Fic: Sad (Who's Right? #2)

[brb_evil]

Title: Sad
Series (Story number): Who's Right? (2)
Summary: The Doctor has a bunch of inner pain. 50's AU.
Rating: PG
Characters/pairings: Master/Doctor
Author's notes: Written in text to Leah A and based on a lot of inside jokes off of Sims 3. Explanation of series here.

Everywhere in the house smelt like the Master, due to the Doctor’s superior Time Lord olfactory system but nowhere so much as the big double bed that the Master had claimed as soon as they moved into the house, citing the fact that he ‘actually got laid’ as his reason.

The Master, today, was at work, taking over the criminal syndicate he had discovered and the Doctor had been left alone to read and build interesting new machinery and clean the house. He currently stood before the Master’s freshly-made bed, staring at it a little wistfully, his whole body tensed. After a moment of internal warring, his impulsive side won out and the Doctor climbed onto the Master’s bed.

It didn’t take long for him to be curled up among the covers, downward facing, clutching blankets and inhaling the Master’s scent on his pillow. It smelt like Gallifrey, like things lost and left behind, like a home and an old friend from long ago. For the first time in very long, the Doctor felt safe.

“Hullo!” the Master cheerfully yelled, entering the house. “I got home early from work today. I didn’t really need to stay because I killed the boss and now I own the company.”

The Doctor tried to quickly extricate himself from the bed but the blankets were too tangled.

“I hope you have something to make for lunch,” said the Master, following the sound of the Doctor into his room. The Doctor gave up on trying to escape the bed and tried instead to exude an air of casualness.

“You can just make your OWN sandwich,” said the Doctor. “I am not your ‘bitch’.”

“You’re in my bed,” said the Master.

“Yeah?”

“I think you are,” said the Master in a mocking singsong.

“I am what?”

“My bitch.”

The Doctor sighed. “Yes, of course, Master. I’m your bitch.”

“Even with how sarcastic that was, it still felt nice,” said the Master. “It especially helped that you’re lying in my bed. What are you doing in there anyway?” And then his eyes lit in understanding and the Doctor winced. “Oh,” said the Master, snickering. “Oh, Doctor, this is so sad it’s almost cute.”

“Stop,” the Doctor hissed between clenched teeth.

“Now, really, Doctor,” said the Master, “in your position right now, you really can’t afford to be sanctimonious. Honestly, as long as you don’t start weeping into my pillow, I don’t care.” The Master turned to leave and then paused and turned back around. “Actually,” he said, grinning, “I’m willing to let you get the smell straight from the source. As long as you let me call you my bitch.”

“Ha,” said the Doctor derisively.

“Well, the offer’s out there,” shrugged the Master. “Now go and make lunch,” he added as he left the room.

Half an hour later, the Master settled happily down to eat one of the grilled cheese sandwiches the Doctor had prepared. Pulling up a chair to right beside the Master, the Doctor sat down. A minute later, he put a careful arm about the Master’s shoulders and leaned sideways, nestling his face into the Master’s hair and sighing quietly in satisfaction. The Master grinned around his mouthful of sandwich.

“Bitch,” he mumbled with his mouth still full. The Doctor just smiled and kissed the top of his head, leaving the Master to wonder worriedly who exactly had won this round.

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