Another consistency of the Master across his regenerations is a love of luxury. The finer things in life. It goes with his love of power, and really what's the point of power if he doesn't have luxury? So it's not a surprise that he's dedicated an extensive suite for himself. He would've had a mansion if it'd fit into the Valiant's schematics. Maybe transdimensional engineering would have taken too much time.
The sitting room looks like it should have come with a fireplace. It's oddly patrician, more classy than all the wood, leather, and steel of the meeting areas. Lucy's influence, perhaps? He can't really see the Master picking out seventeenth century furniture to decorate his warship. Or maybe it's just part of his Harry Saxon front.
The Doctor is released, to his surprise.
"Wait outside," the Master tells the guards. They leave, but the Toclafane remains, bobbing gently in the air.
"Try anything stupid, and we'll find out if you can grow back that hand a second time," the Master tells him.
The Doctor nods. Better to save his energy, anyway. Even if he fought his way out of this stronghold, he doesn't have anywhere to go, not with the TARDIS out of commission and probably guarded by a dozen of those deadly globes. He'd run out of regenerations before he could even reach her.
"Or maybe I'll go for a matched set," the Master says. "What do you think? Classy, eh? Not quite what I'd have gone for, but you know how it is. The old ball and chain. Now the rest of the place, that's all my work. Ministry of Defence. It's amazing what a little hypnosis will do for government efficiency. Can I get you anything? Drink?"
"No," the Doctor says.
"Don't be rude," the Master says. "Say, 'no, thank you.' Or better yet, 'No, Master.'"
"No, thank you," the Doctor says.
The Master laughs, then looks at him coldly. "Wrong. Try it again."
The Doctor is very, very tempted to say something rude. But instead he forces out the words. "No, thank you, Master."
The Master softens. "There, was that so hard?"
The Doctor declines to comment. If he didn't have to reserve his energy for the Archangel threads, he'd recklessly challenge the Master at every opportunity. It'd be futile, of course, but so very satisfying. But no, he has to choose his battles. Humiliation is less damaging than the probable alternatives.
A drink is pressed into his hand. A sniff identifies it as very high quality scotch.
"To us," the Master says, raising his own glass in a toast. "Come on, raise your glass."
The Doctor grits his teeth. The Master's testing him, trying to provoke a reaction. Instead of tossing the drink in his face, the Doctor calmly sets the glass on the small table nearby. "I'm not thirsty," he says.
The Master's eyes narrow, but he doesn't press the issue. He downs his scotch and puts the glass down next to the Doctor's with a thump.
"Mm, good stuff," he says, licking his lips. "Too bad no one's going to be making any more of it. You need to learn to appreciate these things, Doctor. You never know when it'll all be gone forever." He leans closer. "Do you miss them? All that pomp and nonsense?"
"Do you?" the Doctor asks.
"Maybe a little," the Master admits. He steps away, walks slowly around the room. "You tried to warn me."
"Yes," the Doctor says, feeling a glimmer of hope. "I know what it's like. When you wake up--"
"And no one's there," the Master finishes. "Except you. It made the universe feel very... empty."
"Yes," the Doctor says, completely understanding. Feeling a rush of relief that the Master understands.
"The Time Lords were supposed to be forever," the Master continues, ruminating. "No more Matrix. When we die, that's it, do you realize that? Oblivion. Even after they sold me to the Daleks they never even considered exclusion."
When the Doctor thinks about death without the Matrix, it feels like there's no ground beneath his feet. Immortality wasn't just a goal for Time Lord society, it was a lifestyle. From Rassilon onwards, death was the ultimate enemy. Everything was engineered against oblivion and entropy, from mirror organs to regeneration to block transfer computations to the removal of Gallifrey from the time stream. The Matrix captured the mind of every Time Lord on the moment of death, no matter where or when or how. The Master was swallowed by the Doctor's TARDIS, and he was still in the Matrix to be restored to fight the Daleks.
Now there's nothing. No one. It's all gone, forever.
He looks at the glass on the table and picks it up. Takes a sip and then slowly downs the rest. The burn feels good going down, and it warms his stomach. He hasn't eaten or drunk anything for two days, and he threw up the last of the chips in Jack's cell. He places the empty glass back down.
The Master is looking at him with approval. He's not sure how that makes him feel.
"Come along," the Master says, and opens the door to the bedroom.
If the sitting room was Lucy's domain, the bedroom is clearly the Master's. Modern luxuries, every line reeking of power. Cold, black, with splashes of steel, dark wood, velvet, leather, silk. A large bed in the centre, white silk sheets and a rich garnet coverlet, and sprawled on top is Lucy.
Her blonde hair is down, silky and long against her pale skin, the white bed. She's dressed to match in a silk nightgown that clings to her body, and even the Doctor is aware of the cup of her breasts, the soft curve of her belly. Her lips are painted a frosty pink, almost paler than they'd be on their own.
The Master's suit is starkly black against all that white as he sits beside her and rests his hand below her breast. "Wake up, my darling," he says, sweetly. "The Doctor's here."
Lucy murmurs as she stirs, her eyes fluttering open. She stretches, arching her back, and the Master's hand moves up to cup her breast. She doesn't protest, doesn't pull away, but smiles as his fingers cup and tease. The Doctor can't look away.
The Master abandons her breast and caresses down her body, then turns to the Doctor. "Don't stare. It's rude."
The Doctor tries to speak, then averts his eyes. He'd expected... well, not this. Violence. Cutting words. Not this.
He hears them kiss, hears the faint creak of the bed. The rustle of fabric. With shock he realizes the Master might actually be about to have sex with him in the room. He looks up and takes a sudden step back when he sees them entwined on the bed together, still fully clothed but that doesn't make it any less obscene, erotic.
The Master looks at him. "I told you not to look," he chides. "Now go wait outside."
The Doctor stares at him in disbelief, then walks back into the sitting room. Closes the door behind him and leans back against it. The Toclafane gives a little spin and settles into the middle of the room, blades extended in silent warning.
He can hear them. The door isn't nearly thick enough to block the quiet murmurs, the rustle of fabric. Why does the Master want him to hear this? The Doctor could move to the far side of the room, could block off his hearing, but he can't make himself step away from the door.
His mind greedily draws picture after picture to go with the increasingly loud sounds from the bedroom. Lucy sounds very... excited, but it's the Master he strains to hear. He's forgotten about a lot of things in his life, out of carelessness or necessity, but he's never forgotten anything about the Master.
He refuses to let himself become aroused. His body tries to redirect blood to his cock, to make him erect, and he denies it. He might be unable to stop himself from imagining them naked together, from remembering the Master and himself, but he won't give the Master the satisfaction of opening the door and finding him in such a state.
He's fucking her. He can hear the slap of flesh, the rhythmic creak of the bed. The Doctor was so surprised when he saw the Master had a wife, and he's still surprised now. For all his desire for power, the Master has preferred less sexual avenues. Maybe it was living so long as a human that changed him. Perhaps the destruction of Gallifrey released him from the Time Lord's lifestyle of repression, along with everything else.
The Doctor can relate to that, too.
He finally tears himself away from the door when he can hear that they've finished, that they're dressing. He spies the decanter of scotch and decides to pour himself a second glass. If the Master doesn't like it, well, that's only a bonus.
The alcohol goes down smooth, and it goes straight to his head. He shouldn't have any more unless the Master lets him eat.
When they walk out of the bedroom, they smell of sex. Human sex and Time Lord sex, and it's heady on the Doctor's senses. The Master is still in his suit, just barely rumpled and the Doctor wonders if he bothered to undress. Lucy has changed from the silk nightgown to a cream silk dress and pearls, and her hair is up in a tight bun. The dress clings. She's barefoot in stockings.
"Oh, Harry, you have a little..." she says, and rubs at a smear of her lipstick that decorated the corner of the Master's mouth. "There, all better."
"We haven't been properly introduced," she says, reaching out her hand to the Doctor. He takes it automatically, shakes it.
"You're supposed to kiss a lady's hand," the Master says, and raises his eyebrows pointedly.
The Doctor's lips twist, and he kisses the back of her hand. Her fingers smell strongly of the Master's body.
"Charmed, I'm sure," Lucy coos, taking her hand back. "Harry's told me so much about you."
"Has he?" the Doctor says.
"We're going to have tea," she continues. "You must join us."
"Yes, you must," the Master says, making it an order instead of a request. He places his hand low on Lucy's back, then does the same to the Doctor.
The Doctor suppresses a shiver.
"I knew you'd get along," the Master says, escorting the both of them through the archway.
The dining area is as tastefully decorated as would be expected. The table is next to a long window that reveals the smoking Earth below. The Doctor's step falters, but the Master's hand on his back turns into a grip and a push. He's given the seat with the best view, the Master and Lucy on either side of him. There's an old-fashioned tea set, a tray laden with biscuits, and another with sandwich triangles.
Lucy does the honours, pouring him a cup with two sugars. The Master must have told her how he likes his tea, which is somehow more disturbing than it ought to be. Maybe it's just the fact that they're having tea while humanity burns and dies beneath them. He tries not to let his disgust show, if only because he knows the Master wants that reaction.
He takes several triangles, fills his plate with biscuits. He slips a few into his pocket to bring to Jack, in case the Master's trying to starve him. It's not much, but at least it's something. It's the least he can do.
He eats, sips his tea. It's all very civilized, very domestic. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"...so I called the whole lot of them to the UN," the Master says, building up a story. "And they actually came! Anyone that stupid deserves to die, so I put bombs under all their seats. When they sat down after that anthem, bang!" He slaps the table. "Limbs everywhere."
Lucy laughs. Whatever her reasons, she truly delights in the destruction of her own species, her home planet. She's hardly the first person the Doctor's ever met who was that self-destructive, but he still finds it unsettling. He might not be the poster boy for saving native planets, but he destroyed Gallifrey as the ultimate last resort. He never sought its destruction.
The Doctor holds his tongue through the meal, because he knows the Master is only trying to provoke him. He's not going to give him the satisfaction. The Doctor might be all but powerless in this situation, but he can control himself.
"Be a dear and give us a moment," the Master tells Lucy.
"Of course," she says, and politely excuses herself.
"Feeling better?" the Master asks. "Little rest, little food."
"Just fine, thanks," the Doctor says.
"You can take the rest with you," the Master says, gesturing to the remaining sandwiches and biscuits. "To go with the ones in your pocket. Oh, don't look so surprised. I know you'd never forgive me if I didn't let you feed your pet."
"Jack's not a pet," the Doctor says.
"He's a freak," the Master says. "An interesting freak. What did you do to him?"
"Nothing," the Doctor says, which is the truth.
The Master gives a dismissive hum. "Your taste in humans has always been questionable. I'm doing you a favour, wiping them out. You need to broaden your horizons. Find a new species to obsess over."
"So you can murder them, too?" the Doctor says, tersely.
The Master just shakes his head sadly. "If you're going to be like that, it's time for you to go back to your cell."
The Doctor bites back a retort and gathers up the food for Jack. "He'll need water."
"Of course," the Master says, reasonably. "Already done. The new cell has all the amenities."
"Good," the Doctor replies. He refuses to thank the Master for that.
"Off you go, now," the Master says, giving him a little wave. "Bye bye!"
The Doctor stares at him, then turns and walks out. The Toclafane hovers around him, and then the two guards are there to escort him, as usual. At least this time they don't physically haul him about. The benefits of being cooperative, perhaps? He doesn't doubt that's a lesson the Master wants to impress upon him.
It seems to take longer than it should to reach the new cell, and he's almost certain they've gone out of their way at least once. When he steps inside, the little stack of sandwiches and biscuits tumbles from his hands.
"Oh no no no," he groans, and hurries forward. Jack's body is draped over the full tub, his wrists are bound behind his back. When the Doctor pulls him out, upper half sopping wet, he finds a long knife sticking through his heart. He distantly wonders which killed him first, the knife or the drowning.
The Doctor asked for water. He curses the Master as he works at the wet rope, as he sees the way it's deeply cut into Jack's flesh. On anyone else it would have permanently damaged his hands. A matched set, the Master said.
He doesn't think Jack can come back to life until the knife is out. He can't imagine him coming back to life with it still in his heart, only to die again. It's the stuff of nightmares, the kind of story passed around in whispers about regenerations gone wrong, when he was at Academy.
He grits his teeth, braces his knee on Jack's chest, and pulls hard. The knife resists, then slips free with a sickening sound. The Doctor throws it away. He hates weapons, hates death. He hates this. Why can't he hate the Master?
He dries Jack's face with the corner of his jacket and carries him to the bed. He sits with Jack's head in his lap and waits for him to wake up.
It doesn't take as long as it did when he was cut in two. Jack gasps back to life, coughing up water.
"If he keeps punching holes in me, he'd better get me some new clothes," Jack says, when he's recovered enough to sit up. "And don't apologize. It's still not your fault."
The Doctor doesn't believe that, but there's no point in arguing about it. "I brought you some food," he says, moving to gather up the fallen biscuits and sandwiches. They're a little dusty, but none the worse. Jack accepts them gratefully, scarfs them down. Humans can't go as long as Time Lords without food, even a human as unusual as Jack.
When Jack's eaten every last crumb, he sits back with a sigh. "Man, I needed that." He looks at the Doctor curiously. "What'd he do to you this time?"
The Doctor looks away, not sure how to answer that. "Nothing, really," he says, lightly. "I met Lucy, and they invited me to tea."
Jack raises his eyebrows. "And that's it?"
The Doctor squirms at the memory of listening to them have sex. Jack would just make a joke about it, and somehow that feels wrong. Some things are too private to share, and it's not like they did anything to him. Just sent him out of the room. Not that he wanted to stay.
"That's it," he says. "I don't think you want to know what they did to the UN."
"Good point," Jack says. "So what, every time they take you away, they're going to leave my body here for you to clean up?"
"I don't know," the Doctor says. "Maybe. I hope not."
"He's letting us stay together," Jack observes. "He really likes his games, huh?"
"He really does," the Doctor agrees.
Jack stands and walks around the room. It's roomy, as cells go. There's no privacy to speak of, of course. One bed, but big enough for two. A tub with no curtain. It's almost as if... no, it can't be.
He looks at Jack, who's found the knife and wiped it clean, and is looking for structural weaknesses. Jack's shirt is in tatters, from the lasers and the blade. It's burnt and bloodied, even though the skin beneath is as flawless as ever, if rather dirty. His mind's eye flashes on the Master's hand around Lucy's breast. He's really not sure what to make of all this.
There's a glug as Jack drains the tub, and when it's empty he stops it up again and refills it.
"I don't know about you, but if I can take a bath I will," Jack says. "I'd do it when you were out, but..." He gives an apologetic shrug.
"But you're dead when I'm not here," the Doctor finishes, figuring he might as well spit it out. "Scrub away."
Jack gives him a very Jackish smile and starts to strip. The Doctor lays down on the bed and determinately doesn't look, staring up at the ceiling. Listening, on the other hand, isn't as easy to avoid. Especially when he's already listened in once today.
He saw Jack naked a few times back when they travelled with Rose. Jack did it on purpose, shamelessly walking out of the bathroom and dropping his towel, eager to provoke some sort of reaction from him. The Doctor was even more tightly wound back then, still having difficulty even sitting down for a simple domestic dinner without feeling the urge to flee. He's loosened up in this regeneration, in no small part due to the influence of the both of them.
He thinks of Reinette. He stops thinking of Reinette. He listens to the sound of Jack splashing in the tub and rubbing himself clean with the remains of his undershirt.
Time Lords aren't supposed to get horny. Sex was looked down upon as something people did in private but never discussed, the way twentieth-century humans treated sexual kinks and medical problems. Only the lower species let themselves be controlled by mere physical urges. Reproduction was uncommon and usually involved at least one laboratory, since they only needed a handful of replacements a year to keep the population stable. He was taught along with all his peers to use the control Rassilon gave them over their autonomic systems to master their bodies, to control themselves. Romance was considered only for the weak of will, recreational sex only for the shameless.
It fell to the renegades to break those rules, along with all the rest. Maybe he's paying for that now.
"There's no towels," Jack says.
The Doctor turns his head. Jack is standing there, wet, naked, a vaguely apologetic look on his face but a twinkle in his eyes.
"I know modesty is extinct in the fifty-first century, but--" the Doctor begins.
Jack laughs. "I'll get dressed when I'm dry. I don't want to be stuck in wet clothes between deaths."
"That would be inconvenient," the Doctor replies, averting his eyes. He expects Jack to make things easier on him, cover himself a bit, but he doesn't. Shameless as always.
Or more than shameless. Jack won't stop staring at him.
"This is what he wants," the Doctor says, hearts quickening.
"Is it what you want?" Jack counters. "Because I don't know about you, but if I have to spend months getting killed, I want something good to hold on to." He walks to the bed, sits on the edge. "Can't it just be that?"
The Doctor doesn't have a response for that. When Jack's fingers start to open the buttons of his jacket, he feels a surge of lust.
"There was something in the food," he says, grasping for an excuse. "When it wears off--"
"I'll still want you," Jack murmurs. Pushes side the wings of the jacket and works loose the knot of his tie. "I don't care about him. I care about you. You need this, too."
"No," the Doctor whispers, but he doesn't stop Jack from pulling off his tie, from opening the buttons of his shirt. If it was just the food, he wouldn't have felt the same lust towards the Master and Lucy's tryst. Maybe it was the scotch. He knows it says something about him that he always needs an excuse for giving in to his physical desires, that he never shook off those early lessons even after he rebelled against them. Maybe it's just that it's harder to let go of the little pieces of Gallifrey he carries, now that it's gone.
He stops holding back his arousal, and his cock aches with the sudden rush of blood. If the Master wants them to have sex, if Jack wants them to have sex, there's no point in fighting the fact that he wants it, too. And Jack is the safest outlet for his lust that he can imagine.
Jack's hand slides beneath his opened shirt and he bends down and kisses him deeply. The Doctor accepts it passively, then pushes up into it with a sharp breath.
"You're trembling," Jack murmurs, stroking down his side. Even that intimacy is more than he's allowed himself in a long time.
"He'll hurt you," the Doctor says.
"He'll do that anyway." Jack spreads open his shirt, pulls it free. Rests his hand over the bulge in the Doctor's trousers and gives him a light squeeze.
The Doctor moans.
"It's the end of the world," Jack says. "Let me do this for you. For us."
To us, the Doctor thinks, and he knows this is what the Master wants. But he doesn't care. "Jack," he breathes.
Jack's grip tightens over his crotch, then releases. He unzips, opens, pulls off the Doctor's trousers and pants and shoes. Takes hold of his cock with a broad, hot hand, slightly damp from the bath. All of Jack is slightly damp as he climbs on top of the Doctor and presses full against him.
"Oh," the Doctor moans, overcome. All this touch, all at once. He spreads his thighs and Jack settles between them, a heavy weight, all that skin and heat. He's so hot. The Doctor reaches up and lightly holds him, the way he held Reinette, as if too tight a grip and Jack will break, which is so absurd he has to laugh.
Jack chuckles. "What's so funny?"
"Me," the Doctor says, breathily. "I'm funny."
"You're handsome," Jack murmurs, rocking slowly against him. "Beautiful. Pretty."
"Pretty?" the Doctor says, mustering indignance.
"Don't knock pretty," Jack says, bending to nuzzle his neck, to kiss the bend of it.
The Doctor is barely more covered than Jack, his arms still clothed, but he feels a hundred times more naked. He concentrates on breathing, on the places Jack's body touches his. Every touch seems magnified, the slightest brush intense. Jack's cock is like a brand against his own, it's so hot. How do humans stand it, always being so feverishly hot?
Reinette was warm. Lucy's hand was cool, but hands often are, except Jack's hands are impossibly hot as they run down his body, as they slide beneath him and pull him closer. He arches up and Jack groans against his neck, sucks and laps at the sensitive skin.
He has no idea what he's doing. Not in the technical sense, but in the logical sense. In the sense that they're captives, that the world is ending below them, that the Master has cameras and microphones trained on them right now. The Doctor shivers and Jack's hands tighten on his body, Jack thrusts against him, and the Doctor wraps one leg up around him, then the other. Thrusts up and lets his fingers dig into Jack's back, holding onto him like he'd float away if he let go, as if Jack wasn't pinning him down and holding him and taking every pleasure he can.
"Jack," the Doctor sighs, moans. "Jack, please, Jack..."
Jack murmurs in approval, in pleasure. Kisses the other side of his neck, sucks at it hard enough to leave a mark. It's not that Jack doesn't care that the Master is watching them, but that he's glad of it. What better way to take control of his captivity than this? Blatantly staking his claim on the one thing both Jack and the Master want: him.
The Doctor can't even begin to analyze his own motives. Maybe it's enough just to feel good, to give Jack this victory. There are worse ways to be conquered.
When they've both come, brought to completion by Jack's practiced hand, they lie tangled together, pleasantly tired and sticky. The Doctor's mind has stopped reeling, but only because he feels too content to worry anymore. It's probably the afterglow. He rather likes the afterglow.
He's content to hold Jack, but Jack hasn't stopped touching him, kissing him every so often. Jack's wanted to do this since 1941, and he's not remotely satisfied yet. Of course, the thing about Jack is that he could fuck his way through Cardiff and still not be satisfied.
The Doctor manages another set of threads as they lie together, idly weaves them as Jack's hands wander his body. If he listens very carefully, he can just make out the barest whisper of a few thousand human minds. If they all thought the same thing at the same time, he could probably harness enough energy to light a match. Still, it's a start.
"I want to wash you," Jack murmurs.
The Doctor blinks. "There's still no towels," he points out.
Jack just smirks, eases himself out of the Doctor's full-body grip, and stands. Takes the Doctor's hand and tugs him to his feet.
While the tub fills, Jack admires the Doctor's back, and his backside. Kisses his arms, his shoulder, and presses against him. Jack's cock is already starting to harden again. To go along with the irrepressible libido, fifty-first century humans have conquered the whole problem of refractory periods. Even if the Doctor doesn't normally indulge in such things, it's good to know the sexual habits of the rest of the universe. Otherwise there can be all sorts of embarrassing situations.
The Doctor feels strange as he eases down into the tub. "You drowned in here," he says, meeting Jack's eyes.
Jack just shrugs. "And then I took a bath. I'm not letting him control me. Now lie back."
The Doctor obliges. Jack has a bar of soap, and he lathers it up before washing the Doctor with it. The Doctor closes his eyes and relaxes in the hot water, under Jack's touch. Weaves another thread, another. He wishes he could tell Jack what he's doing, that he has a plan, but it's not an option. Even a mental whisper would be too much, because the limited training Jack has at shielding wouldn't be nearly enough to save him from the Master.
Jack washes his inner thighs, his balls. The soap bumps against the bottom of the tub as it's tossed aside, and Jack's fingers reach under and back and tease at his arsehole. The Doctor doesn't know if he wants that or not, though there's no question that Jack does. He rests one hand on Jack's arm, stilling him but holding him in place.
"We don't have to if you're not ready," Jack says, understanding.
The Doctor nods in gratitude, and Jack's arm moves as he finds the soap. His hand comes back to caress his balls, his cock, washing them and pleasuring him. His mind follows the easy motion of Jack's hand, the back and forth of the weaving of the Archangel threads, and the hot water makes him feel soft and lazy. He drifts.
When he wakes up, the water is cold and Jack is gone.