prickling sensation like breathing a sandstorm. His skin tears and burns underneath. His pores prick up into gooseflesh as though trying to pull away from the pain.
There is cold metal of a table beneath him and there is a terrible din in his head. He does not remember moving to convulse against his restraints, but he is pressed against them and he is being held from moving. His back is arched and his ears are ringing.
He does not understand.
There is a blur of white shapes against the light and hands are grabbing him, sharpening the pain. The din hitches and he realizes he has been screaming.
Hands are dragging him down, pushing him down, and through the excruciating burn in his body and the pounding in his head, he can tell they are speaking. There is a needle, somewhere, and anesthetic is shot deep into his blood.
He does not need it. The pain and fear are enough that, as he passes out, he wishes quietly that he is dying, and that he might never wake up again. For the first time in a long time, he is ready to slip into passivity and relinquish mastery of his own fate.
…
Fate, as it would turn out, is ironic in her workings. He woke up quietly, almost painlessly the second time. His consciousness was fleeting and uneasy, but he was aware enough to gather a few details.
There were people, voices, speaking in an ancient and familiar tongue and saying words that he understood but did not comprehend completely. Not yet. Their voices were kind and condescending.
He had been moved to a bed. It had been metal, before. Now the smell of starched sheets overwhelmed his newborn senses.
His head was hazy, as if with post-regeneration sickness. He could think of nothing, no inking of sentience in his last death, that would lend itself to him having regenerated or even managing to live, again.
And, as his eyes slipped close, he realized he had a body. His own body. Where last time, he had inhabited the other, he was this one. There were no controls, nothing secondhand. His body moved as it had before, long before he ever had to invade another’s flesh.
He had forgotten how exhausting it was, to feel.
…
Reflexes?
A little shock of pressure hits under his knee, and his leg gives a gentle jerk.
Good. Dexterity?
Little pinpricks touch the tips of each of his fingers and, in turn, each twitches.
He continues to watch the ceiling, blankly.
Close your eyes? The voice turns toward him.
He obliges, wondering when this will be over.
Good. Open then?
He obliges.
Good. The voice turns away to ask, Vitals?
All clear, supplies another voice.
Good. We can move on from the physical.
There is a long pause, then, as the machines and instruments are rolled away – he can tell by the sound of wheels over linoleum. All the while, even as they resume their places by the bedside, he can hear the comforting quintuple beep from the heart monitor on the wall.
Let us check his awareness.
The voice returns, this time asking against the barriers of his mind.
Awake?, it asks.
He does not let the voice in. The barriers around his mind stay stubbornly up.
He is closed, the voice says, presumably to the others. Open him.
Two minds are suddenly pressing against his. They slip between the cracks created by weakness of lack of practice, and they pry his mind open like a vice. They keep him propped apart and exposed.
Awake?, the voice asks again.
Yes, he answers, in a clipped and overly polite tone of thought.
Where are you?
You tell me.
Where are you?
I do not know. Why am I alive?
You only have to answer my questions, do not waste your energy.
It should be comforting, but immediately he knows not to trust this voice.
It speaks again, Answer my question, with concrete details. Where are you?
…in bed?
What do you see?
The ceiling.
Can you feel?
Yes. And it hurts like a motherfucker. I would appreciate more drugs, if you do not mind.
Name?
The Master.
Name?
The Master.
There is a pause. Then, Name?
He does not answer this time, because he knows what they want and he has no intentions of giving it to them.
There is a pause, and then there is a deeper invasion in his head. He tries to recoil but there is nowhere to recoil to. His nerves squirm against the violation as the voice finds the knowledge it was looking for.
Good, it tells him, So you know.
He gives no reply.
Do you remember where you were?
No, he lies.
He feels a sore pain in his throat as he growls against the second, deeper invasion.
Where were you?, the voice asks, persistently.
Dead.
Before that?
Dead.
Before that.
Dying.
Where?
The TARDIS.
Yours?
My TARDIS is dead, too.
Are you dead?
Answer me. Why. Am I. Alive?
The voice does not answer in his head this time. But he hears it with his ears rather than inside his as it says, His recollection is sufficient, for now. Let him go.
The vice loosens up against his head.
He yanks back on that inkling of foreign personality that remains, pulling the mind attached to the voice back into his headscape. He slams up the barriers and starts to bury the man deep into his memories, deep into the recent sensations of pain, and waking, and then further into the memories of dying, mind tearing asunder under the heart of the TARDIS, and blackness, and blackness.
So you want me to fucking recollect, you bastard?
From outside the barriers of his mind, he can hear the voice mindlessly scream. It takes them fifteen minutes to extract him from the Master’s mind.
…
They put him in the equivalent of a mental straightjacket, for that little stunt. There was no getting out and no opening his mind to sense those around him, unless they loosened up the straps.
He behaved and did not even try to break out of it. Just to spite their efforts.
…
The first day he finds himself capable and without restraints, he takes the five minutes to coordinate himself and sit up in bed.
After that, there really is not that much else to do. It seems that his hearts have gotten so used to pumping blood horizontally that raising his head above his feet produces a debilitating vertigo. He decides not to risk standing in case he falls and has to be picked up – or worse, to crawl. There is not much to look at in the room, either, and no way to probe outside of his own mind with the enforced barriers. He is essentially stuck sitting, staring at the wall.
He is pleased that his body is still strong enough for that, at least. He has been through plenty of possessions by now, and though he was always disappointed by the lack of mental strength as compared with his own body, they were always physically capable.
Maybe now, with his mind and this body, he can reach his potential. Maybe now, he can start to turn things around.
He stares at the wall and with his mind safely sealed, he thinks about the future.
…
It takes about a week for them to get around to it, but they get him into that bed again and they run all the tests their hearts could ever desire. He gets blood taken and joints prodded and skin jabbed with needles to be tested, and he hardly bats an eyelash.
He lets them do what they want. He waits patiently and, finally, they open up the imposed blockade around his head.
The vice comes to pry him open and he lets his walls come right down. There are two minds, now. One for precaution, he supposes, and one whose mental signature he recognizes.
Oh, you, he thinks. He looks the two men above him up and down and decides that the one that just cringed is most likely the one who belongs to the familiar presence in his head. He lets them start fiddling around as they will.
Awake?, the voice asks.
Yes, he replies.
Where are you?
The operation table.
What do you see?
You. And you look right bothered.
Can you feel?
Sure, well enough, considering I have a needle sticking out of my arm pumping any number of numbing drugs to make me cooperate. That needle stings, by the way.
He gives the man a long look and thinks that something is very different. It occurs to him that he dragged the poor bastard deep into some of his most scarring memories and made him mentally live them out. His brow furrows. Why did they let you back in?
The man ignores him, asks, Name?
You were screaming at the end.
There is a sudden jab in his head and he hisses slightly from the pain. Behind it, though, he can feel an edge of inexplicable anger, and loss, and a hint of something he had not seen before in this personality. Same signature, different tone.
He blinks, feeling impressed with himself. It is strangely gratifying to know that you lived through events that, in memory, would psychologically damage someone enough that they would have to regenerate to shed the effects.
The voice asks, Name?
Were you not taller, last time? He asks as innocently as he can to mask the self-satisfaction.
The man mentally glares. He hears the sarcasm as the voice in his head oozes, Good, I see your short-term memory is perfectly intact.
He physically smirks. So is your attitude.
It is a dare, really. They are cautious probing his mind and he lets them see as much as will satisfy them. He keeps the answers that they want and the things he wants to let them see in plain sight, with the rest tucked safely away. It is a deceptively difficult trick, but one that he is pleased to be able to do after so long.
The presence in his head is nervous, to say the least. He cooperates as if to spite their overly careful planning.
As they put the barriers back up around his head, he realizes that there is only one reason they would use the same man for this job. Several days of their time to psychoanalyze and regenerate him, just to put him back in the same dangerous job that any experienced man could do, could mean only one thing: that he was the only one who could know.
It occurs to the Master that he is ticking away the excruciatingly dull moments his fourteenth life. He realizes as the men seal his mind away that he is alive where no one should be. He is Orpheus, as good as dead and breaking all the rules – because the gods told him to. Because the Time Lords – for whatever reason – decreed to defy their own law.
It was a crime, and it amused him.
…
His body gets slowly stronger. He can stand now, when they are not in the room and pinning him down to examine. He has no clue what they plan to do with him. The most he knows is that they are close, and they are feeding him nutrients and liquids through a needle in his arm.
He gets anxious and he takes to pulling it out of his arm, walking whenever he can, because he and only he has ever decided what he can do.
He is meandering and pointless. He cannot even bring himself to sleep to pass the aching, terrifying boredom.
It is almost a relief when one day he stands and something heavy clamps around his chest. It drags him down to the ground and as his body convulses, as the pain dully throbs in his chest, he thinks that this must be it. Finally, he is dying for good.
The dull throb is cushioned by faraway voices.
And then the pain really strikes.
His throat tears up with the low scream as everything is forced back into focus. He hurts and there is the frantic beeping of a machine. He fights the urge to arch and closes his eyes, letting them roll back into his head. He wills himself to die.
Everything almost slips out of focus before another shock of electricity sends the pain all through him again.
In the back of his head, he can hear the ominous beep of one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.
…
There is a lady, one of the physicians, whom he can hear in his ears. She tells him that his second heart had stopped. That they saved him.
In reality, he had been dying, and they had made him live.
He decides that day that he hates them.
…
They run more tests. They put needles and liquids and drugs under his skin. And they come up with more ways to keep him alive.
He figures so long as they are keeping it up for him, he has no reason to find will to live, himself.
…
One day they sit him up in a chair, and they take him through a door that he does not remember having been there, before. He sits there with no interest, and no intent.
If he had won it himself, if he had stood and walked out here, it would have been freedom. Now, as they wheel him out and expect him to live on and prosper, it is an extension of a cell. There are details of the home and, technically, the building must have been built to be a home of sorts. But he knows better. The Master is many things, but stupid is not one of them.
He knows full well he is being kept and imprisoned as comfortably as possible, even if he is not sure why.
His gaze falls into the negative space and he stubbornly refuses to exercise his mind or his body when they urge him to do so. The appointments become fewer and fewer, and they leave him to sit on his own more and more often.
Then one day among timeless, countless days, they sit him by a window and when his eyes focus, he sees a face he knows.
In that moment, his world simultaneously stops and starts over.
…
He actually stands up and supports himself with the wall, the chairs, anything, to return to the window where he had seen him. Over the next couple of days he stands by and waits for something to happen, for some sign he did not merely dream a madman’s terrified dream.
Sure enough, there is an afternoon when he holds himself up by the window frame and he sees him there, his hair curled to his shoulders just like he remembers it, and the sun glinting off of it like he had not had the chance to see. He watches intently and puts his hand to glass, tapping out an idle one-two-three-four with a roll of his fingertips.
The first thing he realizes is that the Doctor is playing.
The second thing is that he is playing in a closed courtyard.
The Master remembers having been trapped in the TARDIS, tearing and crushing and coming apart, and suddenly he knows that he must be here by extraction. If he is here, of course, so the Doctor would have to be.
And somehow, he already knows that the Doctor is no freer in this prison than he.
He continues to watch until the Doctor turns, sees him, through the glass and stops. His blue eyes widen and the gentle smile that had been pulling at his lips fell and was replaced with a sullen set of his lips. In an instant, he suddenly looks his age.
The Master stands there with his hand against the glass and his eyes unwavering. He watches the Doctor as he turns and starts around the outside corner of the walls. The Doctor occasionally glances over his shoulder and the Master never once looks away.
He watches until he cannot see anymore.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Contrition : Part
Reflexes?
A little shock of pressure hits under his knee, and his leg gives a gentle jerk.
Good. Dexterity?
Little pinpricks touch the tips of each of his fingers and, in turn, each twitches on its own.
He continues to watch the ceiling, blankly.
Close your eyes? The voice turns toward him.
He obliges, wondering when this will be over.
Good. Open then?
He obliges.
Good. The voice turns away to ask, Vitals?
All clear, supplies another voice.
Good. We can move on from the physical.
There is a long pause, then, as the machines and instruments are rolled away – he can tell by the sound of wheels over linoleum. All the while, even as they resume their places by the bedside, he can hear the comforting quintuple beep from the heart monitor on the wall.
Let us check his awareness.
The voice returns, this time asking against the barriers of his mind.
Awake?, it asks.
He does not let the voice in. The barriers around his mind stay stubbornly up.
He is closed, the voice says, presumably to the others. Open him.
Two minds are suddenly pressing against his. They slip between the cracks created by weakness of lack of practice, and they pry his mind open like a vice. They keep him propped apart and exposed.
Awake?, the voice asks again.
Yes, he answers, in a clipped and overly polite tone of thought.
Where are you?
You tell me.
Where are you?
I do not know. Why am I alive?
You only have to answer my questions, do not waste your energy.
It should be comforting, but immediately he knows not to trust this voice.
It speaks again, Answer my question, with concrete details. Where are you?
…in bed?
What do you see?
The ceiling.
Can you feel?
Yes. And it hurts like a motherfucker. I would appreciate more drugs, if you do not mind.
Name?
The Master.
Name?
The Master.
There is a pause. Then, Name?
He does not answer this time, because he knows what they want and he has no intentions of giving it to them.
There is a pause, and then there is a deeper invasion in his head. He tries to recoil but there is nowhere to recoil to. His nerves squirm against the violation as the voice finds the knowledge it was looking for.
Good, it tells him, So you know.
He gives no reply.
Do you remember where you were?
No, he lies.
He feels a sore pain in his throat as he growls against the second, deeper invasion.
Where were you?, the voice asks, persistently.
Dead.
Before that?
Dead.
Before that.
Dying.
Where?
The TARDIS.
Yours?
My TARDIS is dead, too.
Are you dead?
Answer me. Why. Am I. Alive?
The voice does not answer in his head this time. But he hears it with his ears rather than inside his head, this time, as it says His recollection is sufficient, for now. Let him go.
The vice loosens up against his head.
He yanks back on that inkling of foreign personality that remains, pulling the mind attached to the voice back into his headscape. He slams up the barriers and starts to bury the man deep into his memories, deep into the recent sensations of pain, and waking, and then further into the memories of dying, mind tearing in two under the heart of the TARDIS, and blackness, and blackness.
You want me to fucking recollect, you bastard?
From outside the barriers of his mind, he can hear the voice mindlessly scream. It takes them fifteen minutes to extract him from the Master’s mind.
A little shock of pressure hits under his knee, and his leg gives a gentle jerk.
Good. Dexterity?
Little pinpricks touch the tips of each of his fingers and, in turn, each twitches on its own.
He continues to watch the ceiling, blankly.
Close your eyes? The voice turns toward him.
He obliges, wondering when this will be over.
Good. Open then?
He obliges.
Good. The voice turns away to ask, Vitals?
All clear, supplies another voice.
Good. We can move on from the physical.
There is a long pause, then, as the machines and instruments are rolled away – he can tell by the sound of wheels over linoleum. All the while, even as they resume their places by the bedside, he can hear the comforting quintuple beep from the heart monitor on the wall.
Let us check his awareness.
The voice returns, this time asking against the barriers of his mind.
Awake?, it asks.
He does not let the voice in. The barriers around his mind stay stubbornly up.
He is closed, the voice says, presumably to the others. Open him.
Two minds are suddenly pressing against his. They slip between the cracks created by weakness of lack of practice, and they pry his mind open like a vice. They keep him propped apart and exposed.
Awake?, the voice asks again.
Yes, he answers, in a clipped and overly polite tone of thought.
Where are you?
You tell me.
Where are you?
I do not know. Why am I alive?
You only have to answer my questions, do not waste your energy.
It should be comforting, but immediately he knows not to trust this voice.
It speaks again, Answer my question, with concrete details. Where are you?
…in bed?
What do you see?
The ceiling.
Can you feel?
Yes. And it hurts like a motherfucker. I would appreciate more drugs, if you do not mind.
Name?
The Master.
Name?
The Master.
There is a pause. Then, Name?
He does not answer this time, because he knows what they want and he has no intentions of giving it to them.
There is a pause, and then there is a deeper invasion in his head. He tries to recoil but there is nowhere to recoil to. His nerves squirm against the violation as the voice finds the knowledge it was looking for.
Good, it tells him, So you know.
He gives no reply.
Do you remember where you were?
No, he lies.
He feels a sore pain in his throat as he growls against the second, deeper invasion.
Where were you?, the voice asks, persistently.
Dead.
Before that?
Dead.
Before that.
Dying.
Where?
The TARDIS.
Yours?
My TARDIS is dead, too.
Are you dead?
Answer me. Why. Am I. Alive?
The voice does not answer in his head this time. But he hears it with his ears rather than inside his head, this time, as it says His recollection is sufficient, for now. Let him go.
The vice loosens up against his head.
He yanks back on that inkling of foreign personality that remains, pulling the mind attached to the voice back into his headscape. He slams up the barriers and starts to bury the man deep into his memories, deep into the recent sensations of pain, and waking, and then further into the memories of dying, mind tearing in two under the heart of the TARDIS, and blackness, and blackness.
You want me to fucking recollect, you bastard?
From outside the barriers of his mind, he can hear the voice mindlessly scream. It takes them fifteen minutes to extract him from the Master’s mind.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Prompt : Velvet
There is something to be said for a little decadence. The Master himself had always been fond of luxury, of details and filigree and quality.
But why he had come into his room to find his sheets replaced with silk and his comforter replaced with velvet was of serious question.
He blinked once, not entirely sure what to make of the situation. Warning flags went up in his mind, and he approached the room cautiously. There wasn’t much else wrong, admittedly. The night table had a set of candles, replacing his usual lamp that rested there. They were lit – and probably scented: apple spice, if his nose did not deceive him – and… something else that looked remarkably like a fancy bottle of lotion with a funny shape, a lavender label, and something about “for lovers”.
The door opens behind him and he turns to get an eyeful of primped-up Doctor. His hair was slicked back so that the curls teased at the nape of his neck, his eyes alit with something caught between mischievous and hopeful. He had replaced his usual green Victorian coat with… a red velvet one of a near identical cut.
The Master blinks. Then his brow furrows and, in his American drawl, he scoffs. “Oh, what, so you made a dress out of sheets? Are you Cinderella, now?”
The Doctor shuffled his feet, faking shyness while his eyes glittered happily. “The sheets are silk,” he corrects the Master.
“So are your long underwear,” he retorts, trying not to think very hard on what ammo he’s using to throw back at the mild-natured and really too-damn-smug man in front of him.
Those summery blue eyes blinked once. His grin pulled widely and he stepped a little closer. “Won’t know until you look,” he puts out hopefully.
The Master rolls his eyes, putting his hands on the Doctor’s waist. “You could have just asked…”
“I thought you’d be able to take the hint, when I put on the jacket,” his lower lip presses out a little, and the pout works its magic. The Master curses this manipulative bastard and tries not to think about how lovely it would be to run his cheek against the Doctor’s sleeve for the rest of the night.
Thank you, but he has no intentions of looking like a pining, clingy housecat tonight.
“You could have whispered it sweetly in my ear when we woke up, at least. Rather than leaving me with—” he glances behind him, making sure he read right, “—strawberry-flavored lubrication on my table.”
“Oh, how silly of me,” says the Doctor. He tilts his face up and kisses the Master’s chin in that sweet way he has when he wants something. His hands slip under the Master’s jacket. “I shall make sure I bring out the chocolate, next time.”
The Master rolled his eyes, but obliged. A little velvet never hurt anyone, after all.
But why he had come into his room to find his sheets replaced with silk and his comforter replaced with velvet was of serious question.
He blinked once, not entirely sure what to make of the situation. Warning flags went up in his mind, and he approached the room cautiously. There wasn’t much else wrong, admittedly. The night table had a set of candles, replacing his usual lamp that rested there. They were lit – and probably scented: apple spice, if his nose did not deceive him – and… something else that looked remarkably like a fancy bottle of lotion with a funny shape, a lavender label, and something about “for lovers”.
The door opens behind him and he turns to get an eyeful of primped-up Doctor. His hair was slicked back so that the curls teased at the nape of his neck, his eyes alit with something caught between mischievous and hopeful. He had replaced his usual green Victorian coat with… a red velvet one of a near identical cut.
The Master blinks. Then his brow furrows and, in his American drawl, he scoffs. “Oh, what, so you made a dress out of sheets? Are you Cinderella, now?”
The Doctor shuffled his feet, faking shyness while his eyes glittered happily. “The sheets are silk,” he corrects the Master.
“So are your long underwear,” he retorts, trying not to think very hard on what ammo he’s using to throw back at the mild-natured and really too-damn-smug man in front of him.
Those summery blue eyes blinked once. His grin pulled widely and he stepped a little closer. “Won’t know until you look,” he puts out hopefully.
The Master rolls his eyes, putting his hands on the Doctor’s waist. “You could have just asked…”
“I thought you’d be able to take the hint, when I put on the jacket,” his lower lip presses out a little, and the pout works its magic. The Master curses this manipulative bastard and tries not to think about how lovely it would be to run his cheek against the Doctor’s sleeve for the rest of the night.
Thank you, but he has no intentions of looking like a pining, clingy housecat tonight.
“You could have whispered it sweetly in my ear when we woke up, at least. Rather than leaving me with—” he glances behind him, making sure he read right, “—strawberry-flavored lubrication on my table.”
“Oh, how silly of me,” says the Doctor. He tilts his face up and kisses the Master’s chin in that sweet way he has when he wants something. His hands slip under the Master’s jacket. “I shall make sure I bring out the chocolate, next time.”
The Master rolled his eyes, but obliged. A little velvet never hurt anyone, after all.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Prompt : Nuance
It is silly to assume, really, that a cigar is anything but a cigar. Humans, the Master thought, were ridiculous for finding as much symbolism as they did. Patterns in things that had none, meaning in things that were obviously very literal. Time Lords were sparing with their metaphors. Metaphors meant something far more literal to Time Lords than they did to humans.
Eyes like a summer sky would have layers upon layers of meaning, in their language. Eyes that are light like a clouded day, eyes that have warmth about them, eyes that make me feel like summer only could make me feel—often personal case could even be used to describe a certain emotional mindset. And the written language would be even more specific.
Symbols would be used carefully. Every word has meaning behind it; humans were flat with their metaphors. They could not understand the nuance of meaning that would go into words or actions, much less their shallow metaphors.
As it stands, it is a day like any other. Warm. Barely sunny. Not comfortable enough to tread out of doors in less than a t-shirt, jeans, and jacket, but it was a processor to spring. The world would be warm soon. Summer might even arrive. Seemed unbelievable now, but summer might actually come again.
The Master puts his hands over his paper, his hands stained with charcoal, and for the umpteenth time tries to wrap his head around the concept of love in the context of marriage.
He had been studying the human custom ever since the Doctor had brought it up. He had relented and popped the question, though “will you marry me” seemed as shallow as a human metaphor. There was nothing about being together for the rest of their days in the question. There was not even a semblance of love behind the gesture. All that came without saying.
No. “Will you marry me”?, to the Master, sounded flat enough that the only words he could imagine under the flat, metaphorical surface were “Happy now?”
It wasn’t so bad, he supposed. It felt flat, but it made the Doctor happy. Concepts such as forever, togetherness, belonging—those were all things that came on the side. He didn’t need marriage to demonstrate them. They came with the package. And if the Doctor was happy on top of it—well, that would do.
He starts doing research into it, and he can’t believe how little humans explain their terms. Four hours later, he throws aside his “Wedding Planning for Dummies” and approaches the Doctor with an air caught between gravity and annoyance.
“What the hell do the bridesmaids even do, and how do you tell the bride from the groom? And what—” he concludes, slipping in close for a cuddle, “by all the stars, is a honey moon?”
The Doctor blinked, then giggled. “Bridesmaids are friends who accompany the bride in the ceremony. The bride is usually a woman—”
“Neither of us are bloody women.” The Master pointed out, nuzzling his hair.
“—so I suppose the question doesn’t particularly apply.” The Doctor concluded. Then, “But if you want, I could wear the dress.”
The Master huffed. “And the last part?”
“Oh?”
“The hell is a honey moon.” He repeats.
Suddenly the Doctor looks nervous, almost shy, and the Master’s attention is caught. He tilts his head as the Doctor looks down.
“…well… on the honey moon, the newlyweds go off somewhere… alone. And celebrate their marriage.”
“…what for?” The Master furrowed his brows, not at all sure why you needed a second celebration ceremony.
The Doctor gave him a look. “Go somewhere. … alone.”
It’s a look that a Time Lord would have. In his eyes, the emphasis is given. Suggests the case of “alone” meaning “you and I, one day, potentially, somewhere, undefined”. His tone gives structure. Alone, regarding intimacy, regarding privacy. Go. Action.
“Oh.” Says the Master.
Eyes like a summer sky would have layers upon layers of meaning, in their language. Eyes that are light like a clouded day, eyes that have warmth about them, eyes that make me feel like summer only could make me feel—often personal case could even be used to describe a certain emotional mindset. And the written language would be even more specific.
Symbols would be used carefully. Every word has meaning behind it; humans were flat with their metaphors. They could not understand the nuance of meaning that would go into words or actions, much less their shallow metaphors.
As it stands, it is a day like any other. Warm. Barely sunny. Not comfortable enough to tread out of doors in less than a t-shirt, jeans, and jacket, but it was a processor to spring. The world would be warm soon. Summer might even arrive. Seemed unbelievable now, but summer might actually come again.
The Master puts his hands over his paper, his hands stained with charcoal, and for the umpteenth time tries to wrap his head around the concept of love in the context of marriage.
He had been studying the human custom ever since the Doctor had brought it up. He had relented and popped the question, though “will you marry me” seemed as shallow as a human metaphor. There was nothing about being together for the rest of their days in the question. There was not even a semblance of love behind the gesture. All that came without saying.
No. “Will you marry me”?, to the Master, sounded flat enough that the only words he could imagine under the flat, metaphorical surface were “Happy now?”
It wasn’t so bad, he supposed. It felt flat, but it made the Doctor happy. Concepts such as forever, togetherness, belonging—those were all things that came on the side. He didn’t need marriage to demonstrate them. They came with the package. And if the Doctor was happy on top of it—well, that would do.
He starts doing research into it, and he can’t believe how little humans explain their terms. Four hours later, he throws aside his “Wedding Planning for Dummies” and approaches the Doctor with an air caught between gravity and annoyance.
“What the hell do the bridesmaids even do, and how do you tell the bride from the groom? And what—” he concludes, slipping in close for a cuddle, “by all the stars, is a honey moon?”
The Doctor blinked, then giggled. “Bridesmaids are friends who accompany the bride in the ceremony. The bride is usually a woman—”
“Neither of us are bloody women.” The Master pointed out, nuzzling his hair.
“—so I suppose the question doesn’t particularly apply.” The Doctor concluded. Then, “But if you want, I could wear the dress.”
The Master huffed. “And the last part?”
“Oh?”
“The hell is a honey moon.” He repeats.
Suddenly the Doctor looks nervous, almost shy, and the Master’s attention is caught. He tilts his head as the Doctor looks down.
“…well… on the honey moon, the newlyweds go off somewhere… alone. And celebrate their marriage.”
“…what for?” The Master furrowed his brows, not at all sure why you needed a second celebration ceremony.
The Doctor gave him a look. “Go somewhere. … alone.”
It’s a look that a Time Lord would have. In his eyes, the emphasis is given. Suggests the case of “alone” meaning “you and I, one day, potentially, somewhere, undefined”. His tone gives structure. Alone, regarding intimacy, regarding privacy. Go. Action.
“Oh.” Says the Master.
Friday, March 11, 2011
new developments
Structure-wise, at least.
Two options for a title, here. We have "Reconciliation" or "The Healing Sacrament". I'm more tempted by the first, since all the four sub-sections are one word-ers. The second does sound slightly more Catholic, which is the basis for the whole titling and organization of the piece -- because I get silly and obsessive about my fanfiction XD -- but even so. The terms are apparently pretty interchangeable, as far as I can tell from Wikipedia.
the Sin chapter should also maybe have it's title changed to "contrition". Granted, I can't exactly say that any Master would ever feel GUILTY for his sins, but... apparently contrition is the main first step in the whole confession-absolution process. So we'll see. It probably will change from "sin" though. >>
...and yes I wrote up a post just for notes. rawr. <3
Two options for a title, here. We have "Reconciliation" or "The Healing Sacrament". I'm more tempted by the first, since all the four sub-sections are one word-ers. The second does sound slightly more Catholic, which is the basis for the whole titling and organization of the piece -- because I get silly and obsessive about my fanfiction XD -- but even so. The terms are apparently pretty interchangeable, as far as I can tell from Wikipedia.
the Sin chapter should also maybe have it's title changed to "contrition". Granted, I can't exactly say that any Master would ever feel GUILTY for his sins, but... apparently contrition is the main first step in the whole confession-absolution process. So we'll see. It probably will change from "sin" though. >>
...and yes I wrote up a post just for notes. rawr. <3
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Prompt : Gel
Lucy was still not entirely sure, exactly, what had happened. Sometimes she still marvels over it, and how fast it had all happened.
She looks at the closed door and thinks about it. In retrospect, she had known this man for maybe a month – a little more, perhaps a good deal more, considering how confusing things got between time and space. She wasn’t all clear on that either.
They had come back home at almost the moment they had originally left. A month had passed since the day she had met him in the park. September 18th. It was October, now.
They were getting married in two weeks and it suddenly dawned on her that she had not known this man very long at all. Longer than she had seemed to have known him. She had lied to her father and told him that they were business associates for some time before she brought him home.
“I like him very much,” she had told her father, and it was not exactly a lie. “I think I might marry him, if he asks me.”
Of course, he would ask, and she would say yes. It had been in their plan ever since she explained to him – as best she could – that politicians could not have mistresses. Humans did not like that.
She had sculpted her lips into a gentle smile for her father to see.
He – him, the man she was marrying – had made a joke and Lucy laughed. He laughed at himself to ease the stiff silence from everyone else. Her father had looked at her and said “He better buy you flowers.”
“Remember, sweetheart,” her mother had told her, “politicians are a nasty sort. They lie.” Lucy had smiled and kissed her mother on the cheek, and wondered how much of a fib it would be to kiss your mother when you wanted to laugh at her, or scoff at her.
Lucy came back to herself, and shook her head at the door as she heard the water turn off. The Master was getting to be a terrible influence on her.
The door swung open a few minutes later and she was greeted with the same wide smile and brown eyes that she had started to get so used to. She almost smiled back. And then she saw his hair.
“Oh, no.”
“What?” He asked, his face falling. “It’s not that bad, is it? I know I haven’t brushed yet, but I wanted to wait until after tea.”
“Master,” she frowned, putting her fists on her hips and putting on her best serious face. “You march right back in there and wash your hair.”
“I just showered! It’s clean! Why, does it—?”
“I don’t care what you did with it, just undo it. My goodness, Master…” she stepped close, her brows furrowing in distaste as she looked at that slimy mess of slicked-back hair he had. She almost picked up a bit of his hair between two fingers, but didn’t dare to touch it. “What did you do? Use an entire bottle of gel?”
The Master pouted dramatically at her. “Luce…” he said, drawing out the name. “I want to look presentable.”
“Yes, well…” she pursed her lips, then decided to take his hand instead. “Well, it looks… you did it sort of… let me help you make it up.”
“But—”
“Master.” She said, firmly, and that was that.
Fifteen minutes later, most of the gel was thankfully out, with just enough in place to keep his hair from flopping about. It was falling naturally now, and Lucy was pleased with herself.
“So?” She asked, looking up and smiling at this man.
He tilted his head. “You’re sure this looks presentable, Luce?”
“Definitely better.” She nodded. She brought up a hand to pet his cheek. “You look wonderfully handsome, Master.”
“Harold,” he corrected her. He leaned in close to give her a little kiss, and it felt so natural that she could not tell if he was practicing the gesture or if he really meant it. “Harold. I’m a politician, now.” He smiled so wide that she could not help but feel pleased with his enthusiasm.
“Harold,” she repeated, then leaned up to kiss him. She patted his arm. “Go on. Go get changed, or you’ll be late.”
He gave her a wide smile. He turned away and Lucy began to think that, maybe, time didn’t really matter so much. He would make a good politician, and a good husband.
“Lucy Saxon.”
She tried out the name, on her tongue. A smile slipped up across her lips and for a moment, Lucy Saxon was anything but a politician, herself. She gave an honest giggle when Harold turned around to give her a grin and a flattering wink.
She looks at the closed door and thinks about it. In retrospect, she had known this man for maybe a month – a little more, perhaps a good deal more, considering how confusing things got between time and space. She wasn’t all clear on that either.
They had come back home at almost the moment they had originally left. A month had passed since the day she had met him in the park. September 18th. It was October, now.
They were getting married in two weeks and it suddenly dawned on her that she had not known this man very long at all. Longer than she had seemed to have known him. She had lied to her father and told him that they were business associates for some time before she brought him home.
“I like him very much,” she had told her father, and it was not exactly a lie. “I think I might marry him, if he asks me.”
Of course, he would ask, and she would say yes. It had been in their plan ever since she explained to him – as best she could – that politicians could not have mistresses. Humans did not like that.
She had sculpted her lips into a gentle smile for her father to see.
He – him, the man she was marrying – had made a joke and Lucy laughed. He laughed at himself to ease the stiff silence from everyone else. Her father had looked at her and said “He better buy you flowers.”
“Remember, sweetheart,” her mother had told her, “politicians are a nasty sort. They lie.” Lucy had smiled and kissed her mother on the cheek, and wondered how much of a fib it would be to kiss your mother when you wanted to laugh at her, or scoff at her.
Lucy came back to herself, and shook her head at the door as she heard the water turn off. The Master was getting to be a terrible influence on her.
The door swung open a few minutes later and she was greeted with the same wide smile and brown eyes that she had started to get so used to. She almost smiled back. And then she saw his hair.
“Oh, no.”
“What?” He asked, his face falling. “It’s not that bad, is it? I know I haven’t brushed yet, but I wanted to wait until after tea.”
“Master,” she frowned, putting her fists on her hips and putting on her best serious face. “You march right back in there and wash your hair.”
“I just showered! It’s clean! Why, does it—?”
“I don’t care what you did with it, just undo it. My goodness, Master…” she stepped close, her brows furrowing in distaste as she looked at that slimy mess of slicked-back hair he had. She almost picked up a bit of his hair between two fingers, but didn’t dare to touch it. “What did you do? Use an entire bottle of gel?”
The Master pouted dramatically at her. “Luce…” he said, drawing out the name. “I want to look presentable.”
“Yes, well…” she pursed her lips, then decided to take his hand instead. “Well, it looks… you did it sort of… let me help you make it up.”
“But—”
“Master.” She said, firmly, and that was that.
Fifteen minutes later, most of the gel was thankfully out, with just enough in place to keep his hair from flopping about. It was falling naturally now, and Lucy was pleased with herself.
“So?” She asked, looking up and smiling at this man.
He tilted his head. “You’re sure this looks presentable, Luce?”
“Definitely better.” She nodded. She brought up a hand to pet his cheek. “You look wonderfully handsome, Master.”
“Harold,” he corrected her. He leaned in close to give her a little kiss, and it felt so natural that she could not tell if he was practicing the gesture or if he really meant it. “Harold. I’m a politician, now.” He smiled so wide that she could not help but feel pleased with his enthusiasm.
“Harold,” she repeated, then leaned up to kiss him. She patted his arm. “Go on. Go get changed, or you’ll be late.”
He gave her a wide smile. He turned away and Lucy began to think that, maybe, time didn’t really matter so much. He would make a good politician, and a good husband.
“Lucy Saxon.”
She tried out the name, on her tongue. A smile slipped up across her lips and for a moment, Lucy Saxon was anything but a politician, herself. She gave an honest giggle when Harold turned around to give her a grin and a flattering wink.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Prompt : Purse
He walks in with a suit and a strut and a pink bag thrown over his shoulder. The Doctor raises an eyebrow at him.
“Master,” he points out, “you are wearing a purse.”
“What?” The Master raised his eyes up to look at the Doctor. He tilted his head. “Sorry, didn’t catch that. I’m going out.”
“With a purse?”
“No,” the Master gives him a reproachful look, scoffing. “With a man bag.”
The Doctor pauses a moment. He slowly gets up, walks toward the Master, and leans a hand on his shoulder.
“Master,” he tries again, “that is a purse.”
“Is not,” the Master says very decisively. He pouts a bit. “I even told Lucy. It is a man bag, when I wear it. Men don’t carry around purses.”
“Master, I am rather masculine this time around.” And it was true, this regeneration had turned the Doctor into a strapping soldier with broad shoulders, severe features, and a stringy sort of musculature that was deceptively slender for his physical capabilities. He crossed his leather-clad arms and said very authoritatively, “And I can tell you. No man would carry around a ‘man bag’ like that and still call it such.”
“What?” It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation. The Master’s brows furrowed and he pouted obstinately. “Men can wear whatever they damn well want. What is wrong with it?”
“First of all, it is a purse—”
“Will you quit it, with that?” The Master insisted.
“—and, by extension,” the Doctor continued. “Your purse is pink.”
“Pink is a perfectly legitimate color. Real men wear pink.” The Master clutched the strap of his purse to his shoulder, looking rather like Lucy when she was distrustful and as angry as the mild little thing could get. The Doctor sighed, giving up on that faction of the argument.
“Where are you going out to?”
“Shopping!” The smaller man gave such a smile that the Doctor could no longer feel quite as righteous in notifying him that ‘shopping’ when exclaimed like that, also decidedly not masculine.
“For?”
“Christmas.”
“Oh!” The scenario almost made sense for a moment. Then the Doctor remembered who he was talking to, and also the pepto-bismol-colored accessory that he had chosen. “You are going Christmas shopping?”
“Yes. And?”
The Doctor narrowed his eyes as more details gradually occurred to him. “… in April?”
The Master grinned, then leaned up to kiss his partner’s cheek. “Later, sweetheart.”
He left with that, and the Doctor was not entirely sure what sort of argument had just transpired, or if there had actually been substance argued at all. He went off about his business.
“Master,” he points out, “you are wearing a purse.”
“What?” The Master raised his eyes up to look at the Doctor. He tilted his head. “Sorry, didn’t catch that. I’m going out.”
“With a purse?”
“No,” the Master gives him a reproachful look, scoffing. “With a man bag.”
The Doctor pauses a moment. He slowly gets up, walks toward the Master, and leans a hand on his shoulder.
“Master,” he tries again, “that is a purse.”
“Is not,” the Master says very decisively. He pouts a bit. “I even told Lucy. It is a man bag, when I wear it. Men don’t carry around purses.”
“Master, I am rather masculine this time around.” And it was true, this regeneration had turned the Doctor into a strapping soldier with broad shoulders, severe features, and a stringy sort of musculature that was deceptively slender for his physical capabilities. He crossed his leather-clad arms and said very authoritatively, “And I can tell you. No man would carry around a ‘man bag’ like that and still call it such.”
“What?” It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation. The Master’s brows furrowed and he pouted obstinately. “Men can wear whatever they damn well want. What is wrong with it?”
“First of all, it is a purse—”
“Will you quit it, with that?” The Master insisted.
“—and, by extension,” the Doctor continued. “Your purse is pink.”
“Pink is a perfectly legitimate color. Real men wear pink.” The Master clutched the strap of his purse to his shoulder, looking rather like Lucy when she was distrustful and as angry as the mild little thing could get. The Doctor sighed, giving up on that faction of the argument.
“Where are you going out to?”
“Shopping!” The smaller man gave such a smile that the Doctor could no longer feel quite as righteous in notifying him that ‘shopping’ when exclaimed like that, also decidedly not masculine.
“For?”
“Christmas.”
“Oh!” The scenario almost made sense for a moment. Then the Doctor remembered who he was talking to, and also the pepto-bismol-colored accessory that he had chosen. “You are going Christmas shopping?”
“Yes. And?”
The Doctor narrowed his eyes as more details gradually occurred to him. “… in April?”
The Master grinned, then leaned up to kiss his partner’s cheek. “Later, sweetheart.”
He left with that, and the Doctor was not entirely sure what sort of argument had just transpired, or if there had actually been substance argued at all. He went off about his business.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Prompt : Nap
Most times, he still does not sleep through the night.
He is quiet about it. He never screams when he wakes up. Maybe he did, one day. Maybe he ran out of screams early in his life, when his lives were ripped from him as easily as one pulls petals from a daisy, as casually as a child pulling blades of grass from the soil.
Like he was screaming and no-one could hear.
So if it were not for the fact that he looks tired, if it were not for the fact that he seems to stay up later than everyone, and then to wake up earlier – maybe no one would even have an inkling.
Sleep is too much like death, so he does not sleep, most times. He does not look backwards to face the dark spots in his life and he makes a point not to actively seek them. He thought it would kill him to not take each challenge presented to him. He never thought fear would quench his motivation.
The Doctor had started to change that, slowly. In time he comes to find his challenges and his thrills elsewhere. Quiet affairs. Could they stay in the same room without fear of each other. Later, could they touch without fear and, even farther, could they trust one another again. It was all gradual and it was all very, very quiet.
He does not remember how it gets brought up the first time, except that he says something, and the Doctor suddenly understands something of the Master’s insomniac tendencies. And then does what he does so well, and offers his best as though it were casual and natural to do.
“I could stay with you,” he tells him. “I could stay while you sleep.”
This is the first time, and he gives him a long, suspicious look. Trust is not easy, still, and he shakes his head.
“No.” The Master tells him; then he pauses, knowing well that they have to live together, and that some civility at least makes the situation more easily maneuverable. He nods. “I have things I still need to finish, tonight.”
It is a lie, but a civil one. The Doctor understands this and he says nothing more that day.
And the first time, when the Master had allowed the Doctor close enough to sit with him, to sleep, he did not so much rest as merely nap. The intervals of his unconsciousness were short, short enough that the black never really enveloped him. He would doze for anywhere between ten and forty minutes before starting awake.
But he rests, and though he is forcing it, he does not have to face the distorted sensations and mild hallucinations that come with severe lack of sleep. And he does not simply fall over and sleep for nearly an entire day, leaving a dreamless black hole in his memory. Slowly, sleep gets better, at least in these nap-like intervals.
“You know,” the Doctor tells him one day, simply in passing. “I was going to bed. You could come with me.”
And it is such a strange thing to hear that the Master is skeptical. He gives him a long look and the Doctor shrugs and reminds him in that usual way that the offer stands.
It is not until several minutes later. Fifteen minutes of silence and slowly, the Master stands. He finds the Doctor in bed and he decides to stand there for three breaths – breaths which he then holds, to make his time watching last longer, and to avoid closing his eyes just a little bit longer.
He hesitates. And then he finally crawls into bed after the Doctor, to nap.
He is quiet about it. He never screams when he wakes up. Maybe he did, one day. Maybe he ran out of screams early in his life, when his lives were ripped from him as easily as one pulls petals from a daisy, as casually as a child pulling blades of grass from the soil.
Like he was screaming and no-one could hear.
So if it were not for the fact that he looks tired, if it were not for the fact that he seems to stay up later than everyone, and then to wake up earlier – maybe no one would even have an inkling.
Sleep is too much like death, so he does not sleep, most times. He does not look backwards to face the dark spots in his life and he makes a point not to actively seek them. He thought it would kill him to not take each challenge presented to him. He never thought fear would quench his motivation.
The Doctor had started to change that, slowly. In time he comes to find his challenges and his thrills elsewhere. Quiet affairs. Could they stay in the same room without fear of each other. Later, could they touch without fear and, even farther, could they trust one another again. It was all gradual and it was all very, very quiet.
He does not remember how it gets brought up the first time, except that he says something, and the Doctor suddenly understands something of the Master’s insomniac tendencies. And then does what he does so well, and offers his best as though it were casual and natural to do.
“I could stay with you,” he tells him. “I could stay while you sleep.”
This is the first time, and he gives him a long, suspicious look. Trust is not easy, still, and he shakes his head.
“No.” The Master tells him; then he pauses, knowing well that they have to live together, and that some civility at least makes the situation more easily maneuverable. He nods. “I have things I still need to finish, tonight.”
It is a lie, but a civil one. The Doctor understands this and he says nothing more that day.
And the first time, when the Master had allowed the Doctor close enough to sit with him, to sleep, he did not so much rest as merely nap. The intervals of his unconsciousness were short, short enough that the black never really enveloped him. He would doze for anywhere between ten and forty minutes before starting awake.
But he rests, and though he is forcing it, he does not have to face the distorted sensations and mild hallucinations that come with severe lack of sleep. And he does not simply fall over and sleep for nearly an entire day, leaving a dreamless black hole in his memory. Slowly, sleep gets better, at least in these nap-like intervals.
“You know,” the Doctor tells him one day, simply in passing. “I was going to bed. You could come with me.”
And it is such a strange thing to hear that the Master is skeptical. He gives him a long look and the Doctor shrugs and reminds him in that usual way that the offer stands.
It is not until several minutes later. Fifteen minutes of silence and slowly, the Master stands. He finds the Doctor in bed and he decides to stand there for three breaths – breaths which he then holds, to make his time watching last longer, and to avoid closing his eyes just a little bit longer.
He hesitates. And then he finally crawls into bed after the Doctor, to nap.
Prompt : Sheet
The Doctor walked on, stopped, and then promptly shook his head as if to clear his mind of the sight that seemed more illusionary than anything else. He slowly executed a sort of double-take, pausing in the doorway he had just passed in order to get a good look.
And yes. There was a sheet held up in a tent-like fashion, in the center of the living room.
“Uhm,” he said, brow furrowing as he stepped forward. He gave a little hop between steps, something that was almost feline in its skittish caution. He leaned forward to peek, and see if he could not find an entrance into the structure.
“Hello?” He asked.
There was a rustle, and then a charmingly round face peeked out from under the fabric. He put on a debonair, political grin.
“Hello,” said the man under the sheet.
The Doctor reeled back a little, then proceeded to frown. “Master!” he said, in a voice that should have been scolding, but came out more incredulous and curious than anything else. “What are you doing with that sheet?”
“Do you like it?” the face grinned. It ducked back under the sheet and a few short moments later, he rolled out from under the fabric. He lied supine, stomach turned comfortably up toward the Doctor as the smile continued to linger and never once falter. “It took me ages. It was such a fuss to figure out how to make it stand up like a circus tent, instead of one of those silly devices humans use for woodland excursions.”
“What? No, Master, I mean—”
“Do you remember those? Circuses? I first arrived to earth and there was a circus.” He nodded sagely, or as sagely as one could do with a wide grin on their face and their belly facing toward the ceiling.
The Doctor blinked, then crossed his arms. He put on his most serious, motherly face. “Master, why are you making a tent of that sheet?”
The Master blinked in turn, and then, as though it were obvious. “I am having a circus, of course.”
He reached to the corner of the sheet and pulled it up so that the Doctor could see. Underneath, stuffed animals had been arranged in rings made of Frisbees, and there was a trapeze set up with skewer sticks, yarn, and toothpicks. There were also a few scantily-clad Barbies that were doing splits and other less-savory poses.
“… Master, I think you’re cracked.” The Doctor said, mildly, but he could not hide the playful curiosity in his eyes.
The Master grinned. “We have a special on admission, today. Doctors get in for a kiss.”
The Doctor didn’t take too terribly long to consider. A little bit of play and recklessness never did him too much harm. The Master cackled in response to the kiss before wrapping them both in the sheet and hiding the show underneath.
And yes. There was a sheet held up in a tent-like fashion, in the center of the living room.
“Uhm,” he said, brow furrowing as he stepped forward. He gave a little hop between steps, something that was almost feline in its skittish caution. He leaned forward to peek, and see if he could not find an entrance into the structure.
“Hello?” He asked.
There was a rustle, and then a charmingly round face peeked out from under the fabric. He put on a debonair, political grin.
“Hello,” said the man under the sheet.
The Doctor reeled back a little, then proceeded to frown. “Master!” he said, in a voice that should have been scolding, but came out more incredulous and curious than anything else. “What are you doing with that sheet?”
“Do you like it?” the face grinned. It ducked back under the sheet and a few short moments later, he rolled out from under the fabric. He lied supine, stomach turned comfortably up toward the Doctor as the smile continued to linger and never once falter. “It took me ages. It was such a fuss to figure out how to make it stand up like a circus tent, instead of one of those silly devices humans use for woodland excursions.”
“What? No, Master, I mean—”
“Do you remember those? Circuses? I first arrived to earth and there was a circus.” He nodded sagely, or as sagely as one could do with a wide grin on their face and their belly facing toward the ceiling.
The Doctor blinked, then crossed his arms. He put on his most serious, motherly face. “Master, why are you making a tent of that sheet?”
The Master blinked in turn, and then, as though it were obvious. “I am having a circus, of course.”
He reached to the corner of the sheet and pulled it up so that the Doctor could see. Underneath, stuffed animals had been arranged in rings made of Frisbees, and there was a trapeze set up with skewer sticks, yarn, and toothpicks. There were also a few scantily-clad Barbies that were doing splits and other less-savory poses.
“… Master, I think you’re cracked.” The Doctor said, mildly, but he could not hide the playful curiosity in his eyes.
The Master grinned. “We have a special on admission, today. Doctors get in for a kiss.”
The Doctor didn’t take too terribly long to consider. A little bit of play and recklessness never did him too much harm. The Master cackled in response to the kiss before wrapping them both in the sheet and hiding the show underneath.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Prompt : Gifted
He had been a smart child. Intelligent. He took in information well, leaned how to apply it with the ease of someone who was notably astute. He would be knowledgeable, formidable, even genius, one day, if he worked hard enough at it. His foundations and his background gave him the best of opportunities and there was no doubt he would enter among the elite of the Time Lords.
Koschei was all of these things.
But he was never gifted.
In ways, Theta Sigma made him look like an idiot child. Whereas Koschei was deductive, a meticulous designer, Theta was an improviser. He took in information and managed to sort through the important things, and the ones that were less so – that was the way he said it, at least. He failed near every quiz ever handed to him, and anything vaguely mathematic or quantitative came out with a similar standard.
But his level of thinking had always been something beyond the other students. He was imaginative, something that Time Lords scoffed at and severely lacked, for the most part. He was a master of puzzles. He did more than put two and two together; he figured out ways to divide the pieces into wholes on their own, and make the outcome into five, six, infinity.
He sometimes broke the rules to do so, but between Koschei’s grounded and prestigious air and the young boy’s improvisational brilliance, the two managed pretty well.
So the two were not fast friends, not by any means. Koschei was a loner, was deductive and quiet and constantly analyzing the world around him to set a floor plan in his head. He was constantly looking for ways to navigate and to walk the correct pathways to get where he needed to go.
Theta was a step ahead of him; he analyzed everything around him to pull the information from it. He needed no idea of direction. He simply went forward and made up the ground plan as he went. Sometimes Koschei would have sworn that this boy could simply walk about and the world would follow with him.
It was funny, in a way. Koschei was smart. He was beyond smart. He was top of his class and by far among the most studious. It is strange that he never put two and two together, when Theta was a step ahead of him and the world followed after him.
But where Koschei looked at books and knew what other people knew, Theta looked at the stars and knew too little.
Three years later Koschei becomes the Master. He breaks over a gifted boy and, like the rest of the world, he follows after.
Koschei was all of these things.
But he was never gifted.
In ways, Theta Sigma made him look like an idiot child. Whereas Koschei was deductive, a meticulous designer, Theta was an improviser. He took in information and managed to sort through the important things, and the ones that were less so – that was the way he said it, at least. He failed near every quiz ever handed to him, and anything vaguely mathematic or quantitative came out with a similar standard.
But his level of thinking had always been something beyond the other students. He was imaginative, something that Time Lords scoffed at and severely lacked, for the most part. He was a master of puzzles. He did more than put two and two together; he figured out ways to divide the pieces into wholes on their own, and make the outcome into five, six, infinity.
He sometimes broke the rules to do so, but between Koschei’s grounded and prestigious air and the young boy’s improvisational brilliance, the two managed pretty well.
So the two were not fast friends, not by any means. Koschei was a loner, was deductive and quiet and constantly analyzing the world around him to set a floor plan in his head. He was constantly looking for ways to navigate and to walk the correct pathways to get where he needed to go.
Theta was a step ahead of him; he analyzed everything around him to pull the information from it. He needed no idea of direction. He simply went forward and made up the ground plan as he went. Sometimes Koschei would have sworn that this boy could simply walk about and the world would follow with him.
It was funny, in a way. Koschei was smart. He was beyond smart. He was top of his class and by far among the most studious. It is strange that he never put two and two together, when Theta was a step ahead of him and the world followed after him.
But where Koschei looked at books and knew what other people knew, Theta looked at the stars and knew too little.
Three years later Koschei becomes the Master. He breaks over a gifted boy and, like the rest of the world, he follows after.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Prompt : Feline
He wakes up and immediately, something is wrong.
Well. Wrong was not the perfect word for it. Something was off, more like on, but not in the correct way, more in the pleasant and unusual way. He was rather confused.
He had woken up a few brief moments ago and the more that he moseys casually into consciousness, the more the Master becomes aware that he is curled around the Doctor. In bed.
Naked.
He blinks, then mentally reels back to try to pin the events of the night before. There had been wine. He could still taste something like cabernet in the back of his mouth, and also something that tasted rather like the Doctor’s kisses. They had kissed. That was right. They had kissed and there had been candles that must have been left burning on the dinner table when they came upstairs and—
Ah.
Of course. That was what had happened.
For a very brief moment he is unsure whether to be embarrassed by the intimate embrace or pleased by the way they were curled around one another in a feline fashion. The latter of the two options begins to win out when, upon leaning his head against the tousled, curled hair of the Doctor, he discovers the Doctor to be purring.
Not profusely or anything. It is a quiet little sound, just strong enough to be felt more than heard. The Master blinks and he tilts his head – then has to huff to blow his hair off of his forehead. Damn the Doctor for not letting him slick it back, but he had seemed quite convinced that hair gel would taste like old couch cushions.
He is not sure how the Doctor knows what hair gel or couch cushions would taste like. He is not even sure why tasting would be an issue when it came to hair, but in retrospect, he could see how accidents might happen with all the… snuffling.
For lack of a better word, snuffling.
The Doctor turns a little, giving a gentle little sound between the purring that was rather like a kittenish mewl. The Master pauses, then relents to curling a bit more about him.
It was only ten o’clock. He could suffer to cuddle a while longer.
Well. Wrong was not the perfect word for it. Something was off, more like on, but not in the correct way, more in the pleasant and unusual way. He was rather confused.
He had woken up a few brief moments ago and the more that he moseys casually into consciousness, the more the Master becomes aware that he is curled around the Doctor. In bed.
Naked.
He blinks, then mentally reels back to try to pin the events of the night before. There had been wine. He could still taste something like cabernet in the back of his mouth, and also something that tasted rather like the Doctor’s kisses. They had kissed. That was right. They had kissed and there had been candles that must have been left burning on the dinner table when they came upstairs and—
Ah.
Of course. That was what had happened.
For a very brief moment he is unsure whether to be embarrassed by the intimate embrace or pleased by the way they were curled around one another in a feline fashion. The latter of the two options begins to win out when, upon leaning his head against the tousled, curled hair of the Doctor, he discovers the Doctor to be purring.
Not profusely or anything. It is a quiet little sound, just strong enough to be felt more than heard. The Master blinks and he tilts his head – then has to huff to blow his hair off of his forehead. Damn the Doctor for not letting him slick it back, but he had seemed quite convinced that hair gel would taste like old couch cushions.
He is not sure how the Doctor knows what hair gel or couch cushions would taste like. He is not even sure why tasting would be an issue when it came to hair, but in retrospect, he could see how accidents might happen with all the… snuffling.
For lack of a better word, snuffling.
The Doctor turns a little, giving a gentle little sound between the purring that was rather like a kittenish mewl. The Master pauses, then relents to curling a bit more about him.
It was only ten o’clock. He could suffer to cuddle a while longer.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Prompt : Physical
The Doctor holds out his hand and for a long moment, the Master honestly does not know what to do. He looks up to those pale eyes and for a moment, he thinks about sneering at him. But he remembers that even when he refused to take his hand, the last time, he could do no such thing.
Never, he had said.
How much did he really mean that?
He looks back to the Doctor’s hand and he tilts his head, as if summing it up.
The Doctor waits a long moment. Something in his eyes seems to waver and his palm falls maybe half an inch.
And then it is simply there. The Master has hardly taken a breath, hardly has time to catch up with what he has done, much less bring his mind to attention and fill the blank moments between when he had looked up to those pale eyes and when he had suddenly found himself holding the Doctor’s hand.
It was just a pinpoint of physical contact. Their arms were stretched out between them and in space, in mind, they were so far apart from each other. But he had not refused the offer this time.
The Doctor hesitates, then says quietly, “Thank you.”
He nods, slowly. A minute passes in relative silence. Then, finally, he tells him.
“I need my hand back.” He hesitates, then adds, “But I am not letting go.”
This seems to satisfy the shorter man, and that is good. It will be better if they can pass each other with acknowledgement, no matter how stiff the interaction may be.
They let go and the Master realizes that maybe he does not want to die, after all. Not quite yet.
…
The first time he kisses his cheek, it comes to mean something like a quiet “thank you”. The Doctor had been kind enough – perhaps brave enough – to finally tell the Master that he needed his hair combed a different way. That, in this ugly body he had been given, the hair slicked back by water and wax only emphasized his apparent lack of appreciable visage.
He had done it in such a quiet way, offering to comb his hair. And the Master had been suspicious, but had finally given in. The days here were long, and without travels or schemes or possibilities of death, life seemed relatively plain.
So they passed the time. And when he was permitted to look, he did so with utmost solemnity.
“It looks better this way, does it.”
“It looks fine.” The Doctor had put out, cautiously.
He scoffed. The Doctor hesitated before holding out his comb tentatively.
“You can change it, if you want.”
The Master had said nothing. It was a simple matter to kiss his cheek and leave, and at that point, who really needed words for the whole affair?
…
One day he is horrendously curious and when they stand, nearly touching, he unravels the Doctor’s necktie and loosens his collar. He opens it up to reveal the skin of his throat. And then he leaves, says nothing more about it.
He never even touched skin, to see him.
…
Their first kisses are had in quiet corners at night, when no-one would think to look, and where no-one could see with their eyes. The touch is almost overwhelming, the Master has not had his own sensations for so long.
“Master?” The Doctor asks, and he sounds worried by the way the Master has just shivered.
“Shut up.” He replies. He kisses the Doctor and his mind is confused, but his body is sighing with relief in response. He never wants to forget what it is like to touch.
…
Watching physicians strip him of his clothes to check his pulses, his hearts, his pressure, his lungs, his ribs, his everything – that he had hated. It became almost worse than the fear that, if he were to look at his body, he would find it falling apart underneath him.
The first time they sit in front of each other, chests exposed, both are too enamored and simultaneously modest to say a thing about it.
But he brings a hand to brush his fingertips over the Doctor’s chest, and he thinks some day, he might like to kiss beyond his lips alone.
…
Their bodies feel completely right together.
His body is shuddering and the memory of pleasure amounts to nothing, in comparison to this. They are breathing together and moving together, and he has an incredible, reverent respect for the Doctor’s body. In a strange way, it makes perfect sense, how much he wanted to possess this.
The pleasure all but crashes through them and the smell of sweat and musk lingers between them. They share exhausted kisses, touching lips and everywhere else, just to reacquaint.
He keeps his fingertips brushing against the Doctor’s arms and back and shoulders and neck long after the smaller man falls into a peaceful, exhausted rest. His fingertips are tracing patterns that in some language, must mean something like “I love you”.
He has never learned such a language, but if he could learn it here, against the Doctor’s skin, he might not mind trying to learn to speak it.
…
He keeps looking, hoping to find a letter that says thank you, or I am sorry, or gives some explanation. He finds no such thing and he does not need such a thing to know.
The Doctor has left, and he is not coming back.
He thinks it appropriate, really. First he had collapsed, body-under-mind. Strange how now he stands, collapsing heart under the muscles that still remember how the man had felt in his arms.
The Doctor will not return to this place, he knows it. But he leaves a small note on his bed, anyway. If not just because the physical act of doing so feels better than nothing. And his body needs something so much that he is willing – happy – to take it.
…
Doctor
I am not letting go.
The Master
Never, he had said.
How much did he really mean that?
He looks back to the Doctor’s hand and he tilts his head, as if summing it up.
The Doctor waits a long moment. Something in his eyes seems to waver and his palm falls maybe half an inch.
And then it is simply there. The Master has hardly taken a breath, hardly has time to catch up with what he has done, much less bring his mind to attention and fill the blank moments between when he had looked up to those pale eyes and when he had suddenly found himself holding the Doctor’s hand.
It was just a pinpoint of physical contact. Their arms were stretched out between them and in space, in mind, they were so far apart from each other. But he had not refused the offer this time.
The Doctor hesitates, then says quietly, “Thank you.”
He nods, slowly. A minute passes in relative silence. Then, finally, he tells him.
“I need my hand back.” He hesitates, then adds, “But I am not letting go.”
This seems to satisfy the shorter man, and that is good. It will be better if they can pass each other with acknowledgement, no matter how stiff the interaction may be.
They let go and the Master realizes that maybe he does not want to die, after all. Not quite yet.
…
The first time he kisses his cheek, it comes to mean something like a quiet “thank you”. The Doctor had been kind enough – perhaps brave enough – to finally tell the Master that he needed his hair combed a different way. That, in this ugly body he had been given, the hair slicked back by water and wax only emphasized his apparent lack of appreciable visage.
He had done it in such a quiet way, offering to comb his hair. And the Master had been suspicious, but had finally given in. The days here were long, and without travels or schemes or possibilities of death, life seemed relatively plain.
So they passed the time. And when he was permitted to look, he did so with utmost solemnity.
“It looks better this way, does it.”
“It looks fine.” The Doctor had put out, cautiously.
He scoffed. The Doctor hesitated before holding out his comb tentatively.
“You can change it, if you want.”
The Master had said nothing. It was a simple matter to kiss his cheek and leave, and at that point, who really needed words for the whole affair?
…
One day he is horrendously curious and when they stand, nearly touching, he unravels the Doctor’s necktie and loosens his collar. He opens it up to reveal the skin of his throat. And then he leaves, says nothing more about it.
He never even touched skin, to see him.
…
Their first kisses are had in quiet corners at night, when no-one would think to look, and where no-one could see with their eyes. The touch is almost overwhelming, the Master has not had his own sensations for so long.
“Master?” The Doctor asks, and he sounds worried by the way the Master has just shivered.
“Shut up.” He replies. He kisses the Doctor and his mind is confused, but his body is sighing with relief in response. He never wants to forget what it is like to touch.
…
Watching physicians strip him of his clothes to check his pulses, his hearts, his pressure, his lungs, his ribs, his everything – that he had hated. It became almost worse than the fear that, if he were to look at his body, he would find it falling apart underneath him.
The first time they sit in front of each other, chests exposed, both are too enamored and simultaneously modest to say a thing about it.
But he brings a hand to brush his fingertips over the Doctor’s chest, and he thinks some day, he might like to kiss beyond his lips alone.
…
Their bodies feel completely right together.
His body is shuddering and the memory of pleasure amounts to nothing, in comparison to this. They are breathing together and moving together, and he has an incredible, reverent respect for the Doctor’s body. In a strange way, it makes perfect sense, how much he wanted to possess this.
The pleasure all but crashes through them and the smell of sweat and musk lingers between them. They share exhausted kisses, touching lips and everywhere else, just to reacquaint.
He keeps his fingertips brushing against the Doctor’s arms and back and shoulders and neck long after the smaller man falls into a peaceful, exhausted rest. His fingertips are tracing patterns that in some language, must mean something like “I love you”.
He has never learned such a language, but if he could learn it here, against the Doctor’s skin, he might not mind trying to learn to speak it.
…
He keeps looking, hoping to find a letter that says thank you, or I am sorry, or gives some explanation. He finds no such thing and he does not need such a thing to know.
The Doctor has left, and he is not coming back.
He thinks it appropriate, really. First he had collapsed, body-under-mind. Strange how now he stands, collapsing heart under the muscles that still remember how the man had felt in his arms.
The Doctor will not return to this place, he knows it. But he leaves a small note on his bed, anyway. If not just because the physical act of doing so feels better than nothing. And his body needs something so much that he is willing – happy – to take it.
…
Doctor
I am not letting go.
The Master
Prompt : Coldness
It was his most attractive feature, at this juncture. A bit unfortunate; he had been a handsome man, before. Different bodies, bodies that had been his own; his appearance harsh and severe and angular, and all those things that a man of cold disposition would be like to own. He remembers it so well. He remembers what it felt like, what it was, being handsome.
They had extracted him from the TARDIS and he had come back in a body that was, for all intents and purposes, nearly the same as the American’s that he had possessed in the first place. The first day alive, free to roam, he had looked in a mirror and he had seen himself. He touched his hands to his cheeks and felt the roughness of wretched complexion and several-day’s-worth stubble. He had turned his face to watch the curve of his face and he had decided quite promptly that he was quite ugly.
It was also then that he decided the best aspect of him, now, was that his face had retained its coldness. He turned his eyes and he tried to find something in them. He felt everything – a great amount of uncertainty, a bit of fear, a lot of anger. He felt cold. He looked cold. He looked hard and he looked untouchable and he decided that if he had lost most of his dignity and his suavity along the way – at least he still had this.
A single glare could put people off.
That was the hope. That was the thought, at least.
…
“You look so angry, always.”
And the comment takes him by surprise. He turns his eyes to the Doctor and he says, quite assuredly, “I do not.”
“Well.” The Doctor looks away, and the curls of his hair shift across his cheeks. The shorter wisps touch his forehead and temple and block the Master’s sight of those pale blue eyes. “That is my best guess. You used to smile, Master.”
“I am not angry,” he repeats, and it is not exactly a lie. He is angry at those people outside but he has not seen them, lately. He got good at telling when they were lurking to watch or no, and they have not been around to observe for days. Even when he cannot see them, he can feel their minds, and he can feel there are no minds surrounding, here. Lately, he has not been angry.
It is stupid be to stuck here, but he has not been angry. Not recently, and certainly not at this man, for any particular reason.
The Doctor looks back though the corners of his eyes. He nods.
“If you say so, Master.”
Those eyes shift away and the Master waits a moment too long to scoff at him. He turns his eyes away and he stands, leaving the Doctor alone in the room.
He may not be angry, but he has no patience to deal with someone who cannot tell the difference between ice and fire.
…
The first time he holds the Doctor, the man surprises him.
“You are warm,” he tells him.
His brows furrow and he must confess, that in comparison to a frigid winter’s night, that is likely true.
With a start, the Master realizes that he can count the times on his hands, that he has felt physically cold. He looks down at the man snuggled in his arms for warmth.
His face does not change. His hands settle against the Doctor’s back and with the way his palms spread, he might just be pulling the smaller man closer than either have been in a long time, and safe like the Master is beginning to feel for the first time in a long, long while.
They had extracted him from the TARDIS and he had come back in a body that was, for all intents and purposes, nearly the same as the American’s that he had possessed in the first place. The first day alive, free to roam, he had looked in a mirror and he had seen himself. He touched his hands to his cheeks and felt the roughness of wretched complexion and several-day’s-worth stubble. He had turned his face to watch the curve of his face and he had decided quite promptly that he was quite ugly.
It was also then that he decided the best aspect of him, now, was that his face had retained its coldness. He turned his eyes and he tried to find something in them. He felt everything – a great amount of uncertainty, a bit of fear, a lot of anger. He felt cold. He looked cold. He looked hard and he looked untouchable and he decided that if he had lost most of his dignity and his suavity along the way – at least he still had this.
A single glare could put people off.
That was the hope. That was the thought, at least.
…
“You look so angry, always.”
And the comment takes him by surprise. He turns his eyes to the Doctor and he says, quite assuredly, “I do not.”
“Well.” The Doctor looks away, and the curls of his hair shift across his cheeks. The shorter wisps touch his forehead and temple and block the Master’s sight of those pale blue eyes. “That is my best guess. You used to smile, Master.”
“I am not angry,” he repeats, and it is not exactly a lie. He is angry at those people outside but he has not seen them, lately. He got good at telling when they were lurking to watch or no, and they have not been around to observe for days. Even when he cannot see them, he can feel their minds, and he can feel there are no minds surrounding, here. Lately, he has not been angry.
It is stupid be to stuck here, but he has not been angry. Not recently, and certainly not at this man, for any particular reason.
The Doctor looks back though the corners of his eyes. He nods.
“If you say so, Master.”
Those eyes shift away and the Master waits a moment too long to scoff at him. He turns his eyes away and he stands, leaving the Doctor alone in the room.
He may not be angry, but he has no patience to deal with someone who cannot tell the difference between ice and fire.
…
The first time he holds the Doctor, the man surprises him.
“You are warm,” he tells him.
His brows furrow and he must confess, that in comparison to a frigid winter’s night, that is likely true.
With a start, the Master realizes that he can count the times on his hands, that he has felt physically cold. He looks down at the man snuggled in his arms for warmth.
His face does not change. His hands settle against the Doctor’s back and with the way his palms spread, he might just be pulling the smaller man closer than either have been in a long time, and safe like the Master is beginning to feel for the first time in a long, long while.
Prompt : Intensive
Something about war had broken this man. He hates seeing it, sometimes – it is so strange to say that it was war that helped make him better. It is sad to say that he was a warrior going in, a softer man coming out.
This man had been so gentle, and he flinches to think of what must have happened to light-colored eyes and softly curled hair and the quiet disposition that belonged to them. He hates to think what must have happened, that somehow he became tall and hard, caught between smiles and anger, always.
Their every interaction is a battle between intensity and tenderness. Their arguments are sharp and angry and fierce, each desperately trying to prove the other wrong in the way that only warriors fight for their beliefs. There are times when they break each other and when everything rises to such rage that the very bonds between them could be breaking. And these times, their love really is like a war.
And then the other side of the battle comes in. Sometimes they come to each other at night to beg forgiveness more than apologize. They gently kiss each other’s cheeks, eyelids, foreheads, chins, lips, everything. Sometimes they are simply desperate to know that each other is alive, because it reminds them both so much of war. Some nights, they cry each other to sleep.
They make love and he is surprised, at first. He never did expect the Doctor to approach anything with such a violent vigor, and once or twice he has to raise his hands to stop this man pressing him – suffocating him – against the wall. Sometimes the pulse of hips is fast – intensive – and everything is over in an instant. Everything ends before it has even begun, and they are breathless and spent and reeling. It is the sort of sex of one who needs, quickly, who takes what he can get because if they have each other for an instant, it is better than never having had each other.
Sometimes the Master makes him go slow. Sometimes his touches simply pet across chest and he does not move quickly when he is begged to. Sometimes their love is painful and slow and it ends in crying.
Once, he would have called it torture. Once he would have reveled in making the Doctor suffer, like this. But now, he is simply trying to teach him.
He thinks if they can make love and make it unlike war, maybe he can save this man.
This man had been so gentle, and he flinches to think of what must have happened to light-colored eyes and softly curled hair and the quiet disposition that belonged to them. He hates to think what must have happened, that somehow he became tall and hard, caught between smiles and anger, always.
Their every interaction is a battle between intensity and tenderness. Their arguments are sharp and angry and fierce, each desperately trying to prove the other wrong in the way that only warriors fight for their beliefs. There are times when they break each other and when everything rises to such rage that the very bonds between them could be breaking. And these times, their love really is like a war.
And then the other side of the battle comes in. Sometimes they come to each other at night to beg forgiveness more than apologize. They gently kiss each other’s cheeks, eyelids, foreheads, chins, lips, everything. Sometimes they are simply desperate to know that each other is alive, because it reminds them both so much of war. Some nights, they cry each other to sleep.
They make love and he is surprised, at first. He never did expect the Doctor to approach anything with such a violent vigor, and once or twice he has to raise his hands to stop this man pressing him – suffocating him – against the wall. Sometimes the pulse of hips is fast – intensive – and everything is over in an instant. Everything ends before it has even begun, and they are breathless and spent and reeling. It is the sort of sex of one who needs, quickly, who takes what he can get because if they have each other for an instant, it is better than never having had each other.
Sometimes the Master makes him go slow. Sometimes his touches simply pet across chest and he does not move quickly when he is begged to. Sometimes their love is painful and slow and it ends in crying.
Once, he would have called it torture. Once he would have reveled in making the Doctor suffer, like this. But now, he is simply trying to teach him.
He thinks if they can make love and make it unlike war, maybe he can save this man.
Prompt : Swoon
He was not exactly one for romantics, not in the sense that most people thought of it, anyway.
The Master was sparing with his words and polite if not cold in his conduct. He had a tendency to hold his chin up with the arrogance typical of one trained to think they were better than others around them. He was fast to criticize and quicker to contradict, when he could. He was intelligent, cool, poised, and very, very dangerous.
These things by no means excluded romanticism. But nor did romantics fall under his highest and most obvious priorities.
However… what had started as bitterness and determination and a step forward to prove how strong he was, how nothing could break him, had started to turn. What he had called resentment was proving to be a bit more like longing, what he had deemed greed was turning into something a bit like envy. And what he had named his foe and his rival and maybe, possibly, an enemy… he was starting to hold in a more and more tender light.
Which absolutely contradicted his need to bloody kill this man.
He blamed him. The Master blamed the Doctor. It was hardly rocket science; there had been a trust, it had been betrayed, he had suffered for it and he had little inclination that the Doctor had paid equally for such a betrayal. So the next part was obvious.
Find this man. Take all that cool intellect and anger, and bitterness and destroy the bastard, if he could not make him suffer.
When he finds him at last, though, the Master is stunned to be reminded so slightly of himself. To see a man who holds himself with poise and with dignity, who has regenerated at least once now. He is tall. He is cool. He is arrogant and you have to look hard to see any semblance of the playful boy he had once been.
He starts plans. He starts to muck things up and he starts using his genius and his mind and his own strength and slowly, he begins to see if he cannot attract the Doctor’s attention. See if the man can still not help but fix things, save people, and the like.
Imagine his delight when the Doctor falls right into the plans and suddenly, they are aware of each other, again. Very suddenly, the Master is elated. Not fulfilled – not until this man is dead and his – but they have knowledge of each other and suddenly, he is not quite so jealous of the stars.
They are angry at each other. The Doctor stares down his nose at him and the Master approaches him with the cool politeness that he would a stranger. Nothing is like it was. He is not Koschei and the Doctor is not Theta and they are not the people they were, back then. Trust is broken.
But gallivanting off after one another has its own romanticism to it. Regardless that this tall arrogant cold man that the Master thinks looks so much like him was once a boy, once a young soul who had swooned in his arms to private romantic games – regardless of what was lost.
It is not his highest and most obvious priority. But something about it could maybe be romantic.
The Master was sparing with his words and polite if not cold in his conduct. He had a tendency to hold his chin up with the arrogance typical of one trained to think they were better than others around them. He was fast to criticize and quicker to contradict, when he could. He was intelligent, cool, poised, and very, very dangerous.
These things by no means excluded romanticism. But nor did romantics fall under his highest and most obvious priorities.
However… what had started as bitterness and determination and a step forward to prove how strong he was, how nothing could break him, had started to turn. What he had called resentment was proving to be a bit more like longing, what he had deemed greed was turning into something a bit like envy. And what he had named his foe and his rival and maybe, possibly, an enemy… he was starting to hold in a more and more tender light.
Which absolutely contradicted his need to bloody kill this man.
He blamed him. The Master blamed the Doctor. It was hardly rocket science; there had been a trust, it had been betrayed, he had suffered for it and he had little inclination that the Doctor had paid equally for such a betrayal. So the next part was obvious.
Find this man. Take all that cool intellect and anger, and bitterness and destroy the bastard, if he could not make him suffer.
When he finds him at last, though, the Master is stunned to be reminded so slightly of himself. To see a man who holds himself with poise and with dignity, who has regenerated at least once now. He is tall. He is cool. He is arrogant and you have to look hard to see any semblance of the playful boy he had once been.
He starts plans. He starts to muck things up and he starts using his genius and his mind and his own strength and slowly, he begins to see if he cannot attract the Doctor’s attention. See if the man can still not help but fix things, save people, and the like.
Imagine his delight when the Doctor falls right into the plans and suddenly, they are aware of each other, again. Very suddenly, the Master is elated. Not fulfilled – not until this man is dead and his – but they have knowledge of each other and suddenly, he is not quite so jealous of the stars.
They are angry at each other. The Doctor stares down his nose at him and the Master approaches him with the cool politeness that he would a stranger. Nothing is like it was. He is not Koschei and the Doctor is not Theta and they are not the people they were, back then. Trust is broken.
But gallivanting off after one another has its own romanticism to it. Regardless that this tall arrogant cold man that the Master thinks looks so much like him was once a boy, once a young soul who had swooned in his arms to private romantic games – regardless of what was lost.
It is not his highest and most obvious priority. But something about it could maybe be romantic.
Prompt : Betrothal
It was hardly official, by any means. He had promised him once to always be with him, and when he had first said it, it had been the sort of thing a careless child would say. It was the thing an adolescent who had little to no idea of life, much less a lifetime, much less infinite numbers of them, could ever comprehend.
But once, he had been called Koschei, and once, he had promised another person these things that he did not yet understand.
Funny what happens. They had gotten close and they had gotten to love each other to the point that they were quick to forgive and easy to overlook everything that had started to go wrong. The insanity turned him romantic. His reservation died down around this boy and his words became so open and honest that what had started as a mindless adolescent devotion took a turn for a tender, intimate connection.
He promised him forever. He used words that had more nuances than most languages had characters. He promised him love, possession, submission, dedication, always – forever. And he had called him mine. My Theta. My love.
Just a few years prior he had made fun of marriage. It was a foreign tradition, a ceremony that owned too much levity to be taken seriously. He had scoffed at the scripted words each person was meant to say, and then and there, he had turned around and made a vow as it should be, individualized and honest and entirely possible.
Promise to stay with you. Promise to hold you and to hold myself. Swear to let you in and to bring myself out to meet you. Swear to go with you, or to wait for you. Mostly I promise I will be the one who meets you, when you leave to come back. I will always wait for you.
And things twisted so much from there.
They were older now, pursuing higher studies, starting work in the assistant and studying sort of way. And their relationship got closer and simultaneously got strained. He was getting worse. His head pounded sometimes and sometimes, his lover would cry after their lovemaking. And he would kiss the places where nails had come to tear at skin, or where hands had been held high over head and strained too hard. He apologized and he kissed him and it was always so tender, afterward, that they could pretend nothing was wrong.
Theta is off more and more, and for longer, to study or to do the things that he does, that he is becoming more and more secretive about. One night after a few days not seeing each other except in the middle of the night, when one or the other crawled in bed with their partner, and nearly two weeks without connecting bodies, Koschei tells Theta that he loves him, and he renews his vows.
They make love and it is tender, and perfect. They pull away shuddering and he kisses Theta’s cheeks, and he does not know why his partner is shaking so terribly.
Theta is gone the next morning and he does not come back that day.
Nor the day after.
Nor the day after that.
And he manages to keep himself afloat, for a while. He gets more work and more studying done than ever, constantly keeping his mind busy to distract himself from the slight sound of drums, and from the loneliness he feels when he lies down to sleep.
Sometimes he even writes letters that he cannot send. They start off sweet, loving, hopeful.
By the end of the first year, they are quietly desperate.
Three years later he writes a last letter on a scrap of note that reads:
Dear Theta,
I love you. I need you.
Please come home.
And not long after this, he breaks from the waiting.
But once, he had been called Koschei, and once, he had promised another person these things that he did not yet understand.
Funny what happens. They had gotten close and they had gotten to love each other to the point that they were quick to forgive and easy to overlook everything that had started to go wrong. The insanity turned him romantic. His reservation died down around this boy and his words became so open and honest that what had started as a mindless adolescent devotion took a turn for a tender, intimate connection.
He promised him forever. He used words that had more nuances than most languages had characters. He promised him love, possession, submission, dedication, always – forever. And he had called him mine. My Theta. My love.
Just a few years prior he had made fun of marriage. It was a foreign tradition, a ceremony that owned too much levity to be taken seriously. He had scoffed at the scripted words each person was meant to say, and then and there, he had turned around and made a vow as it should be, individualized and honest and entirely possible.
Promise to stay with you. Promise to hold you and to hold myself. Swear to let you in and to bring myself out to meet you. Swear to go with you, or to wait for you. Mostly I promise I will be the one who meets you, when you leave to come back. I will always wait for you.
And things twisted so much from there.
They were older now, pursuing higher studies, starting work in the assistant and studying sort of way. And their relationship got closer and simultaneously got strained. He was getting worse. His head pounded sometimes and sometimes, his lover would cry after their lovemaking. And he would kiss the places where nails had come to tear at skin, or where hands had been held high over head and strained too hard. He apologized and he kissed him and it was always so tender, afterward, that they could pretend nothing was wrong.
Theta is off more and more, and for longer, to study or to do the things that he does, that he is becoming more and more secretive about. One night after a few days not seeing each other except in the middle of the night, when one or the other crawled in bed with their partner, and nearly two weeks without connecting bodies, Koschei tells Theta that he loves him, and he renews his vows.
They make love and it is tender, and perfect. They pull away shuddering and he kisses Theta’s cheeks, and he does not know why his partner is shaking so terribly.
Theta is gone the next morning and he does not come back that day.
Nor the day after.
Nor the day after that.
And he manages to keep himself afloat, for a while. He gets more work and more studying done than ever, constantly keeping his mind busy to distract himself from the slight sound of drums, and from the loneliness he feels when he lies down to sleep.
Sometimes he even writes letters that he cannot send. They start off sweet, loving, hopeful.
By the end of the first year, they are quietly desperate.
Three years later he writes a last letter on a scrap of note that reads:
Dear Theta,
I love you. I need you.
Please come home.
And not long after this, he breaks from the waiting.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Prompt : Draping
He looks up to the sky and he feels quiet inside. For a few precious moments he forgets about the people who have held him to this place and about the pain of living again, and the anger about all that had transpired. For a moment, he forgets about everything except the fact that the sky has stars, all of which are far away and none of which matter.
It is strange, but for a moment he remembers again why it had seemed such an appealing idea to settle down. The stars could be seen from here. But nothing up there necessarily mattered.
He looks down and the inclination is almost tender. He is almost not jealous of the stars that had stolen his man away and driven him to anger, to pain and to jealousy. He almost smiles at him.
But he sees the Doctor looking at the sky and he sees tears on his cheeks and suddenly he honestly forgets everything. His brows furrow and belie the way his hearts just twisted.
“…what?”
The Doctor takes a shaky little breath and he brings a hand up to his own face, to wipe the tears away with his fingers pressed flat to his cheek. He shakes his head and he tries to smile.
“I am so scared,” he says.
The Master’s brows furrow, and he looks up to the stars again. For a half of an instant he feels jealous again, as he has for so many years. But it fades quickly, and is replaced with that quiet, grounded feeling that that he has gotten so often, lately. He nods.
“Ah.”
He looks back to the shorter man, trying to watch his eyes. He hesitates upon the realization that the last shudder was not exactly a sob, and he tilts his head.
“Cold?”
“A little,” the Doctor admits, but he does not take his eyes off of the stars. Slowly, the Master inclines his head to watch the stars; the glance is there for but a second before he watches at the Doctor’s cheeks, instead. There are fresh tears there.
He sighs, shaking his head. He shrugs off his outer robe and drapes it lightly over the Doctor’s shoulders.
The Doctor looks at him, but he does not flinch, and the Master only hesitates so much before letting the fabric linger there. His hands settle on the Doctor’s shoulders and the smaller man opens his mouth to interject.
“Won’t you be--?”
“Just take it,” he tells him, and his voice is quiet enough to be gentle.
It is strange, but for a moment he remembers again why it had seemed such an appealing idea to settle down. The stars could be seen from here. But nothing up there necessarily mattered.
He looks down and the inclination is almost tender. He is almost not jealous of the stars that had stolen his man away and driven him to anger, to pain and to jealousy. He almost smiles at him.
But he sees the Doctor looking at the sky and he sees tears on his cheeks and suddenly he honestly forgets everything. His brows furrow and belie the way his hearts just twisted.
“…what?”
The Doctor takes a shaky little breath and he brings a hand up to his own face, to wipe the tears away with his fingers pressed flat to his cheek. He shakes his head and he tries to smile.
“I am so scared,” he says.
The Master’s brows furrow, and he looks up to the stars again. For a half of an instant he feels jealous again, as he has for so many years. But it fades quickly, and is replaced with that quiet, grounded feeling that that he has gotten so often, lately. He nods.
“Ah.”
He looks back to the shorter man, trying to watch his eyes. He hesitates upon the realization that the last shudder was not exactly a sob, and he tilts his head.
“Cold?”
“A little,” the Doctor admits, but he does not take his eyes off of the stars. Slowly, the Master inclines his head to watch the stars; the glance is there for but a second before he watches at the Doctor’s cheeks, instead. There are fresh tears there.
He sighs, shaking his head. He shrugs off his outer robe and drapes it lightly over the Doctor’s shoulders.
The Doctor looks at him, but he does not flinch, and the Master only hesitates so much before letting the fabric linger there. His hands settle on the Doctor’s shoulders and the smaller man opens his mouth to interject.
“Won’t you be--?”
“Just take it,” he tells him, and his voice is quiet enough to be gentle.
Prompt :Indignantly
He was self-righteous enough that indignation was next to a norm. Childish behavior, fanciful whims, playful indulgences – such things were beyond his pride. If a thing did not serve him, there was little chance for him appreciating it. The exception to the rule, of course, being if the thing challenged him.
And even then, he might still find cause to feel indignantly.
Then it doesn’t make sense. He watches the windows sometimes when he knows that no-one is watching him, and when he knows the Doctor cannot see him. Sometimes he simply stands on the grasses and looks up toward the skies, and sometimes he sits cross-legged so that dirt adorns the seat of his trousers, and sometimes he even runs barefoot as though he were a child again. None of these things present anything resembling modesty or dignity but at a certain point, it stopped mattering so very much.
In the meantime, the physicians make fewer and fewer appointments to check upon his body. His second heart stopped once. There had been a great affair about it and they had approached him with that frantic and even calm that was so characteristic of the Time Lords. They had made him live and put him back into captivity and they had watched him more closely than ever, for a time.
He decided that day that they hated him. He was becoming more and more sure that he did not want to die – not even if he would never wake up and never have to die, again – but the day they saved his life, he hated them. He stopped answering their questions and they had to pry his mind open or tie him down on the few appointments that followed, but he would allow them nothing. These people who thought they could decide his life – he gave them nothing.
It takes time. He does not reveal himself at first, but he slowly slips closer to the windows.
And there was another day, a quiet little night. He does not like to sleep, to start, but he was kept up by a sound he had heard, one that was so distant and unfamiliar to him that he felt the urge to search it out.
The Doctor had never seen the Master in the doorway of his room. He would have had no way of knowing what the Master had seen that night. And in all great honesty, the Master had left only a few seconds to watch the goings-ons.
He did not think the Doctor would like it, to know that this broken man, this old man, this man who had died too many times—he thinks, the Doctor would not like to know, that the Master had seen him crying for his captivity.
It is not long after that, that the Master comes as far out as the patio. Never far enough to be seen.
Except once. There is one day that he stands out on the patio and the Doctor is running, laughing, and he tries to reconcile the day that he saw the Doctor crying with this moment. The shorter man turns and pauses as he notices the Master’s eyes meeting his own.
The Master stands there for a second. He hardly feels it within himself to do so, but his chin tilts and his eyes narrow above an indignant little sneer. He turns away.
And he will never be able to explain it. But he returns the next day and for all the indignation, he stands and he watches the Doctor smile.
And even then, he might still find cause to feel indignantly.
Then it doesn’t make sense. He watches the windows sometimes when he knows that no-one is watching him, and when he knows the Doctor cannot see him. Sometimes he simply stands on the grasses and looks up toward the skies, and sometimes he sits cross-legged so that dirt adorns the seat of his trousers, and sometimes he even runs barefoot as though he were a child again. None of these things present anything resembling modesty or dignity but at a certain point, it stopped mattering so very much.
In the meantime, the physicians make fewer and fewer appointments to check upon his body. His second heart stopped once. There had been a great affair about it and they had approached him with that frantic and even calm that was so characteristic of the Time Lords. They had made him live and put him back into captivity and they had watched him more closely than ever, for a time.
He decided that day that they hated him. He was becoming more and more sure that he did not want to die – not even if he would never wake up and never have to die, again – but the day they saved his life, he hated them. He stopped answering their questions and they had to pry his mind open or tie him down on the few appointments that followed, but he would allow them nothing. These people who thought they could decide his life – he gave them nothing.
It takes time. He does not reveal himself at first, but he slowly slips closer to the windows.
And there was another day, a quiet little night. He does not like to sleep, to start, but he was kept up by a sound he had heard, one that was so distant and unfamiliar to him that he felt the urge to search it out.
The Doctor had never seen the Master in the doorway of his room. He would have had no way of knowing what the Master had seen that night. And in all great honesty, the Master had left only a few seconds to watch the goings-ons.
He did not think the Doctor would like it, to know that this broken man, this old man, this man who had died too many times—he thinks, the Doctor would not like to know, that the Master had seen him crying for his captivity.
It is not long after that, that the Master comes as far out as the patio. Never far enough to be seen.
Except once. There is one day that he stands out on the patio and the Doctor is running, laughing, and he tries to reconcile the day that he saw the Doctor crying with this moment. The shorter man turns and pauses as he notices the Master’s eyes meeting his own.
The Master stands there for a second. He hardly feels it within himself to do so, but his chin tilts and his eyes narrow above an indignant little sneer. He turns away.
And he will never be able to explain it. But he returns the next day and for all the indignation, he stands and he watches the Doctor smile.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
excerpt 003
working title: prologue
They resurrected him for little more than to foil the order of Skaro.
There would be no war today, but the undercurrent lurked. Everyone could feel it. The very sensation lingered in the corner of every mind, affecting everyone from the central cities outward to the provinces. Tensions had begun to rise and it was only a matter of time, now, until the species would realize what had been done to prevent them.
Someone once had been asked to step up and stop the development of the ruthless race before they could even come about, but he could only delay the inevitable. Lines already were drawn and the Time Lords knew that at any day, the truth could be found and the entirety of existence could come crashing down.
There was no war yet, and there would be no war today. Tensions could carry out in all their prideful and petty dealings, be it with lies or life. His was just another in the balance.
The denizens of Skaro had allowed him that much, perhaps in that last gesture of what optimists would call humanity, and realists call appeasement. They had passed on a message following his death, concerning where his remains were to be taken. The Daleks were not yet the Daleks entirely, and though mercy was fading from their vocabulary, diplomacy had survived until this point. So they could kill a criminal but what was done with him would be left to the people. Tensions could rise. No one could be guaranteed to win. No one wanted a war yet.
His final wish had been that the Doctor would take his remains back to Gallifrey. So when he did – unwittingly, taking not even the ashes but only the inkling – they had torn apart the TARDIS to get him.
When they found him it was nothing but a trace of mind and a hint of genetic strand that was not yet Time Lord. It took time and it took corruption, but the last wish was too interesting and the child too promising to let the ordinary laws bind him - and besides, the decision of Skaro could hold no power.
They would keep it a secret. The Master and his existence would be hidden and none outside a privileged circle would know about his fourteenth body.
He would be kept like an experiment, a curiosity. The resurrection went smoothly as it could go and the Master was Time Lord, again. He was to be confined. Studied, perhaps. An oddity along with the best of them.
And because the request had been so specific – the Doctor taking the Master home again – the suspicions of the Council had been piqued. The side excursion of domination of world and flesh held no interest to the hierarchy; one enemy asking the help of another was all the interest they needed.
Twenty one generations between the two of them and they were still children of Gallifrey, and were treated like such. It was like a time-out, a grounding – house arrest, they called it, for two disobedient if brilliant men. With the Doctor stripped of his TARDIS and the Master held to the spot, there was little to do except to make the two bickering children get along.
So they had put them together.
And so where everything else had gone wrong, some semblance of the Master’s genius still remained.
He had gotten his body. Gotten his lives back. And now he had even gotten the Doctor within his grasp, to do as he might please.
The last thing he remembers of his body is that it was coming apart at the cell.
They resurrected him for little more than to foil the order of Skaro.
There would be no war today, but the undercurrent lurked. Everyone could feel it. The very sensation lingered in the corner of every mind, affecting everyone from the central cities outward to the provinces. Tensions had begun to rise and it was only a matter of time, now, until the species would realize what had been done to prevent them.
Someone once had been asked to step up and stop the development of the ruthless race before they could even come about, but he could only delay the inevitable. Lines already were drawn and the Time Lords knew that at any day, the truth could be found and the entirety of existence could come crashing down.
There was no war yet, and there would be no war today. Tensions could carry out in all their prideful and petty dealings, be it with lies or life. His was just another in the balance.
The denizens of Skaro had allowed him that much, perhaps in that last gesture of what optimists would call humanity, and realists call appeasement. They had passed on a message following his death, concerning where his remains were to be taken. The Daleks were not yet the Daleks entirely, and though mercy was fading from their vocabulary, diplomacy had survived until this point. So they could kill a criminal but what was done with him would be left to the people. Tensions could rise. No one could be guaranteed to win. No one wanted a war yet.
His final wish had been that the Doctor would take his remains back to Gallifrey. So when he did – unwittingly, taking not even the ashes but only the inkling – they had torn apart the TARDIS to get him.
When they found him it was nothing but a trace of mind and a hint of genetic strand that was not yet Time Lord. It took time and it took corruption, but the last wish was too interesting and the child too promising to let the ordinary laws bind him - and besides, the decision of Skaro could hold no power.
They would keep it a secret. The Master and his existence would be hidden and none outside a privileged circle would know about his fourteenth body.
He would be kept like an experiment, a curiosity. The resurrection went smoothly as it could go and the Master was Time Lord, again. He was to be confined. Studied, perhaps. An oddity along with the best of them.
And because the request had been so specific – the Doctor taking the Master home again – the suspicions of the Council had been piqued. The side excursion of domination of world and flesh held no interest to the hierarchy; one enemy asking the help of another was all the interest they needed.
Twenty one generations between the two of them and they were still children of Gallifrey, and were treated like such. It was like a time-out, a grounding – house arrest, they called it, for two disobedient if brilliant men. With the Doctor stripped of his TARDIS and the Master held to the spot, there was little to do except to make the two bickering children get along.
So they had put them together.
And so where everything else had gone wrong, some semblance of the Master’s genius still remained.
He had gotten his body. Gotten his lives back. And now he had even gotten the Doctor within his grasp, to do as he might please.
...
The last thing he remembers of his body is that it was coming apart at the cell.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Catholic structure
Okay, so apparently the way it goes is:
Sin -> Confession -> Absolution -> Penance
Potentially also with "peace", if you want to include the whole "go in peace" bit that comes between being absolved of your sins and actually paying your penance. If it goes like that, I may want five parts. Three parts with a prologue and epilogue. I may also simply stick to four parts and avoid complications.
Either way, bittersweet ending. Notes in the second to last page of Carson's notebook, for my own reference. Let's go. \o\
Sin -> Confession -> Absolution -> Penance
Potentially also with "peace", if you want to include the whole "go in peace" bit that comes between being absolved of your sins and actually paying your penance. If it goes like that, I may want five parts. Three parts with a prologue and epilogue. I may also simply stick to four parts and avoid complications.
Either way, bittersweet ending. Notes in the second to last page of Carson's notebook, for my own reference. Let's go. \o\
Saturday, January 8, 2011
excerpt 002
working title:penance
It is too intimate and activity for the sun to see. The stars, the suns of solar systems and galaxies millions of miles away - they were too far away to bear witness and, even then, he only permits his hands to work and eyes to search while shielded by walls and roof and dark windows. Sometimes it feels so spectacular that he feels he should close his eyes. He would close his eyes if he did not have to see everything.
The night gets too long sometimes. That is no surprise, it is nothing new - the night is long and the darkness is terrifying to someone who has died so many times already. He never knows if he will wake up. Sometimes he hardly even knows if he is awake to start, if he is not dreaming everything already.
This man - this one man - convinced him that this is no dream. He does not know when or how it happened, but somewhere along the way, when this man appeared, he knew he was not in any dream. With him, he could not even be in hell. He began seeking his company and, strangely, it seemed almost as if this strange and wonderful man was returning the gesture.
How ironic that it would be that man, the man who fixed people, the very Doctor he had intended to kill. He was never looking to be fixed and here was this man who, if he was not fixing anything, was at least giving him a reason to look forward to the nighttime.
He actually begins to look forward to the evening. It is the only time he feels comfortable actively pursuing the Doctor's company, now that that connection has been officially established.
The daytime takes a long time to pass, even if he lays there with his eyes open and tries to rest. He starts trying to find ways to occupy his mind when all else fails, and he gradually finds that if he can keep his hands busy, his eyes will follow.
He begins to find that he likes the white of paper and the way it reflects even the barest traces of light. He likes the way it is unassuming, blank, ready to be made into something beautiful or ugly or profound - anything that he wills it to be. He begins to pretend that he is like paper. That he can rewrite himself into something that is not all good, maybe even ugly, but something that someone could look at and marvel at. He likes the idea. He learns to draw and paint almost everything, from furniture to landscapes to still life. During the night when he does not see anyone, he sits there in the dark with his hands on the canvas, and he swirls colors in the way he can best imagine the sunrise. He paints the dawn until it touches the horizon, and he does not have to be so afraid anymore.
He and the Doctor visit more, gradually, and they progress from stunted quiet to gentle conversation. At some point - he is not sure when - he tells the Doctor how afraid he is of the neverending dark. The man is so kind about the matter that, that evening, he slips the best of his sunrise paintings under the door and the next time he dares to approach his room, he is rendered momentarily speechless by the presence of that painting on the wall.
It is hard to say exactly when he began sketching the Doctor, himself. The first time it was such a quiet affair; he had brought up candles and placed them in a way that it would not be so obvious that he was shedding light upon the paper. Light-colored eyes had been distracted, by words, by a book, by paintings - and he had taken the moment to sketch and observe the details of his face. It was so easy and natural to do that he thought nothing of it, when he began sketching him from memory.
In all honesty, it did not seem a fuss until a kiss became more than a kiss, more than even words. They had kissed before, few times with tender inclinations. It had even come to mean something. A kiss to the cheek was a thank you, to the lips was a silent, unspoken something that he would never repeat, not out loud, not after the first time he said it. He never expected to say it again, except with a gentle moment to touch lips together.
One strange night, it changes. Lips touch and touch again, and somehow a kiss against lips turns not to a kiss against cheek but wanders toward the edge of jaw. The words in his mind are not thank you nor I love you, but are strange and he does not know what to put to it. On this occasion, he had stopped, pulled away. He had smiled in that quiet, crooked way.
"May I sketch you, Doctor?"
So it is no longer a secret who he sketches, sometimes, but that is not the part that he must hide, anyway. He does not know what the kisses not-to-lips and not-to-cheek say, but putting words to the feeling was not high on his list of priorities. When he is alone, now, sometimes he closes his eyes to re-imagine it.
Sometimes he begins to sketch and it rolls into such a fervor of charcoal and flying hands that he parts the paper panting and exhausted. Sometimes he struggles with the detail. Sometimes he watches the page and watches the formation of the curve of neck, of the tilt of head or the pose of hand and he becomes so focused on touching the paper, making the shapes tangible, that he puts the paper away feeling quivering and spent.
It takes him no time at all to realize how erotic it is, really. The realization that he is watching the details form under his hand as though he could touch the very model is no surprise to him. He hides it from the stars and suns themselves because the activity is truly too intimate. He thinks he might never touch the Doctor the way he did that once, like he could simply touch him all over.
He has no idea what he is trying to say. He begins to realize that kisses say nothing, but the way he touches skin on paper says the world over.
after-rant (notes): AU concept. Taken shortly post!1996 movie, featuring Eighth Doctor and Roberts!Master, resurrected as a Time Lord but out of context from the Time War. Not yet sure why he would be resurrected, outside of the context of the Time War.
I am thinking that this excerpt shall turn up being a section from a three-parter. Something like sin:confession:penance or something. Or absolution for the last part. Not entirely sure yet. ...could be the aftermath of sin? Sin as a prologue? confession:penance:absolution? ...It needs to sound catchier. :\
Unfortunately, "the aftermath of sin in three parts" sounds like a tap dance routine with smiling Gene Kelly's and musical extravaganza. Which this is kind of... not.
Random aside. Enjoy the rant and drabble, lovies. <3
It is too intimate and activity for the sun to see. The stars, the suns of solar systems and galaxies millions of miles away - they were too far away to bear witness and, even then, he only permits his hands to work and eyes to search while shielded by walls and roof and dark windows. Sometimes it feels so spectacular that he feels he should close his eyes. He would close his eyes if he did not have to see everything.
The night gets too long sometimes. That is no surprise, it is nothing new - the night is long and the darkness is terrifying to someone who has died so many times already. He never knows if he will wake up. Sometimes he hardly even knows if he is awake to start, if he is not dreaming everything already.
This man - this one man - convinced him that this is no dream. He does not know when or how it happened, but somewhere along the way, when this man appeared, he knew he was not in any dream. With him, he could not even be in hell. He began seeking his company and, strangely, it seemed almost as if this strange and wonderful man was returning the gesture.
How ironic that it would be that man, the man who fixed people, the very Doctor he had intended to kill. He was never looking to be fixed and here was this man who, if he was not fixing anything, was at least giving him a reason to look forward to the nighttime.
He actually begins to look forward to the evening. It is the only time he feels comfortable actively pursuing the Doctor's company, now that that connection has been officially established.
The daytime takes a long time to pass, even if he lays there with his eyes open and tries to rest. He starts trying to find ways to occupy his mind when all else fails, and he gradually finds that if he can keep his hands busy, his eyes will follow.
He begins to find that he likes the white of paper and the way it reflects even the barest traces of light. He likes the way it is unassuming, blank, ready to be made into something beautiful or ugly or profound - anything that he wills it to be. He begins to pretend that he is like paper. That he can rewrite himself into something that is not all good, maybe even ugly, but something that someone could look at and marvel at. He likes the idea. He learns to draw and paint almost everything, from furniture to landscapes to still life. During the night when he does not see anyone, he sits there in the dark with his hands on the canvas, and he swirls colors in the way he can best imagine the sunrise. He paints the dawn until it touches the horizon, and he does not have to be so afraid anymore.
He and the Doctor visit more, gradually, and they progress from stunted quiet to gentle conversation. At some point - he is not sure when - he tells the Doctor how afraid he is of the neverending dark. The man is so kind about the matter that, that evening, he slips the best of his sunrise paintings under the door and the next time he dares to approach his room, he is rendered momentarily speechless by the presence of that painting on the wall.
It is hard to say exactly when he began sketching the Doctor, himself. The first time it was such a quiet affair; he had brought up candles and placed them in a way that it would not be so obvious that he was shedding light upon the paper. Light-colored eyes had been distracted, by words, by a book, by paintings - and he had taken the moment to sketch and observe the details of his face. It was so easy and natural to do that he thought nothing of it, when he began sketching him from memory.
In all honesty, it did not seem a fuss until a kiss became more than a kiss, more than even words. They had kissed before, few times with tender inclinations. It had even come to mean something. A kiss to the cheek was a thank you, to the lips was a silent, unspoken something that he would never repeat, not out loud, not after the first time he said it. He never expected to say it again, except with a gentle moment to touch lips together.
One strange night, it changes. Lips touch and touch again, and somehow a kiss against lips turns not to a kiss against cheek but wanders toward the edge of jaw. The words in his mind are not thank you nor I love you, but are strange and he does not know what to put to it. On this occasion, he had stopped, pulled away. He had smiled in that quiet, crooked way.
"May I sketch you, Doctor?"
So it is no longer a secret who he sketches, sometimes, but that is not the part that he must hide, anyway. He does not know what the kisses not-to-lips and not-to-cheek say, but putting words to the feeling was not high on his list of priorities. When he is alone, now, sometimes he closes his eyes to re-imagine it.
Sometimes he begins to sketch and it rolls into such a fervor of charcoal and flying hands that he parts the paper panting and exhausted. Sometimes he struggles with the detail. Sometimes he watches the page and watches the formation of the curve of neck, of the tilt of head or the pose of hand and he becomes so focused on touching the paper, making the shapes tangible, that he puts the paper away feeling quivering and spent.
It takes him no time at all to realize how erotic it is, really. The realization that he is watching the details form under his hand as though he could touch the very model is no surprise to him. He hides it from the stars and suns themselves because the activity is truly too intimate. He thinks he might never touch the Doctor the way he did that once, like he could simply touch him all over.
He has no idea what he is trying to say. He begins to realize that kisses say nothing, but the way he touches skin on paper says the world over.
after-rant (notes): AU concept. Taken shortly post!1996 movie, featuring Eighth Doctor and Roberts!Master, resurrected as a Time Lord but out of context from the Time War. Not yet sure why he would be resurrected, outside of the context of the Time War.
I am thinking that this excerpt shall turn up being a section from a three-parter. Something like sin:confession:penance or something. Or absolution for the last part. Not entirely sure yet. ...could be the aftermath of sin? Sin as a prologue? confession:penance:absolution? ...It needs to sound catchier. :\
Unfortunately, "the aftermath of sin in three parts" sounds like a tap dance routine with smiling Gene Kelly's and musical extravaganza. Which this is kind of... not.
Random aside. Enjoy the rant and drabble, lovies. <3
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
planning about planning.
...so my new theory is that, what actually needs to happen? Is that I separate out Raincheck from the different Lucy threads. Figure out what ACTUALLY needs to go in RC, figure out a completely different medium in which to put my Master/Luce stuff.
At this point I feel like I should just have a document composed of AU Doctor/Master drabbles, since Timelord!AmeriMaster makes little to no sense except in the context of a farking Time War. And even then it seems unlikely that they'd utilize the same body for his resurrection. Or that he'd get old and look like Derek Jacobi.
That aside, Saxon/9? Yeah. Even less sense. That's messing with the time stream right there. (and also messing with my heart, but that's a completely different story. Whoops. >>)
...and back to AmeriMaster, he sort of paints. Which makes even less sense, I guess. But darnit-- waiting for the sunrise. It's good stuff.
And one day I'll actually plan something.
At this point I feel like I should just have a document composed of AU Doctor/Master drabbles, since Timelord!AmeriMaster makes little to no sense except in the context of a farking Time War. And even then it seems unlikely that they'd utilize the same body for his resurrection. Or that he'd get old and look like Derek Jacobi.
That aside, Saxon/9? Yeah. Even less sense. That's messing with the time stream right there. (and also messing with my heart, but that's a completely different story. Whoops. >>)
...and back to AmeriMaster, he sort of paints. Which makes even less sense, I guess. But darnit-- waiting for the sunrise. It's good stuff.
And one day I'll actually plan something.
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