Title: Waiting to Happen
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: U
Length: 745 words
Summary: The Doctor and the Master can’t agree on where to go next.
Author's Note: Hi, I'm new here; I hope I'm doing this right. Thanks to thesmallhobbit for showing me this comm existed.
Written For: Challenge 102 - Disaster



“So you think I’m ‘completely batshit’, do you?” The Master cocks an eyebrow at the Doctor and allows a knowing smile to spread across his face. The Doctor nods slightly.

“That’s a new one.” He stands up and wanders closer to the Doctor. Coffee in hand and a book on the table, he looks relaxed.

“But I kind of preferred it when you used to call me ‘insane’.”

So he’s not likely to be relaxed. The Doctor decides to play it cool and wait to see which way he’s going to jump. He shrugs.

“It was one of Rose’s words. Well, you know me, always like to pick up ideas, try new things.” He tilts his head and shrugs again. “It usually works out.”

“Ah, the delectable - if rather obvious - Miss Tyler. Tell me, how is the dear girl, sequestered with her plastic replica over there in the untouchable universe? Do you miss her?” The Master touches the Doctor lightly on the face, placing a finger on his lips and talking faster when he tries to speak.

“Do you wish you were there too? Ever feel like sending blue-suit man back here to save the Earth yet again while you go and ... whatever it is you want to do with her over there?” His voice is stern, but his hands on the Doctor’s face are as soft as butterflies. The Doctor tries to ignore the almost-caress.

“And what exactly do you want to do with her?” the Master asks more brightly. It’s not the first time he’s asked this, but it might be the first time the Doctor has asked himself.

“A human female? All these Earth women over the years, you know I’ve never been quite sure.”

“That’s all over. In the past.” The Doctor speaks curtly and steps away from the delicate outstretched fingers. “If you ever got to know these people instead of just killing them, you’d know that. They grow old and die.” He breathes out sharply. “And we move on.”

“Ah, so true, Doctor, but where to? Where do we move on to?” The gentle smile on the so-familiar face is almost convincing. If anybody wanted to be convinced.

The Doctor turns towards the console.

“I was wrong. There is no we.” He stares at the controls for a moment then says over his shoulder,

“There is me. And there is you. And if we ever go anywhere together again, it will be back to Gallifrey, back before you looked into the Untempered Schism.”

“Before we were eight years old? When we were weak and timid younglings?” The Master makes a moue of mock disappointment. “It might have been different for you, but for me then was no fun at all!”

He steps forward decisively, puts the coffee down on a handy panel and pulls a lever. The Tardis responds instantly and the Master turns and grasps the Doctor’s hands.

“No, Doctor, my plans for you definitely involve us both being adult. And as your little blonde girlfriend would no doubt say, fit. What do you say, Doctor? Would you like that? You’d like that too. Wouldn’t you?”

There is a moment of silence, then the Doctor pushes the Master away and strides back to the console, searching the monitors.

“No.”

He presses buttons frantically and pulls levers, knocking the coffee over as he reaches across to turn a screen towards him.

“No, no, no, no, no. We’re not going there.”

He searches the monitors, watches circles and pulses brighten and die. Scratches his head, ignores the dripping coffee.

“Not actually, not metaphorically, not anything. Ever.”

He presses more buttons, pushes more levers. Finally content that the new course is secure, he turns and looks at the Master quizzically.

“Your trouble has always been - no, wait, what am I saying? My trouble has always been - that you’re just a disaster waiting to happen.”

The Master smiles again. Behind him the coffee reaches the floor and a few drops roll hesitantly towards them.

“Ah, now that’s where you’re completely wrong, my dear Doctor.”

He leans closer, ignoring the way the Doctor tries, again far too late, to step back. Placing a hand on the Doctor’s neck, he murmurs into his ear.

“You know me better than that, don’t you, Doctor?”

The Doctor feels the warm breath on his neck and shivers as the man he can’t fool speaks again, soft as a lover’s touch.

“I’m a disaster that’s longing to happen.”

~ ~ ~