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Entry tags:	doctor who

The Present Tense (2/?)
Title: The Present Tense (2/?)
Author: windout
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: PG-13 this section for graphic imagery (thanks to Lucy)
Word Count: 1740
Genre: Het
Pairing/Characters: Harry/Lucy
Warnings: Gore (nothing really that you wouldn't expect from the Saxon's though), spoilers for Sound of Drums/Last of the Time Lords, and eventual spoilers for Human Nature/Family of Blood.
Summary: Seems that Harry's grip on sanity's just as tenuous as ever.



He’s dozing, on the verge of the first real sleep he’s had since before the year that never was. It doesn’t feel like a triumph though; it’s more like a bone-weariness that’s completely taken over his limbs, leaving him limp and lazy. It’s been weeks since the episode with the blood—he’s still a bit embarrassed about that—but thanks to his absolutely darling wife, he hasn’t had a less than pure thought since. Well, save for the usual kind.

That brings a wicked smile to his face, despite his sleepiness. Lucy, his faithful companion.

He yawns mightily, reveling in the way all of his muscles constrict in a giant knot of tension before melting back into their original shape. He’s about to yawn again when a klaxon alarm startles him and sends him tumbling out of the tipped-back chair.

“Fuck!”

He can feel something moist dribbling down the back of his neck and knows that Lucy’s going to smack him for it. (He really doesn’t mind the smacking though; it’s touching in one of those primitive and affectionate sort of ways. Besides, he gets her back late at night when she’s on the verge of a violent orgasm.)

The alarm is still screaming at him and he half-contemplates silencing it forever with the laser screwdriver when he finally realizes what it is.

He’s been waiting weeks for this.

“Harry, why in the name of all that is good are you firing fucking torpedoes at this hour?” Lucy pads into the console room, her blonde hair floating cloud-like about her head. If only he had more time to lavish affection on her.

“Dearest Lucy, it’s our moment of destiny!” Harry cries, attacking the console with a flurry of button-stabbing and crank-working.

“Could you tell it to have better timing next time?”

“Oh Lucy, Lucy, Lucy…” He spins around, feeling a grin split his mouth wide open. All traces of peaceful restfulness are swept away by the excitement and adrenalin rocketing through his hearts. “I’ve found them.”

And when she ever has the gall to look suspicious, the Master feels a sudden sharp need to snap her pretty neck. “How can you be sure it’s not the Doctor?”

“Because, my dear—” I am cleverer than that! “—I know my old…friend.” And what have I got to lose if it is?

“Harry, what if we’re better off on our own?”

“No.” The Master is done arguing this, because now he can practically hear the drums pounding their last. His people will sort this whole thing out, and there will be no more drums.

No more drums.

“Harry, you’ve got that look in your eyes.”

“Go back to bed, my darling. It will all be over before you awaken.”

“Harry, you will listen to me!” Before the Master realizes what’s happened, Lucy is in his face like some bloody harpy. “This feels wrong, Harry. If you have to go through with this, I will not…” She reaches behind his head and grips roughly at the hair near the cut on his scalp. Sensation ripples along his skin, even as his head burns with pain. The pain eventually recedes, and his eyes refocus on Lucy’s serious face. “I will not stitch you up,” she finishes.

The TARDIS announces its reentry with another alarm. Lucy—clever Lucy—releases him and steps away. The Master admires the woman’s wisdom, but he loves her pair of brass bollocks: she has yet to stop staring at him like she’s trying to tame a beast.

Or maybe she’s just making sure that she’s always got one eye on him to avoid any nasty little surprises. Clever Lucy.

The Master tends to his console with actions considerably more sober than they were while his wife watches warily. The light warning of nearby Time Lord activity still blinks in a regular fashion, despite there being no accompanying sound. The Master barely notices—the drums in his head have taken up the rhythm in its place.

“You will stay in the bedchamber until I return,” he says quietly. “It anything is broken, I will make sure that you are held quite accountable. Food will be provided for in the usual way. If you’ve misbehaved, Lucy Saxon, I will know about it and you will be most sorry that you acted out of turn. But who knows?” The Master turns, making sure that a thoroughly bored and empty smile is in place for his wife. “Perhaps I’ll be in such a horrible mood after meeting these Time Lords that I’ll just kill you instead.”

She stands there firmly, expression admirably emotionless. The transformation from caring, do-gooder wife to frigid bitch is a swift and nearly unnoticeable one. “I do believe you are threatening me, Mister Master.”

“Indeed I am. Now if you don’t remove yourself from my sight immediately, I find I might not be nearly so forgiving when I return.”

Lucy leaves, and the Master can practically see the hate radiating off her in waves. It’s a shame she doesn’t believe in him, that he can’t take her with him. He thinks that it might be nice to show her off as the perfect companion.

No matter. The TARDIS is homing in on the readings, which seem to originate from England in 1913. A good enough year, the Master thinks, if only it had precluded the entire destruction of Earth, and not just the choicest bits. No matter. None of it will matter much once her finds out which Gallifreyan is hiding out on twentieth century Earth.

The Master smiles coldly. Won’t they be surprised…

***

As Lucy Saxon stared at the plain white walls of her bedroom—prison—she found she was more inclined to let her imagination wander. At first, they fairly innocent: images of Harold Saxon tripping and impaling himself on the TARDIS controls; Harry catching his hand in the TARDIS door and other such beautiful accidents.

She supposed that she was smiling; she couldn’t really tell. In any other case, this imprisonment would have driven her out of her skull. Maybe it already had. Whatever the case, she felt remarkably clear-headed and calm about the whole thing. Yes, her husband needed to be taught a lesson, but how?

Just plain old domestic violence would never do, especially if he came back in a good mood. No, Lucy would have to be clever, just as her Harry liked.

And the best part was that death wasn’t even a problem.

***

The Master bounded out of his TARDIS, today, cleverly disguised as a bear cave. Sucking in a deep breath full of the scents of pine and rotting leaves, he let out a cry of elation. He could feel the Time Lord nearby—but only one, there was just the one presence.

No matter. Perhaps he would know what really happened to the rest, where they were now. The Master grinned. He could almost hear the quiet.

***

John Smith nearly choked on the sudden gasp of air. And for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what had woken him up.

“Sir? Sir, are you all right?” The servant girl, Martha, stumbled in—unannounced yet again. Even through the haze of pain, he knew that he’s have to have a word with her.

“Yes, yes. Yes, Martha, I’m fine.” His throat ached from his abrupt awakening, so he knew sounded a good deal weaker than he ought. That would never convince Martha and neither was an appropriate tone with which to reprimand her.

At least she had the decency to look contrite. John knew she meant well, she just really had no sense of her place. He did try to teach her in the kindest way possible, but the girl just had a mind of her own.

“Are you having those dreams again?” she asked quietly.

“What so you know of those?” John snapped. For a change, he wasn’t even upset that she’d neglected the title of “sir.” He’d been so careful about his dreams; was she reading his journal? “They’re nothing. Unimportant. This…” He finally lowered his voice, feeling a flush of embarrassment colour his neck. His dreams, no matter how silly, probably weren’t worthy of that racket. Besides, this new thing was something else. “I don’t know what this is.”

“Are you all right, sir?”

John Smith licked his lips. There was a face lingering in his mind. A face unlike anything he’d yet seen in his dreams and a feeling of…excitement? Anticipation? He swallowed thickly as his head swam with vertigo.

He sunk back onto his bed, cradling his head in his hands. Martha was by his side with a cup of water; he saw her reach out as though to put her hand on his back, but paused before she could. She was a quick study, that Martha.

“I’ll be fine.” He took the glass and sipped at its contents, wetting his tight throat. “Just an unexpected side effect. It’s like…someone’s nearby and I can sense them, just on the edge of my consciousness, but I can’t quite see him. There’s some kind of, I don’t know, a force field blocking me from getting closer and seeing him but I just can’t get around it…”

Why did I just admit that? he wondered.

“Doctor?” At John’s sharp look Martha shrunk back. “Mr. Smith?”

“‘Sir’ will be just fine, Martha. Go back to bed. I’ll be fine. Go on.” I don’t need to be reminded of any more dreams tonight.

Martha looked rather down-trodden, and John did feel a little bad about it, but before he could feel any more guilt than necessary, she had curtsied and left. John Smith exhaled heavily. The ghost of the face was fading away again; the wide grin melted into pale skin until it was all no more than a blur.

He didn’t think he would add that to his journal.

***

Ask him why he took it, he still maintains that he doesn’t know. In the end, that’s not what matters. What does matter, is that he has a watch and something’s not quite right about it. It’s different because he’ll swear up and down that someone’s alive in that watch. It’s an old someone, older than old, and he asks that he not be let out, that he be kept safe.

Tim doesn’t know why, but that’s the most agreeable thing he’s heard in his life.