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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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- 37
Chapter 33
Jack felt sick. Seeing the Doctor lean in to that hand was – somehow – more abhorrent than anything he'd seen so far. It looked too much like surrender, and apparently he wasn't the only one who thought so: he watched the Master's face light up with a strange smile in the twilight, apparently savouring what he saw as a victory.
He grimaced and shook his head subconsciously. "What were you –" but he couldn't even finish the sentence. His throat felt full of bile.
If the Doctor felt ashamed, for once he didn't show it. He kept his eyes on the scene, watching it in deep concentration. "Just wait." He hissed.
The Doctor kept his eyes on the Master's face as their skin made contact, feeling that connection – which until now had only been a distant whisper – jerk back into life in his mind. His eyes lidded just for a fraction of a second, feeling all the memories and instincts from long ago urging him to press forward, but submitting to them was out of the question. He forced his eyes back open and watched the Master's face, feeling the warmth of his fingers and the icy cold of the ring against his face. The other Timelord's fingers twitched, but if he felt that connection on the same level the Doctor did, he hid it well.
"Now this…" he tilted his head back and laughed. "Ooh Doctor, I'm getting chills."
"Glad to know you feel comfortable enough to share."
The Master's laughter died into silence. A flicker of irritation passed across his face, and then he leaned in. "Shush." He snapped. "I've heard enough out of that mouth to last me a lifetime. Several, actually."
The Doctor did as he was told, just for a moment. He rested his cheek against the Master's fingers, took a deep breath, and then spoke.
"…okay."
The taller Timelord looked away, staring out at the gathering dark beyond the Valiant's windows.
The word, as simple and quiet as it was, seemed to throw the Master off. His hand lowered slowly from the other Timelord's face and rested silently on his knee. He looked doubtfully at the Doctor, and then narrowed his eyes.
"What did you just say?"
"I said okay." The Doctor sighed, resting his head back once more. He smiled weakly. "If you want to leave me here, I can't stop you."
The Master snorted. "Correct for once."
"But I do have one question."
The shorter Timelord sighed in frustration and rolled his eyes.
But the Doctor knew that playing to the Master's vanity had been worth the risk; worth the loss of pride. Giving him that level of control over the situation had swung his mood. The blind fury; the rage and malice that had lingered around him since the morning seemed to have shifted into a mocking sort of complacency. The Doctor avoided eye contact, contracted his brow into a vaguely curious frown, and played his final hand.
"What happens in the morning, when your wife sees me here?"
The Master froze in place. The Doctor could see him from the corner of his eye, but continued to avoid his gaze. Even so, he could tell the words had had an effect. What the effect was, however, remained to be seen.
The shorter Timelord's face began to twist. He ran his tongue over his teeth as his nose rankled up into a snarl. "I'll tell her the puppy needed training." He growled, his voice thick with dark sarcasm.
The Doctor remained silent this time, allowing the other man's mind to work. He was certain the Master would never have told Lucy about their history, and if she walked in in the morning and found him still here, it would be like the Master screaming at the top of his lungs that the Doctor got under his skin. That was something that the other Timelord didn't want to admit to himself, let alone anyone else.
There was a long, painful silence, and the Doctor could feel the Master's gaze flickering furiously across his face. The Doctor knew he was considering his options; deciding how best to deal with it. Finally something seemed to click. The Master growled and reached into his jacket.
The taller Timelord saw the movement like a flash in the corner of his eye, and turned towards it out of instinct. Every single muscle in his body tensed, pumping with adrenaline at the imminent danger. A moment later he heard the familiar soft click, and he felt something cold and hard being pressed into his jaw. He swallowed. He didn't even have to look to know what it was.
The Master held the screwdriver at the Doctor's chin, his eyes narrowed on the expression on the other Timelord's face. The Doctor gritted his teeth and pressed his neck backwards, feeling the screwdriver follow, pressed bruisingly hard into his jawbone. He tried to keep his face calm, but he knew that the Master wouldn't fail to notice the way his chest heaved furiously. His hearts were pumping in his ears, as if desperate to keep him alive in spite of the threat.
This wasn't the first time he'd been on the dangerous end of that screwdriver today, but that had been his own choice; defending Francine. This was different. This was personal. If the Master killed him now, then it was by choice, and any spark of hope that was left for the other Timelord would die with the Doctor.
The Master's eyes flickered, taking in the fear that was now undoubtedly making itself known in the Doctor's eyes. Finally, after a painfully long pause, one side of the Master's lip twitched up into a dark sneer and he snatched the screwdriver back, leaving the Doctor with his neck arched backwards, still too full of fear to move.
But the Master didn't return the screwdriver to his pocket. He leaned forwards, eyes still of twisted enjoyment as he came dangerously close, leaning over him until their faces were barely a fraction of an inch apart. The Doctor felt his hands slide behind his back, and in spite of the fear that thundered in his head, a shadow of disappointment and grief nagged at him. The Master was finally going to kill him. The amount of times he'd tried over the centuries, it should never have been such a shock, but he'd been so sure something was different this time. He'd overplayed his hand; expected more than - perhaps - still existed.
A flash of orange light lit up the darkened room, illuminating the Master's twisted smirk just for a fraction of a second. The Doctor's head was spinning. He was too tired; too full of fear; too lost in his own thoughts and regrets to understand that his hands were free.
The Master's dark smirk faded away. He surveyed the Doctor's face silently for a second, and then sighed furiously and looked away.
"Get up." He growled, and then pulled himself back to his feet.
- 35
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- 37
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Lost Boys