Chapter Text
Prompt: [Cuddling] out of necessity - trapped in a small space, etc. Ten/Simm.
It's the Doctor's fault entirely that they're being chased through the city by gun-toting aliens. Worse, the lanky sod has the audacity to be faster, as well, and damn him if he isn't starting to pull ahead as they race through busy streets in their frantic attempt at escape. The Master winces, trying to conceal a stitch. He's never been one for all the running that comes from simply accompanying the Doctor anywhere.
He gives a breathless shout, tilts his head in the direction of the street market he can see ahead of them. At least the Doctor seems to get his plan without discussion, and changes course with a quick dart. They go careening into the press of the crowd, immediately surrounded by shoppers and stalls and produce and the general chaos of an open marketplace.
It won't be enough to conceal them entirely though, the Master thinks, sparing a glance back for pursuers; so when he sees his chance he makes a dive for the Doctor and grabs at him to halt the mad flight. The other Time Lord comes round in confusion - and the Master takes the opportunity to grasp at his coat and haul him downwards, inelegantly grappling him towards one of the stalls and the concealing tarp that drapes over it. He practically shoves the Doctor underneath it, one quick assessing glance confirming that no one's looking too closely at them in the bustle, and then he ducks down and follows him into the hiding spot.
There was a time he remembers fondly, not so long ago, when his dignity would not have tolerated the tenuous ridiculousness of his current position. He's not sure what it says about the general success of them travelling together that this isn't even the worst thing to happen to him this week.
The Doctor is sprawled on his back in the confined space, a bit stunned and out of breath, and to the Master's deeply felt horror there really isn't anywhere else left to go but to brace himself over the other man. He kneels awkwardly, unable to rise properly underneath the low stall, having to plant his hands either side of the Doctor's shoulders so the cobblestones dig into his palms. He can feel the incredulous, furious expression on his own face as he glares down at the other, wordlessly promising retaliation for the predicament at some future date, but he's too desperately out of breath to say anything even if they didn't need to keep quiet.
He must be panting louder than he'd thought, though, because the Doctor looks a bit worried, then raises a hand and has the nerve to press it over the Master's mouth to make him stop. The Master promptly drops down onto one elbow so he can smack the offending appendage off him, and there's a brief, hushed, thoroughly undignified scuffle in the narrow space. The Master has him pinned by one wrist when the Doctor finally relents, using his free hand to put a finger to his own lips instead, obviously straining to listen for the sounds of anyone searching for them amid the general hubbub of the market.
Placated for the moment, the Master tries to breathe deeper and slower, bowing his head. But the little fight has removed even the pretense of personal space, so his forehead ends up resting against the Doctor's shoulder. He briefly considers jerking upright again, but it's not like another minor bruise to his ego makes much difference at this point. The muscles in his shoulders are starting to ache too, from trying to keep himself braced, and after a few seconds' defeated deliberation he lets his weight settle in increments against the Doctor's chest.
"Not a word," he fairly breathes in warning, right next to the other's ear.
He feels a little hitch from the body beneath him and realises the Doctor must have silently snorted laughter. Of course he thinks this is funny, the prat. This sort of spectacle never happened to the Master back when he was travelling alone. No, the universe likes to save such indignities for those foolish enough to follow the Doctor.
The other Time Lord fidgets a bit beneath him as they wait, apparently looking for somewhere to put his too-long limbs. One wrist is still clamped tight in the Master's grip, but, after a moment's hesitation, his other hand settles carefully against his back. The Master goes fleetingly tense at the contact, then tries to ignore it as just another sacrifice to pragmatism. He's at least starting to feel better, relaxing despite himself as his breathing finally slows and his hearts stop racing quite so dramatically.
But then perhaps he shouldn't have tempted fate, because the Doctor chooses that moment to flatten his hand firm against his back and smooth a way up his spine, and the Master's heartsbeat gives another quick jump at the unfamiliar intimacy. The Doctor tilts his head, rubs his cheek against the Master's hair in a little animal gesture of affection, as his palm settles just below a shoulderblade.
Cautiously, the Master lifts his head enough to look at him. He frowns, hoping vaguely that it reads as a warning, but rather suspecting it resembles something closer to doubt.
The Doctor smiles faintly up at him, unrepentant and unashamed of the thousand loaded implications he's just loosed between them. His eyes are crinkled at the corners, bright with unvoiced enjoyment of the whole ordeal, and the Master is viscerally reminded of the comet-streak of chaos that trails through his friend.
The tendons of the Doctor's wrist flex in his grip, urging him to let go. The Master opens his hand, curious, and watches as the Doctor lowers his arm enough that the Master's fingertips bump instead against his palm, and then against the tips of his own fingers. The Doctor slowly flexes his hand wide, and it feels almost inadvertent when they slot together palm-to-palm. The Master draws a quick, unsteady breath, not sure if it's in protest or query, but completely unable to look away from the innocuous connection. He opens his mouth and the Doctor's arm immediately tightens around him, reminder that they're not supposed to speak, and the Master has just enough time to realise that's probably for the best because he has precisely no idea what he was about to say, except -
"Oi, you two!" There's a sudden rumple of tarp, and they both freeze as the cover over one side of the stall is pulled up, leaving them squinting in the unforgiving glare of sunlight at the ruddy human face that peers in at them. He's apparently the stall owner. "The blokes chasing you kept going, but you're gonna have to take this somewhere else, lads, alright? Got customers to serve."
The Master blinks helplessly, and then manages a painfully stiff nod of acknowledgement, not knowing what else to do. The tarp is tossed down over them again, presumably to afford brief privacy while they untangle themselves.
The Doctor trembles slightly beneath him, and he looks down still wearing his blank look of disbelief. It's enough, apparently, to send the other man tipping over into bright laughter, and he leans up to press the sound right against the Master's throat, like they're sharing it.