Chapter Text
The Doctor was crouching by a filing cabinet, searching through drawer after drawer of implausible reports claiming to be of ‘ Beings from other dimensions!!!’ and wondering why the Master had bothered to collect any of this obvious drivel in the first place; it seemed a bit too organised to just be for cover. She sighed, stacking up what she’d already read and opening the next drawer - and froze, feeling the first ripples of an impending paradox.
Not to mention the sound of voices coming down the corridor - no chance of sneaking out without being spotted, then. She started cramming the incriminating files back in the drawer.
What was C doing coming to work at three in the - oh, yes. Spies. They were annoying that way. (At least she’d had the sense to insist that Ada and Noor stayed safe(ish) in the Master’s Tardis. They were probably busy working their way through his biscuit stash.)
She glanced around the office, which was: cluttered, small-windowed, littered with dreadful little lamps - and entirely devoid of good hiding places. This established, the Doctor dove around the desk and into the footwell, reassuring herself that at least C had no reason to use “O’s” desk.
The Doctor folded herself up, leant against the side of the obnoxiously small space, and settled in to wait them out. She sighed exasperatedly. Usually you could count on humanity being keen to stay away from their workplaces at night; it was one of the things she liked about them. It gave a lot of opportunities for discreet information gathering to people who didn’t need as much sleep.
She stilled, realising that another such person was currently standing in the doorway, looking into the room. She could just see the tips of his shoes: shining black leather with patterns etched around the toes; nothing like what he’d worn in the Outback.
Why did the Master have to be here, on the one night she’d come to find out what data he’d been using MI6 to collect? Did he have some sort of alert set up? If not, if he was just here for work - had she shut all the filing cabinet drawers properly?
“Yes, C, and if you’ll just wait for me to look it up-” the Master said, walking over to the desk, voice jarringly mild and agreeable despite the irritable words. Why did she always forget how good he was at shifting his affect to suit his various roles?
Legs now visible. Wearing a suit - rather better-fitting than the one he’d conned her out of. Bastard. The Doctor pressed herself harder against the modesty panel and hoped he didn’t-. Oh. Bugger. He was sitting down. And wheeling his chair forwards, blocking her in. She had to suppress a twitch at the Master’s sudden closeness; the intensifying pressure of his consciousness on her shields made controlling the reflex to reach out, make herself known, far more difficult.
Anticipating the overpowering smell of “O’s” lemon cologne, the Doctor held her breath, wary of coughing, but no such odour materialised; the Master just smelt like himself. She breathed in deeply, rolling the scents over her tongue - artron energy, smoke, electricity, and the faint, infuriatingly familiar, whiff of ozone from the TCE.
It occurred to her, irritatingly, as she listened to C and “O” talk about…something spy related, the Doctor didn’t care, that the reason the Master had worn such strong cologne - which must have offended his nose as much as hers - must have been to keep her from knowing him for, well, himself as soon as she inhaled.
Perhaps she had, if only subconsciously. It would explain the strange pull she had felt towards him - the Doctor didn’t normally bother to keep in touch with people long-distance, especially not people she had only met once, but she’d kept texting “O” through more than one regeneration. Not really her usual style.
Barely restraining the urge to fidget, the Doctor checked her shields again. She had battened down her psychic presence as much as she was able (she had a lot less experience lurking than the Master did) but she’d thought she should be pretty hard to notice, unless someone was specifically looking. Or was, y’know. Sitting three inches from the end of her nose. The Doctor squinted at what little she could see of him. He didn’t seem like he was aware of her.
The Master might not be able to sense her, but she could certainly feel him . His psychic presence, far more individual than a face or a voice, slid over her like dark water. The smooth, cool weight of him pressed soothingly through even the thickest parts of her shields, until she felt almost drowned in him. Despite - or because of - her lingering fury, the Doctor found herself drinking it in, her posture shifting in reaction.
Realising she was pressing her thighs together a little too hard, the Doctor tried to relax her muscles. Because that was definitely just the result of being cramped under this desk. Not anything to do with the fact that she was just going to have to sit here, bathed in the Master’s presence, for the foreseeable future, when they had just had several very…tense…altercations. Rage was wonderfully stimulating, after all.
Honestly, the whole thing had been typical of the Master: he melodramatically flew into a rage and choked her over a nine hundred foot drop…without pushing her over, bruising her neck, or even stopping her talking.
Tipping her head back, the Doctor remembered the cool wind in her hair, the firm pressure of his fingers, the way the knowledge of the yawning drop had thrilled through her in counterpoint to the burn of victory in her veins…all coming after real psychic contact, intimate enough for a proper conversation, for the first time in - too long. Far too long.
It was entirely natural that she would be…frustrated, her brain and body fizzing with it- because he was infuriating! Treacherous, deceiving - and the Doctor still wanted to-. Anyway. Self control. Yes. If she was lucky, there was no reason for the Master to find out she had ever even been here.
Naturally, that was when the Master’s knee brushed against her shoulder as he bent to open a drawer. Maybe if she stayed very, very still he wouldn’t notice?
He jumped. Well, there was that thin hope gone.
“O? Are you alright?”
“Yes! I’m fine.” The Master replied, voice harsh and irritated. That is to say, sounding much more like himself.
‘Mask slipping a bit?’ the Doctor thought, smirking a little. Her amusement was abruptly cut off when the Master’s knee pressed back against her shoulder - slow and deliberate, the silky weight of his presence suddenly intensifying, drying her mouth.
The Doctor tried to shift away, and the Master followed, until she was pressed hard against the back of the small space, their bodies still touching. She shoved him back, but her hand lingered on his knee, touching-. No. The Doctor had made up her mind; she was stronger than this. She jerked her hand away, flexing it as she dropped it to her side, trying to drive out thoughts of the warmth of his skin.
It was…unfortunate, how strongly she was reacting to being near the Master again. Earlier, the knowledge of his impending arrest (not to mention his horrifying uniform) had helped the Doctor restrain her baser impulses; she was starting to suspect C’s presence, though trying, was not going to prove an equally effective deterrent.
A knock on her shields. Contact. (Yes! No.)
There was absolutely nothing to be gained by talking to him; exchanging any information that could actually help her would risk a temporal paradox. It would make the most sense to ignore him and try and escape at the first opportunity, unseen by any MI6 employees. To avoid giving the Master further access to her mind.
Contact, the Doctor responded. Opening a link to the Master always ached a little, like stretching old scar tissue. The lingering residue from the old wound where their bond had been torn away made it both easier to talk, and more uncomfortable; it made it far harder to pretend away what they once had had.
(It was not really like an old wound, the Doctor knew; that would have disappeared long since, burnt away in the fires of one regeneration or another. More like a connecting passage between two neighbouring houses, once one - long ago bricked up and plastered over; well-concealed but always there, despite all appearances to the contrary.)
What could possibly be so important you’re willing to risk crossing your own timeline? There was an odd, feverish note to the Master’s voice. (“I bring news from home ,” he’d said.)
Mind your own business, the Doctor responded, fighting against the instinct to just relax into the sensation, the familiar hum and shiver of a mind both like and unlike her own.
I rather thought I was, considering you’re scrabbling through my files and hiding under my desk. Looking for anything in particular?
Just looking.
You sound like one of your humans. How you can endure them I really don’t know.
You’re right. It’s a much better idea to hang around people from another dimension when you have absolutely no idea what they really are or what they want, she responded sarcastically. It was meant as a riposte, nothing more, but the Master went unnaturally, perfectly still - both psychically and physically.
What do you know?
That was…oddly intense. The Master certainly hadn’t seemed to care much about the Kasaavin earlier. The Doctor reflexively pushed forward a little, trying to better read his reaction, but his shields resisted her.
“O? Are you listening to me?” C’s voice sounded, dulled by the wood behind her.
The Master twitched back into motion, still radiating tension down their link. “Yes, sir, sorry.”
About the Kasaavin? The Doctor could feel him relax a little in response to her question, settling down again.
…Yes. About them. What had that really been about?
Are you trying to cause a paradox to trap me here?
Don’t be ridiculous- Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter anyway.
Why MI6?
Well, I’d already done politics. It was too glib even for him, and the Master must have sensed the Doctor’s disbelief, continuing: It’s not like you haven’t spent a long, long time as an agent of a shadowy government agency yourself. His tone somehow managed to achieve ‘mocking’ and ‘hurt’ simultaneously.
What was the Master talking about? The Celestial Intervention Agency? UNIT? Did she care?
The energy from their reopened connection was washing through her, making her heated and restless, but the Doctor couldn’t move to get away from him, distract herself, burn it off. The walk to the Eiffel Tower in the cold night air had been a great help in composing herself earlier. No such luxury to be found here, trapped with the temptation of physical contact literally inches from her grasp.
Without the safe distraction of movement she was left pressing her thighs together again, breath coming quick, every muscle tightened in readiness. Digging her fingernails into her palms, the Doctor closed her eyes and forced herself to relax. Right. Self control. Yes. Wonderful stuff.
Run out of questions? Or just distracted? There was a distinct note of smugness to that, and the Doctor wondered if the Master had sensed her weakening resolve. She didn’t dare answer until she had herself under better control. It would give too much away.
Apparently getting bored with waiting for the Doctor’s response, the Master reached out and deepened their connection, slowly going from one small point of contact to almost wrapping himself around her; only their inner shields keeping them apart. It was dizzying, glorious - and when had she dropped her outer shields?
The empty air between them sang and sparked with the intensity of their psychic contact; without any corresponding physical touch to earth it, the energy just built up and up, uncontrolled. The Doctor yearned to ground it, to press her skin to the Master’s, to let it sink into her flesh and bones and warm her from within. It would be stupid, selfish, self-destructive - and she would love every minute of it.
It was - it was… Damn self-control, anyway.
The Doctor finally realised the full potential of the situation, and resolved to exploit it. Why not have some fun, after all? Silently, she moved forwards, running her hands up the Master’s legs, and coming to rest on his knees. Psychic energy jolted up her nerves, sliding crackling under her skin and starting to bind them into closer alignment. Beginning a feedback loop. She savoured the feel of the smooth wool under her hands, the warmth of the Master’s skin under it, feeling his muscles tense up in wariness. Quite right.
What are you doing? It was a true thought now, rather than the faux-speech of more limited, cautious psychic contact; it should have been easier to read, but the Master was still holding himself back enough that the main thing the Doctor was getting was annoyance - only a thin flicker of desire bleeding through underneath.
Ignoring him, the Doctor found the inseam of his trousers with her thumbs and started to rub in slow circles, moving steadily upwards. His legs jerked apart on pure, uncontrolled reflex, allowing her to slide stealthily between them. The Master tried to snap them closed against her, and his knees hit her shoulders where they wedged them open. The mixture of lust and irritation that resulted in rolled prickling over her skin, raising goosebumps. The Master always did like to have the upper hand. Well. They did say not getting what you wanted strengthened character.
The Doctor smirked in happy anticipation and pressed her mouth to his inseam, breathing out warmly onto the Master’s skin through the fabric and smoothing her hands a little higher up his thighs. The Master shuddered a little, voice wavering slightly. She could feel how hard he was already against her cheek - and couldn’t help being a little impressed that he was still managing to talk to C all through this. Talk about multitasking.
She grinned against him, triumphant and delighted, and pressed closer, mouth almost- the Master’s hand was in her hair, wrapping it around his fingers and pulling gloriously, his skin sliding warm against her scalp, his pleasure soaking into her - and pushing the Doctor firmly away, carefully only touching her hair so as to snap the physical link.
No.
The Doctor hissed in frustration - too loudly - and they both stilled, waiting to see if C had noticed.
Apparently not. The Doctor twisted away, wanting to get her mouth on him again, but the Master’s fingers only tightened in her hair, holding her in place. So she turned her head against his grip and pressed her mouth against his inner wrist, scraping her teeth gently over the sensitive skin and feeling the drum of the Master’s pulse quicken under her tongue.
The jolt from the direct skin to skin contact shocked right through her body, intensifying the building ache between her legs, sending her hearts pounding hard enough that the Doctor could feel them thump right down to her knees.
The Master’s hand was shaking a little now, shields cracking open at last, his lust and pleasure spilling burning over her, heating her skin. It cried out for contact, yearning to be touched, and the Doctor involuntarily moved to satisfy it, pressing her side more firmly against his leg, just about managing to restrain the impulse to put her hand between her legs. The Doctor was desperately aware of her own breathing, hideously too loud.
The feeling of the Master’s arousal was hot against her awareness, sharp and focused in a way she’d almost forgotten about - in her current body it was more diffuse but also more persistent, harder to fully satisfy.
Can’t you get rid of him somehow? The Doctor asked. If they were going to do this, they might as well do it properly. He’d hardly touched her yet - and still, she thought if she had to wait much longer she might spontaneously regenerate right there and then.
The Doctor pressed a sense of this through his wavering shields. The Master had never been one for restraint - and he didn’t disappoint, a potent sensation of impatient desire mingled with intense smugness washing through her.
Stop gloating. The Doctor bit his wrist firmly in penalty.
With you kneeling at my feet, frantic for me to touch you? More an entirely natural sense of triumph than gloating , I would have thought.
What’s all this about me being frantic? You’re so desperate for me I can hardly breathe under the weight of it.
You think I can’t feel you squirming around down there pressing your legs together like it could ever be enough to satisfy you? I’m going to ruin -
“O! What’s taking you so long? This is hardly complicated!” C snapped.
“It’s taking longer than I thought it would - I could send you an email, like I suggested -“ the Master started, voice brusque and breathless, entirely altered from when he first entered the room.
“If I wanted an email, I would have asked for one! Shockingly, we do not employ you solely so you can indulge your obsessions on MI6’s time!”
In trouble with the boss?
Shut up.
“Excuse me, sir, but something’s come up…”
Somehow, unbelievably, there were now more people in the room. Talking . The Doctor let her head thump down despairingly on his knee and seriously contemplated tearing her hair out in frustration. The way the Master was radiating amusement at her expense was not exactly helping.
“Yes, I’ll- I’m sorry, sir, can anyone else feel something…weird…in here?” The new voice sounded appalled to even be suggesting such a thing.
The air was thick and charged with their presence, heavy and languid with the inner reaching out of each to the other. Apparently they were being shameless enough that even the humans could tell.
“Probably aliens,” the Master answered, his tone grave.
An awkward silence ensued. The Doctor had to breathe slowly and carefully to restrain the urge to cackle.
“Mmm,” said the unfamiliar voice, radiating secondhand embarrassment. “Sir, if you could come with me? It is rather urgent.”
Good grief, she said, after their footsteps had retreated down the corridor.
“Imagine actually having to work here,” the Master responded aloud, dry, and she grinned, feeling his amusement mingling warmly with hers for a moment, before she remembered - this wasn’t what they were anymore. The Master had made himself very clear, after all; they were not friends.
Picking up on her darkening mood, he started to push back from the desk. The Doctor hooked her arms around his legs, using his momentum to drag her out of the footwell before scrambling up to get at him, even as the Master leant down to try and pull her into his lap.
They collided in the middle, kissing, too hard, too impatient, not nearly enough. The Doctor’s torso was half in his lap as the Master bent down to reach her, his hands running down her sides to untuck her shirt and slide underneath, stroke her bare skin as she devoured his mouth.
Kissing him felt exactly as it always did: frighteningly like something the Doctor was born knowing how to do, had been made for; like she’d found herself exactly where she should be, a key fitting into a lock. The feeling sank under the Doctor’s skin without effort, every time, and made her unwise.
Door! The Master sent, still kissing her.
What? The Doctor asked, hazily, as his hands reached her breasts under her shirt.
Lock. The. Door! The Master responded, punctuating his words by scraping his thumbnails over her nipples, making the Doctor gasp into his mouth.
Ah, right, yes. Be a bit awkward if they came back.
It took a bit of fumbling, as the Doctor was entirely unwilling to rip herself away from the Master long enough to do the thing properly, but she eventually got her sonic : A, on the right setting; and B, actually pointed at the door. Admittedly, it was after a few false starts that really vibrated some filing cabinets, the death of at least one lamp…and that hard drive was probably never going to be right again. But! Finally they both heard the wonderful sound of the door lock engaging.
Victory at last! The Master sent, and undid the last few buttons on her shirt. His hands slid round to her back, running up her spine.
Antigravity bra? Bit utilitarian.
Some of us favour practicality over looks, you know, the Doctor responded, shrugging off both bra and shirt in an efficient movement.
The rest of us can tell.