Follows this.

The lift seemed smaller now. Maybe it was the knowledge how little time was left. Maybe it was the attitude that had changed between them since they first rode up to the room with the stars.

Maybe it was the weight of all of the things they weren't saying. Sometimes that weight would suffocate the Doctor when he was awake and alone.

The scrambling device was on again, keeping the cameras in the lift blind as to their actions. The immature side of the Doctor wanted to make a face at the cameras, simply because the Valeyard couldn't see. He didn't, of course. He just stood there, waiting.

"What will you tell him?" he asked.
Follows this.

He was quite pleased with the Master's development. He'd learned how to behave, for the most part. Oh, he was hardly the most agreeable of companions, but he wouldn't want the Master to be agreeable. He wanted him to be the Master. He wanted him to be there, part of his world.

Over the week that followed, the quiet drumming in his mind that insisted that the Master had to live at all costs had quieted, the part of him that was the Doctor apparently sated with the Master's presence. The Valeyard was pleased with it, too. He remembered why he was so fond of his old enemy. He posed a challenge.

He was challenged with frustration and irritation and glorious success. Things were going better than planned, and now with the traitor out of the way, he'd be able to do so much more.

The week went by wonderfully. He felt the first tremor of exhaustion run through him and he believed that he might sleep well for the first time since the Master came back into his life.
rude_not_ginger: (doctor/master bff rainbow!)
( Aug. 27th, 2011 12:07 am)
Recently, I have acquired a new roommate, [ profile] best_served_hot. While our living arrangements are unusual due to our muses, it is certainly fun. And we've been playing a lot of chess.
Chess Matches: Doctor VS Master

Winner indicated by:
= ➙ draw
X ➙ checkmate
+ ➙ concession

[ profile] rude_not_ginger
[ profile] best_served_hot

Total Won:
Jail is never a fun place to be.

It is, in fact, considered the third most unpleasant place in the galaxy to be. The second most unpleasant place to be is the Pink Dog Bar off of Setera Beta 7, where the ruffians and terrible thieves of your nightmares are just the waitstaff, and the bartenders and owners are even worse. The sticky floors and battered walls are unreasonably unpleasant, and the atmosphere is far more frightening than even the terrible Doom Cave of Terrifying Alpha. Once you pass through the metal detector confirming that you do, in fact, have a weapon (and you're strongly advised to have a weapon in the Pink Dog Bar unless you want to be awarded with the badge that reads "Easy Bait" and left to your own), you are then told to find your own seat, and you'll have a number of the aforementioned ruffians and thieving waitstaff to ask to move if you want to seat. The Death Bird of Trevall will follow all newcomers to the Pink Dog Bar from the moment they enter to the moment they leave, or die, whichever comes first. If you ever find yourself in the Pink Dog Bar, it is advised by most authorities and traveling professionals that you find yourself somewhere else.

The first most unpleasant place to be is the Pearle Vision Optical Shop in Baltimore, Maryland, United States, Earth. But why you would find yourself there is really only if you were desperate for a pair of glasses, or if you were an adult university student desperate for work. But that is, of course, not where you are.

Where you are is jail. Why you are here is really your own business, but the people who have captured you and incarcerated you beleive very strongly in their ability and reason to have done so, and they are, therefore, dragging you along the dank and dirty hallways towards your cell with a certain amount of pleasure that can only be derived from dragging an unwilling prisoner to an unpleasant fate.

Once your cell door has been open and you've been thrown in, that's about the point where your brand new cellmate makes himself known. He is a tall, lanky man, with sticky-uppy brown hair and a tattered-looking blue suit. He is not particularly awful, as cellmates go, certainly not as bad as the Death Bird of Trevall, but he appears to be rather put-out by his current placement.

"You don't understand!" he cries, trying to get to the door before it closes (and failing). "I thought this was the Pretractor System! Is it really my fault if my timing was that far off?"

And this, as they say, is where you come in.

OOC: Open post. Any verse, any time. I've missed you guys! Have fun!
The Master gives the Doctor visiting rights once a day.

There's so much pretense to the visiting rights. What a great honor it is that the Doctor gets them, how much the Master is put out by them, and how they'll be taken away the moment anyone does anything wrong. The Joneses probably believe the rules and the nonsense the Master spews at them, but the Doctor doesn't.

They are, of course, just part of the game. Everything is part of the game.

There's the part where the Master slides around the rooms on the Valiant, showing off just how much of the board he owns. There's the part where the other pieces are knocked around, showing just how little mobility they have left. There's the part where the dominated squares are put on full, horrifying display. And then there are the visiting rights.

It's Tuesday. It's Jack's day to visit the Doctor. He's sat with him in the room every Tuesday since the Master took over, his eternally young hand on the Doctor's withered old one, massaging out the pains and soothing the liver spots. There are rarely words on Jack's visiting days, just two very old men sitting together in their defeat. The Master both loves and hates these days, the Doctor knows. He loves them because Jack's pain is almost palatable, thick and rich in the eternally sterile air of the Valiant. He hates them because they don't talk, and there's very little to mock in two men sitting silently in pain.

Today is going to be different. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,781
Follows this.

He was an immensely patient man.

The incarnation started out with a lot of impatience. Running around, causing trouble, saving the world. He'd learned patience through the victories he'd acquired. He'd learned to get what he wanted by waiting. Starving people out, taking choices away from others. He waited this long to gain this much of the universe, and he would acquire the rest of it through patience as well.

That being said, the Master was trying his patience.

A week ago, he'd brought the Master back. Now, he was about to land on one of his worlds and the Master was still not giving in.

This was really unacceptable. Didn't he know who he belonged to?

He picked up the communicator and spoke into the system.

"We're arriving," he said. "I've placed a suit in the main bay, you should wear it."
It's not a game.

You can smell him on the wind.

Underneath the smell of rubbish, underneath the smell of discarded lives that the people of London pile up into big, disgusting heaps, he's there. He's hiding, and maybe in a place like this, he could hide from others, but he can't hide from you. You know his smell. It's a sharp, pungent tang; the familiar smell of Time and Eternity, mixed with the blood he's spilled and the burning smell of energy. His life force is raw and split open, and no planet could hide his scent.

Which means, of course, that he can smell you, too.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

He's playing your song. Four beats. A long pole pounding against an empty container, over and over. Calling to you. Over and over until you find him. Because that's what he wants, isn't it? To draw you in, to pull you closer. His own personal version of the cloister bell, calling out danger.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

You shouldn't run to him, and you know this. You know how wrong it is to want to run to him, you know how wrong it is to give in to what he so obviously wants. After all, this is all a game to him. To him, you're darting across a chess board and he's trying to find some sort of a strategic advantage. It doesn't matter if you want to play, the moment you chase him, you're playing. You're playing, and he's already got the lead. You know this, but you still run to him. You don't have a choice; you have to follow, you have to find him. Your feet pound against the cold, dusty ground as you chase him down.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

And there he is. Standing across the field from you. Standing there, screaming out in frustration. The black king and the white king, across the board. All of your pawns have been used up, and it's just you against him. You can't checkmate another king without at least one pawn and you know this, but it doesn't stop you from running towards him. Never giving up, never resigning. You've lost your fair share of games to him, but you won't, not this time.

He roars. It's a pained, animalistic sound. He roars and you can feel his pain, you can taste it in the air. It's sharp and palatable on the back of your tongue. He's dying, he's burning up, he's a ball of energy held together by the strength of his own will. After all, he's never given up a game to you, either, no matter how many times you've bested him.

A stench hits the wind. It's like burning hair and rotting flesh and it's him but it isn't. He's dying. He's dying and he's burning up and you stare, open-mouthed, at what he's become. What he's doing to himself. What he's doing in order to win.

And he leaps away, blasting out more energy to give himself the advantage. You stare for another moment, watching him go.

It's not cheating, of course. He's still only moving the number of spaces across the board he can, he's still only moving in the directions he's allowed, but he's holding back the clock, just a little while longer. Giving himself extra time, because he could never win this game in 35 minutes. He wants more time to beat you.

Which, of course, means that he's doing this to himself for you.

But this is the way it has always been.

And you chase. You run over long, rusted planks and slid across slick rock paths, but you chase because you must. Because this is the way the game has always been played. He has never chased you, you will always chase him.

When you fall too far behind, because you are always the one who falls behind, he waits. Waits and laughs, because games are supposed to be fun. His bones and muscles show through the limited energy holding him together and another blast of that terrible stench hits you.

"Please," you call, because it is always you who calls first. "Let me help!"

He tilts his head to the side, disgusted by this offer. You, offering to resign? Well, that would hardly make the game worth playing, would it? After all, games are meant to be won, not given. This is how he's always seen it, and you know this. It doesn't stop you from offering, just as you've always offered.

"You're burning up your own life force!" you say.

He knows this. He knows what he's sacrificing in order to win, but you doubt he's ever cared about anything but winning.

But this is not a game. Not to you.

He laughs and he runs again, and you chase. You chase because you always chase. He moves and you react because that is what you're programmed to do. It's deep within you, it's in your DNA, it's in the shape of your chess piece.

You like to imagine that if this were a game, you'd both be kings, each trying but unable to best each other.

You're not, of course. You have no power in this game.

You've always been his pawn.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 883

It may look like rambling, but this letter doesn't mean a fourth of what I mean to tell you.

I was thinking! Friday. Good weekday! It is, in fact, really the best sort of day to relax, yes? I was thinking we'll plan a trip, maybe to Felusia? The Braxians destroy the Fraxians. In Taxon I'm terribly bored and it's been a while since I've traveled! I don't really actually expect to escape today, no, they've probably planned trouble. That's something that I want to avoid! Do keep up. I'll not repeat myself! I want a proper holiday, to travel and to risk it all. Your world here's cozy, life most certainly won't stay that way whilst inside the city. If the plan, traveling to Felusia blast arena or Braxian zone number 7 (pack shield, sword, blastgun, and armour, just to be prepared). We'll be safe.


PS: Dirtsa nees uoy evah?

That's Felusian for backwards.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 157
Based on RP in [ profile] taxonomites with [ profile] beholdthedrums
A/N: It seems like rubbish, but it's code!
For [ profile] best_served_hot's first lines meme.

I watch him as he struggles to regain his feet and viciously kick him back down, my foot landing square in the middle of his chest.

Cut for spoilers to 4.18 'The End of Time, Part Two'. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten / Valeyard)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 604

Hello there, Spencer.
I see you, you boy, boy.
I see you, Spencer.
With my eyes.

You’re the architect of my dreams, Spencer.
You plan them, and build them on blue paper,
And hand them to me.

And then I dream them Spencer,
That’s what you do for me.
Thank you for that, Spencer,
You prick.…

He used to dream about Gallifrey.

The swirling sky, the vast estates, the sloping fields of red grass.

Back before, when there was nothing but memories and the hate pumping through his veins. Back when he had no home world.

Now, that is all they have. They have Gallifrey, they have the estates and the whole stupid Time Lord planet at their feet. The Master even has something akin to a harem of people, following him, adoring him. No longer an exile, he's practically welcomed back to his home world with open arms. He has nothing to fear, not anymore.

And he still dreams.

Dreams of the drumbeats, dreams of the anguish and anger. Dreams of the Doctor.

Oh, so much.

He opens the door to the tiny club-like room. It's empty, now. Empty but for the Doctor, making his customary cup of tea. They don't fight, not here, not recently at least. Still, a tension settles over the room. Heavy and thick and not quite hatred and not quite desire. It's a frustrating sensation.

"Just us today?" the Master says. "I had hoped to have someone intelligent to talk to."

"I've invited a few others," the Doctor says.

The Master snorts. It won't be long, he assumes, until the whole room is full of people, ready to talk and drink and argue their way through another night. It lends the current moment to a sense of urgency. They only have the briefest moment to connect, to talk, to do something before their privacy is broken.

"Do you dream, here?" the Master asks.

"I don't dream at all," the Doctor lies, and the Master knows it is a lie.

"I dream." The Master lets the words hang for a moment, longing for the time needed to properly stretch that sentence to its fullest dramatic potential. And if he knows the Doctor, the Doctor would want to let it stretch, too. They're very like each other, and that makes the Master smile, privately. However, they only have a brief time, now.

"What of?" the Doctor says.

"You." The Master's smile remains, widening only the slightest flicker at the Doctor's expression, something that is not quite horror and not quite intrigue.

There's a slight bang as the door swings open, permitting Tempest, John, Rose, and Jack. More are on their way, Jack says.

Tempest looks vaguely bemused. She asks if they interrupted something.

They did. Not that either of the men in the room would admit it.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 416
Based on RP in [ profile] riseofgallifrey

We sit in the car outside your house, whoah
I can feel the heat coming ’round
I go to put my arm around you
And you give me a look like I’m way out of bounds
Well you let out one of your bored sighs
Well lately when I look into your eyes
I’m goin’ down...

We get dressed up and we go out, baby, for the night
We come home early burning burning, burning in some fire fight
I’m sick and tired of you setting me up, yeah
Setting me up just to knock-a knock-a knock-a me down
I’m goin’ down....

It's a warm summer night and they are watching a planet burn.

They can't travel to all of the places one of them wants to go to without some sort of compromise. His compromise is the occasional viewing of a dying world or a collapsing star.

Something to silence the drums. Anything to quiet them, just a little while longer.

"Can't you hear them?" one asks the other.

"You know I can't," is the quick reply.

They both have ice cream as they sit, legs dangling out of the hovering TARDIS, but only one of them eats it. The other thinks it is far too sweet, and there's no real reason to sweeten a moment as terrible as this.

"How many die?" he asks, breathless at the destruction below them.

"Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters," he says. "It's important to know the numbers. The people you didn't save."

"Stop it."

"The people you didn't save for me." He smiles, victorious in his own way. "That's very nearly romantic, you know."

"You would think so."

He finishes up his ice cream and takes his uneaten companion's. If he were the sort to worry about his weight, he might be concerned about this gorging, but his metabolism is far too fast in this incarnation, and he's feeling far too guilty to care.

"We can't stay like this."

"No, I'll move the TARDIS once the flames reach this level of the sky."

"You and I, like this. I can't be your prisoner forever." It's one of his more lucid moments, and when he speaks his words are quiet and threatening. The quiet is always worse than the loud. The quiet comes with the knowledge that it will be loud soon, and no matter how much the quiet is savored, it will always, always end.

No, of course they can't stay like this. It isn't forever.

One of them stopped dealing in absolutes when he lost someone he was idiotic enough to believe he could have forever. The other never gave up on absolutes, even when he should've. But they'll cling, in their strange way, for as long as they can.

The flames lick across the surface of the world. Everyone is dead, there are no more minds crying out for help, begging for release. In a way, they've dried up this resource, sucked the bad from it that one of them needs to be calm.

"Can't you hear them?"

"You know I can't."

There's a quiet chuckle, followed by a loud sigh.

"I don't think you're trying."

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 420
Based on RP with [ profile] best_served_hot



Christmas Eve. 2009.

The Doctor loved Christmas! Back when he was a wee Time Lord, the first place he ever landed was London on Christmas Eve. He promised himself he'd never miss another Christmas ever, but that promise went into the same pile as "Lose weight" and "Regenerate a better hairline" and "Stop leaving companions in other universes". But the Doctor had never quite gotten the hang of New Years'. (He once spent several hours commiserating on the similarity between the confusing nature of New Years and Thursdays with one Arthur Dent, who will sadly not be appearing in this piece of narrative. -editor)

But! Through all his travels in space and time, he still hadn't quite figured out what Christmas was for exactly. Except as a yearly excuse for turkey, too much wine, and plum pudding (all of which the Doctor approved of). This year, though, as he strode the streets on this wonderful Christmas Eve, the Doctor decided he would figure out exactly what Christmas was all about.

This may or may not have included use of a intergalactic manipulative detector and a full pack of radio stellar isotopian crystals. Oh, and a cup of hot chocolate. In a festively-coloured cup.

There was a lovely light snow, and the Doctor grinned madly at the stars. Christmas. This year, he was going to figure out what it was all about.


OOC: Open thread, feel free to tag in as if your character is a passerby or as if your character is a long-standing companion! I'll be working on this thread up until the New Year, most likely! Everyone from any verse (or no verse!) is welcome, just let me know if you'd prefer it from a community or specific universe! And, for this thread, threadhopping is totally welcome!

Happy Holidays, everyone! &hearts

I'll sink Manhattan
Right under the sea
I'll find the sweetest spot to watch
As it goes away

You were so happy
With the things that you said
Like, "He's my lower half," you laughed
But you're going to cry

A river of tiny tears flow from your crocodile eyes
Too late to apologize, I say, as flood waters rise…

He only just makes it to the top of the building by the time the tides reach them. Everything on this part of America has collapsed except this one building. It's funny, but once upon a time he stood at this peak, looking over a very different Manhattan, and succeeded in saving the world.

Now, all he's done is fail.

He tries to pump the heart of the woman next to him. One, two, three. Nothing. And again. One, two, three. He's too little to hold enough oxygen in his lungs to breathe life into her. He's too helpless to save her. Drowned, like the rest of the people in this city.

Harriet Jones. Former PM.

The apologies that he speaks now mean nothing. He didn't know. He didn't know this would happen, but it did and it's too late. He scrambles back, his little legs pushing him towards the building's spire quickly, but not quickly enough. He feels hot tears start to run down his face. He's failed. Failed, failed, failed.

A year ago, he wouldn't have cried like this. He's been trapped as a little boy for too long, now. And the one time, the one time he tried to escape, his captor drowned a city to bring him back. Drowned a city full of people. Good people. People like Wilfred Mott and Leo Jones and Harriet Jones, former PM.

The present PM's helicopter is lowering towards the Empire State building, the black machine mirrored against the sparkling, still water. The Doctor watches the shiny shoes of the Master, stepping around the spire until he faces him. He doesn't even acknowledge Harriet Jones, former PM. He only barely acknowledges the crying little boy in front of him.

"Oh, don't be stupid," he snaps. "I didn't do this because of you, you idiot."

He nudges the Doctor's arm with his shiny shoe, but the Doctor can't react, now. All he can do is cry like the child the Master has told him he is.

The Master crouches in front of him, his expression almost pitying, like a father having to tell his son that Father Christmas isn't real. "This is where the resistance was holding a very big meeting," he says, all patronizing and stern. "You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, sonny. But it's a very good job that Daddy Master has come to pick you up, isn't that right?"

"I hate you." It's one of the most immature things he's managed to say, but right now he means it with every fiber of his diminutive being. He hates the Master, he hates everything that's happened. He hates that his running shoes don't fit and he hates the miniature suit he's wearing and he hates, hates, hates what's become of the planet he loves.

The Master looks amused. It's infuriating. "It's always the fate of a father to watch his son hate him until he realizes he's right."

"You're not my father, Master." But even the way he says the Master's name seems small. The Master seems to notice that, too, because his eyebrows crinkle together in distaste. He doesn't get the same high he once did from the Doctor saying his name. Things will change again, soon, and the Doctor doesn't want to think how.

The Master nods upwards, and soon the Doctor hears the clomp-clomp of very high heels. Lucy Saxon, a brand new split on her lip (unsurprising, considering she was the one who was supposed to be watching the Doctor when he escaped), comes rushing over, immediately scooping the tiny Time Lord into her arms.

He doesn't resist, instead going limp as she holds him. Her grip is a little too tight, and he knows she must blame him for the Master's treatment of her. Blame the Doctor for every bruise and every pain she's suffered. Blame him for the things that have happened to this once beautiful world.

As he looks over her shoulder at the drowned city, he can't help but agree with her.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 676

It's my world, my love, my gun

well It's the end of the world
well It's the end of the world
well It's the end of the world
well It's the end of the world

No I’m all alone, kept the pain inside.
Wanna torch the world, cos I’m breathing fire.
Yes I’m all alone, kept the pain inside.
Wanna torch the world, cos I’m breathing fire..

Lucy isn't insane.

Not in the classical sense of the word. Not the madness her husband so willingly flaunts as he slides from room to room, surveying his kingdom. While she might dance to the beat of her own drums, they're not the same drums that pulsate through her husband's mind, they're not the drums of war and madness.

All the same, she's not all there. The Doctor can tell she's been broken in ways he knows he can't fix. It's the way she moves, the vacancy in her eyes. It's as if the deceptive and cruel woman he met months ago has left the building, and there's no one home to feel the things she's feeling.

There are always deep, penetrating bruises that she's not allowed to cover up with makeup. Marks of how much the Master loves her (because he really only hurts the ones he loves.) The Doctor has his own share of bruises, but his don't mark quite as artistically on his old skin as hers do.

She only comes to the bars of the Doctor's cage one. It's the night the Master breaks her wrist and shatters her collarbone, but that all happens after. Right now, right now she's slowly creeping towards it, as if she thinks the cameras pointed at the box in the center of the room somehow will miss her if she moves more slowly.

She touches the bars, but recoils immediately, as if expecting him to leap up from his wheelchair and attack. He doesn't move, and she becomes only the tiniest bit more relaxed. Her fingers curl around the bars and she leans, ever so slightly, to the left, bracing herself on the weight of the heavy bars.

"I'm going to kill him," she says. Her voice is calm, as though she were talking about the weather or the coldness of the bars.

He doesn't say anything at first. What can he say to her? He could tell her it's wrong to kill the Master, but it was wrong to kill one-tenth of the population and that didn't stop her. So, instead, he says, "Why?"

"I don't want him to hurt me anymore," she says, and he doesn't think she's just talking about the welt under her eye. She traces a long, red fingernail across the bar she's holding. "I'm going to shoot him in the heart."

"With what gun?" he demands, surprised by the force in his voice. She's telling him she wants to murder the person he's trying to save, of course there's going to be force there.

She smiles at it. "I'll find one. And I'll shoot."

"You better not miss," he warns her.

"I won't."

There's a click, and the Doctor knows the Master is coming. He can feel the other Time Lord's mind, buzzing with fury for Lucy's actions, and mild irritation for her words (after all, she can't hurt him). The Doctor would tell her to go, but where would she run to? Running would only mean more pain.

"Why did you tell me?" he asks.

Her expression is pained, then. Like she expected him to understand, but he doesn't. She reaches her arm through the bars to touch the side of his face. Her skin is warm and surprisingly soft. She's quite the human, Lucy Saxon is.

"Because you won't let me," she says. "And I have to do this."

She has to do it, because she's always stood up for herself, in life. It's why the Master chose her, it's why she went through what she did with him. But she still loves him. She loves him, and she doesn't want to do what she knows she has to.

There's a smack and suddenly Lucy is thrown to the side, cradling her wrist. The Master doesn't even look at the Doctor, he just hits. And hits. And hits.

The punches start to sound like drumbeats. One beat after the other. And the Doctor can't stop them.

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 565
And he wonders if they'll forgive him, even if they can never forgive the Master as he has.
It's doubtful he does anything without some sort of reason behind it; even hating you has its reason.
Companion piece to this amazing prompt by [ profile] handysparehand.

"That's why I write, because life never works except in retrospect. You can't control life, at least you can control your version." - Chuck Palahniuk

If you let something go and it comes back to you, it's yours forever. Apparently. You've never really believed in that sort of thing. Too many birds have flown away and left you with an empty cage. You've become used to the fact that "alone" and "Doctor" have become synonymous.

You find companions. You travel with them for a time and they leave you and you're alone. One such time, verymuch alone, you picked up someone from the Plane. The place between dimensions, where the half-human, half-Time Lord version of yourself had been travelling. Also alone.

So, you ask him to travel with you. To spend some of his limited human days on your TARDIS, like so many humans that walked into and out of that ship with you. Only he would wear more sensible shoes, of course.

Oh, but it would never be an easy companionship, but you've grown rather accustomed to having him there. He's not you, but that's all right. You've got enough ego to fill the TARDIS all by yourself. No, he's something else, and that makes him equally frustrating and fascinating. More frequently the former, but it's the latter that reminds you how much you do enjoy his company.

"You've burned the tea again? What---How do you even manage to do that?"

"You're the one who insists I make it, when I could be helping with repairs."

"And you think I'd let you touch the consoles when you've already ruined my kettle?"

"I'd like to see you try better."

"I will!"

"Fine!" A beat. "You don't even know how to turn it on, do you?"

"I'm working on it!"

It's enough to make you believe that he's enough to fill your loneliness.

You put no restrictions on the TARDIS or the Plane. Come and go as you please. Let something go and all that.

He starts to go more frequently. Long stays away, visits with people he doesn't talk about over tea. You don't let it affect you, don't let the nagging sense of doubt go any further than the back of your mind.

And then, one day, he announces he's leaving. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,181
Based on roleplay in [ profile] realityshifted
Special thanks to [ profile] handysparehand for the beta!
Following the arrival of this letter and this thread.

It's torture, holding a guilty secret in. But the Doctor shouldn't have worried, he thinks. To the Master, it's all a game.

The first part of the game is the anticipation. Waiting it out, writing the letter, picking out the perfect place. Castrovalva. The Doctor's fifth life started here, and the two of them very nearly formed an alliance over it. Very nearly.

The Dwellings of Simplicity. )

Muse: The Doctor (Ten)
Fandom: Doctor Who
Word Count: 1,008
Based on RP with [ profile] savagestime, [ profile] shatteredqueen, and [ profile] handysparehand, among others!


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The Doctor


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