Fic: Re-posted with permission.
Title: Our Gallifreyan Cousin
Rating: Hard R? Something like that.
Summary: The Doctor learns the hard way that the Master shouldn't be allowed to pick romantic destinations.
Notes: Any historical inaccuracies are due to the fact that I was internet-less at the time. I think the title is silly, but dramedy seemed to like it, so blame it on her. >.>
“You know,” the Doctor commented as they slipped into the shadows of the box, “I’m not sure why I let you talk me into this.”
“What, seeing a harmless little play?” The Master took his place behind the Doctor, circling his arms round his waist. “Laura Keane got rave reviews in this, I’ll have you know.”
“It’s hardly romantic, though.”
The Master grinned, his teeth gleaming in the darkness. “That depends on who you are.” He found the buttons of the Doctor’s waistcoat and slowly started unbuttoning them, splaying the fingers of his other hand over his chest, feeling the heartbeats.
“You disturb me sometimes.”
“Probably most of the time, I’d imagine,” the Master commented idly, tracing the outline of the Doctor’s ribs with his fingertips. “That’s the effect outstanding genocidal psychopaths such as myself tend to have on people.”
The Doctor inhaled sharply as the Master’s fingers found bare skin. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the Master, meeting his eyes. “I still don’t see why we couldn’t go to, say, the 1934 Olympics. That’s almost as disturbing.”
“Not terribly. Besides, I never liked Hitler. Not nearly enough style.” The Master bent his head, kissing the Doctor’s forehead in a gesture that a casual observer would have mistaken for tenderness. “You’re the one who’s fond of the theatre, Doctor. I was just trying to make you happy.” He smiled again, showing more teeth than a loving smile should have had.
Below them, the action of the play stopped, and the pit orchestra struck up a jaunty rendition of “Hail to the Chief”. Pausing in his ministrations, the Master turned his head to the right, gazing at the box draped with red, white, and blue bunting. “Look, Doctor, there he is.” He indicated the silhouette of a tall man with shoulders slightly hunched from sorrow and the deep depression that had beset him lately, settling into his seat, followed closely by another man and two women, both women wearing the full hoop skirts of the period.
“You’re sick,” the Doctor insisted.
“Well, then, maybe I need a Doctor to cure me,” he murmured as the play began again. He could feel the Doctor trembling against him; no matter what the man said, he knew he liked what he was doing. Leaning in, he nuzzled the Doctor’s ear. “Sworn to observe, never to interfere,” he whispered. “One of the most beloved figures in American history is about to become a martyr for a war-torn country. The flag is stained with his blood, Doctor.” He pulled the other man against him, rubbing his burgeoning erection against his arse. “What if I killed Booth?”
The Doctor gasped as the Master’s fingers found the bulge in his pants, deftly caressing it through the cloth. “You wouldn’t. You want Lincoln to get killed.”
“I have no opinion one way or the other, Doctor.” He toyed with the top button of the Doctor’s trousers. “You’re a student of human history. Tell me, what would happen?”
The Doctor’s voice grew huskier as he spoke, his breathing speeding up ever so slightly. “Lincoln would lead the country into Reconstruction instead of Johnson, obviously. The Union forces would be more of an occupying force than under Johnson. Lincoln would pardon the war heroes as a gesture of good faith, but they would gather to rebel again. They would learn a lesson from the American Revolution and –“ he paused for a moment when the Master’s fingers wrapped around his cock, trying to gather his thoughts. “Their approach in the second war would be more guerilla-like. The Democrats, voted into office after Lincoln left in disgrace, would wind up with a country and an army bled dry by an endless war. The imperialistic America of the late nineteenth century would be replaced by an isolationist America and an expansionist South.” A low moan punctuated his recitation of the alternate history; he squirmed against the Master, trying to escape his teasing grasp. “Neither country would be able to form the militaristic superpower needed in the early twentieth century. The South would join an alliance with Germany-“
The Master cut him off, squeezing his cock. “That’s enough. I don’t want a book.” He bent his head again, nipping the Doctor’s neck sharply. “The Americans wouldn’t get the brilliant idea of assassinating presidents, either. Well, I’d imagine they would eventually, particularly if someone planted the idea in their head, but there’s a certain significance with starting with Lincoln. As I said, he’s a martyr. Everybody loves a martyr.”
“Booth was a martyr, too,” the Doctor gasped.
“And if I killed him now, he’d just be some mental actor.” He stroked the Doctor slowly, the rhythm syncopating with the drums. They were louder now; they could sense that blood was about to be shed. They liked the thought of the Master doing it himself, but any blood would work. “And I’d be a hero.” He finally allowed himself to moan quietly; he could feel that everything was about to come to completion. “Did you ever spend time studying the shards of infinity, Doctor? You’re the one who destroyed them, after all.” He grinned maniacally. “Be my oracle, Doctor.” Panting against the skin of the other man’s neck, he rolled his hips rhythmically. It was a pity that he couldn’t actually fuck him here, but not even a perception filter would hide two nude men engaged in coitus if someone managed to notice them.
“Your oracle?” The Doctor’s harsh breaths echoed in the shadows of the box.
“Come on, you’ve always fancied yourself a bit of a Cassandra. Predict all the doom and gloom you like; I’m listening.” He paused for a moment, pulling the Doctor tightly against him as he heard the audience erupt into laughter. “So many killers in such close proximity, though we’re rather more bloodthirsty than some half-crazed actor.”
The Doctor tensed against him, the only real indication of his orgasm a sharp gasp that was silenced by a gunshot. The Master glanced over at the box, where Lincoln was slumped over, his wife frozen in shock. He pulled the thin stiletto out of his pocket, plunging it into the Doctor’s shoulder as he reached his own orgasm, starbursts exploding behind his eyes, the drums crescendoing in a frenzy of bloodlust.
“Sic semper tyrannis,” he whispered in unison with Booth, his panting breath hot against the Doctor’s ear, grinning like a madman as the theatre exploded into chaos beneath them. Current Mood: silly