Fic: A Different Sort of Need

Maybe it was all just too easy when the Doctor was infirm. Maybe that was it. Maybe the age, and the silence, and the calm, old knowledge shadowed in wrinkled eyes relentlessly boring into him finally ground the Master down, or maybe it was all part of his plan.

Whatever it was, it was enough. The Doctor didn't stay old for long. The Master didn't want that, or so it seemed.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" he asks, one day, strolling past the chains hanging from the ceiling and stretching up from the floor, barely glancing at the Doctor, stripped and bound, tied between the four strips of cold linked metal. "Didn't you always want to be admired?"

The Doctor says nothing. He always says nothing, now, never says a word. He only looks back at the Master from dim, dull eyes, too exhausted for the youthful face, and the Master laughs.

"Of course you did," he says, and comes to a standstill in front of the Doctor, in front of everyone if they were there - the contraption is in the deck and everyone could see, and they could see everything.

The Master wants that, too.

The Doctor didn't protest when he was strung up like this: the changing of his cells from weak and useless to healthy and strong took too much from him; he was drained and semi-conscious as he was torn out of his clothes and manhandled into the chains, arms reaching to the ceiling, legs spread uncomfortably far apart, manacles around his bony wrists and his delicate ankles and the Master watching, always watching, always there.

It has been so long, now, that there are welts where the metal has rubbed against the Doctor's thin skin and the skin itself is tainted, dappled by rusted shades of flaked imprisonment.

It is certainly control, but it seems control is not enough for the Master any more, not this way.

He wants response.

He wants reactions.

He wants to be loathed.

It doesn't seem much at first. It isn't much. So what if the Master's hand accidentally catches the Doctor's thigh as he brushes past, hurrying, far too busy to notice? So what if the Master trips, thumps into the side of the Doctor's lean, bare, body; the Master doesn't care, all he does is frown and swear and make sure the serving girl that tripped him is dealt with in the appropriate way. And it can't really matter, in the overall grand scheme of things, if sometimes when someone comes in unannounced to find the Master moving away a bit too quickly from the shackled figure in the centre of the room, of course it can't. The end of the world takes far more precedence than the idiosyncrasies of the power-hungry dictator calling the shots, after all.

The first time it's important is when the Master is brought bad news. Something is not progressing as successfully as it should be. The Master's face crinkles with anger: he shouts and rages and, as everyone shrinks away, he whirls around and smacks a fist into the Doctor's unprotected stomach. The Doctor can't double over: he retches and coughs and the Master turns to look at him with an air of surprise.

"You do make noise, then?" he says, looking interested, as the Doctor struggles quietly for breath, face impassive while the bruise starts to blossom on his midriff.

The Master turns and leaves, and everyone follows, and it is forgotten about.

The next time, everyone notices, like they've been waiting for it, like it's the natural end of a season with the next forcing its way in. The Master is thinking something through, pacing measuredly around the long table when he comes to a steady halt by the Doctor's side.

"I don't know," he says, calmly, as though testing some unvoiced theory, and he trails a hand slowly down the side of the Doctor's body. The Doctor shivers; the Master looks pensive. "Perhaps," he says, moving quickly away again. "Yes, I think so."

And that is that.

When it all comes to a head, most people are alerted to the incident by the sheer volume of it: the Master is bellowing something in a tongue that no-one can follow, and he's inches away from the Doctor's face, and he's gripping the Doctor by the hips, and the Doctor is merely there.

Suddenly, the Master is screaming in English. "But look at you now," he roars. "In chains while your little world burns."

And something happens that no-one can see, but the Master is close enough, and he is instantly silent. "Oh," he breathes, "oh, now." He steps back, away from the Doctor. "Look," he calls, waving a hand in the Doctor's direction. "The mighty Doctor, the good Doctor, the righteous Doctor - and he gets off on not having that power."

He strides back to the Doctor, standing nose-to-nose with him almost before anyone can see the body he was gesticulating at. The Doctor still hasn't reacted. The Master laughs. "Oh, Doctor," he says, evenly. "Please save me."

And he wraps his hand around the Doctor's cock, and the Doctor chokes in a sound.

Everyone stands frozen. No-one breathes. The air is thick.

Then the Master bounds away, delight all over his face. "Come on, everyone!" he says, loudly, clearly keeping something back. "You've all got jobs to do."

Slowly, everyone disperses.

The Master turns back. He crosses the room in careful steps: left-breath-right, left-breath-right, left-breath-right. He stops at the Doctor, looks right at him, and the Doctor looks right back. The Doctor's face is flushed dark pink but he is quiet, silent, motionless. It is obedience he portrays.

"Well," says the Master, "if it's control you want."

He takes the Doctor's cock back in his hand, folding down his fingers slowly, one-beat-two-beat-three, four-beat-beat, five. The Doctor closes his eyes.

The Master is gentle. He moves his hand in easy strokes, never quick, never rough. He keeps his eyes on the Doctor's face and the Doctor keeps his eyes shut, mouth shut, restraining himself, fighting. The Master smiles.

"Oh, Doctor," he says. "Look at this. Look at you. You're debasing yourself."

The Doctor's breathing falters.

"People are dying while you're in my hand," says the Master, and watches the resentment, the anger, the need, flicker through the Doctor's face: the clenched jaw; the flutter at his temple; the thin mouth.

"They're waiting to be saved," the Master continues, still moving languidly, "and you can't help them."

The Doctor's hips buck forward: the chains around him clank and clatter.

The Master's mouth curves nastily. He leans in, puts his mouth on the Doctor's ear. "You're helpless," he whispers, and the Doctor moans raggedly, like he can't prevent it, like the Master has a hand on his larynx and a grasp on his soul, and that's all the Master wants.

He moves back abruptly, walks to the doors and regards the Doctor from the other end of the room. The Doctor's eyes open with effort: they are dark, and ancient, and torn.

"Don't get too hopeful," warns the Master, as the Doctor shakes in his chains. "Everyone has to be controlled somehow."

He leaves. The Doctor bows his head.

Everyone has to be controlled, the Master said, and now he knows how.

That's all he wanted.

Just that.