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Lost Boys	By : Turkaholic Category: 1 through F > Doctor Who Views: 3820 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who, any of its characters or trademarks. I make no money from the writing of this fanfiction

Chapter List
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- 36
Note:

We're getting there slowly. I'm not going to force characters into sex scenes: it sort of ruins the point of what I'm doing, but I promise – there is more on the way.
Blog chapter's up as well.
As usual - thanks for the support. Writing this story has been an amazing experience so far.
Chapter 32
The bridge of the Valiant fell into silence once more, though the Doctor knew that there was something different in this one. He knew that the Master hadn't moved: not even the soft hiss of the other Timelord's suit broke the stillness. The Doctor held his breath. Playing on the Master's vanity was his last choice, and as with every move he made against the other Timelord, it wasn't without its risks.
"…'Lord and Master of the Earth'" Came the reply eventually: slow, full of arrogance and twisted enjoyment. The Master seemed to roll every syllable around his tongue, enjoying the way they tasted. The Doctor heard movement, and knew that the Master had looked over his shoulder. "It's subservient. I like it."
The Doctor allowed himself a closely guarded sigh. He could tell by the tone of voice that the other Timelord had finally taken the bait, though that didn't mean that the Doctor considered it a victory. There had been too many deaths and losses today for him to feel anything but exhaustion and his dented pride.
The taller Timelord closed his eyes and swallowed – a brief moment of weakness in preparation for the Master to return, as he now knew he would. The appeal of a defeated Doctor would be too tantalising to ignore.
The now familiar approach of footsteps rang out in the darkness. The Doctor opened his eyes, sensing more than hearing as the Master prowled back towards him silently, like a panther stalking its prey. A dark smirk of enjoyment now adorned his strangely elated face. He bared his teeth as he spoke. "I've waited a long time to hear that tone out of you."
The Doctor simply raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed, avoiding eye contact. Despite the amount of talking he did, he knew that opening his mouth right now would jeopardise everything he'd been struggling towards.
The Master came to a halt in front of the other Timelord, tilting his head like a curious child as he took in the effect of the handcuffs; the Doctor's averted gaze. Slowly, he lowered himself to his knees. The Doctor felt the familiar instinct of danger tug at him, but ignored it.
Something flashed in the corner of the Doctor's eye. Something bright green and silver, shimmering in the darkness. He jerked his head away from it, his head still full of possible dangers. The reaction made the other Timelord laugh darkly. He looked away, the smirk breaking into a grin.
"If I wanted to kill you, Doctor, I'd be a bit more imaginative than this."
The words didn't seem to make any sense in the taller Timelord's head. He'd been steeling himself for danger, and somewhere in his over-tired mind he'd associated the silver glint with a screwdriver. It had been a stupid mistake to make – one that had given the Master more power over the situation than he'd hoped to give, but the damage was done. Reluctantly he lowered his eyes to the Master's face, and then towards the strangely coloured glint that had caught his eye.
The Master had extended his hand, the back of it just an inch from the Doctor's face. The ring on his finger flashed in shades of silver and venomous green. The taller Timelord felt his stomach drop as he realised what the Master was doing. He was going to grant his request, yes, but not without a little more degradation. He should have expected it.
He hesitated, his brow furrowing. The Master blinked and arched his eyebrows, an expression on his face as if he were looking at a petulant child.
"Oh, and now you don't want to?" He mumbled, a long-suffering tone in his voice. He sighed and raised his eyes, narrowing them at some point above the Doctor's head. The taller Timelord gritted his teeth behind his tightly-closed lips. "Oh yes, let's be stubborn again, shall we? It's worked dazzlingly for you so far."
"I was never the stubborn one." The Doctor found himself growling, leaping to his own defence before he could stop himself. "That was you."
The Doctor regretted the words almost before he'd finished saying them. Mentioning their history was – at the best of times – a bad move. Patience was one of few things that the Doctor truly felt proud of himself for, but the Master had always had a way of getting under his skin; provoking a reaction one way or another. Now all he could do was wait for the inevitable backlash.
The Master continued to stare above the Doctor's head for a moment, his eyes narrowing into slits as a quiver of anger seemed to go through him. His lips tightened in fury.
"Times change." He hissed, the anger subsiding. He lowered his eyes back to the Doctor's confused face and leaned in, whispering dangerously. "People change. I mean…" He laughed derogatively and shook his head in despair, "just look at you. I remember a time when your name sent shudders through the very Vortex itself. What was it they used to call you?"
The Doctor felt a lump in his throat as the Master stared into him. That wicked sneer had returned to his face as he spoke, and the Doctor could almost feel him slipping away.
"…The Oncoming Storm." The Doctor growled. The Master shrugged dismissively.
"I knew it was some over-wrought gibberish."
The Doctor bit his tongue, holding back any retaliation. The Master's hand was still hovering before his face, like the smallest chink in the other Timelord's armour. If he could regain the ground he'd lost, perhaps there was still hope.
"I didn't choose it." He defended, keeping his voice low and conversational. Over the past few weeks, in their night-time walks, he'd found that approaching the Master this way had the best effect when he was in this mood. It was never one hundred percent effective, but it was the best chance he had. "It just sort of… grew."
The Master's head tilted just a fraction of an inch, the sneer still on his face. His lip twitched in a strange spasm. "And I killed it." He whispered, full of pride.
The Doctor felt the words ache inside him. If Martha failed; if everything he was hoping for came to nothing, then the Master would be right: there would be no more Doctor; no more Oncoming Storm – just the Master's trophy, watching as the universe burned around him. None of this made its way onto his face, however. He simply raised his eyes upwards placidly and let out a breath of laughter. "All that intelligence you've got, and you never learn, do you? I was never a fan of titles."
The dismissive answer sent another spasm through the Master's face. Perhaps he'd expected defeat in the Doctor's tone, or hurt, or defense; but dismissiveness seemed to confuse him. Even with his eyes elsewhere, the Doctor could tell that the other Timelord was struggling to think of how to regain the upper hand in the conversation.
"Anyway," pressed the Doctor, taking advantage of the Master's confusion, "like you said: you're a busy man, so let's have my request and you can dash off."
The Master glanced down at the hand in front of the Doctor's face, as if suddenly realising that it was still there. He bit his upper lip hard, thinking. "And you think you deserve it, do you?" He hissed, almost childishly.
"Oh, but that's not the point, is it?" replied the Doctor, eyes flickering back down to the Master's face. "If this was about deserving something, all those people down there would still be alive."
The Master moved closer, a shadow of a smirk appearing on his face. "This is your case, is it? Of all the arguments you've ever made, this has to be the most pathetic."
The Doctor pouted thoughtfully. "Maybe." He sighed, "But you know I'm right. Right or wrong doesn't make any difference." His voice dropped suddenly to a deep growl. "You do things because you want to."
The Master watched him curiously for a moment. Eventually an eyebrow twitched upwards as if in agreement and he raised his hand closer to the Doctor's face.
It took every ounce of the Doctor's pride to acquiesce. He'd hoped that he could sway the Master's mood enough that it wouldn't come to this, but the flicker of an idea he had rested on this – something so small, and yet so important. In the end the only other option open to him was sitting handcuffed to the bridge of the Valiant, and that could push him beyond breaking point. He had never been particularly self-centred, but he needed to survive – sane and intact – for the sake of Martha. There was only one way he could do that: play the Master's game; steal small victories wherever he could, even if the opportunities were few and far between.
He clenched his jaw furiously and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, still sore from the gag. He looked into the Master's mocking face, trying to hide the resentment that ran through every inch of him, and reluctantly leaned in.
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Lost Boys