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One rule: The Master doesn’t dance in clubs.
Well, maybe they did once upon a time in another body, which they can’t recall. Missy would definitely dance in clubs, and even sing, but Missy danced anywhere. Every movement of hers was beautifully choreographed just like her schemes. It was all a performance, usually for the Doctor.
This Master, however, had only danced in disguise as Rasputin. It seemed superfluous, but it was important, essential, even, to revealing his grand plan and putting on a performance for the Doctor before he became the Doctor.
He won’t dance in a club, though, especially not one like this, some hole in the wall on Earth teeming with sweaty, drunk humans. It feels beneath him and all that he is.
If not dancing, this Master does move incessantly, though, as he talks with his hands, walking from position to position in an erratic manner, practically buzzing sometimes, excitedly explaining his plans and verbally expressing his delight or frustration with sounds, but there is no rhythm to it.
He is doing it now, tapping his fingers against the glass of his drink as he holds it, growing increasingly more antsy as he stands at the bar waiting for the Doctor.
This Doctor, however, oh, the things he could say about this Doctor.
The Master found him, or perhaps they found each other somehow, after the whole debacle with the Toymaker. The Master shudders at the thought. He thought the unexplainable entity deserved a far more painful punishment than he received, if he even perceived pain the same way that they did.
Since their reunion, the Master has made it a point to observe everything, every behavior, every quirk, and even explore every inch of this new Doctor, but for once, it wasn’t to find out his weaknesses.
It wasn’t as simple as falling into each others arms or falling into bed. It was tumultuous. They fought. They yelled about things they vehemently refused to discuss for years. It was hard. He didn’t think they’d make it through to the other side of that discussion. He thought it would end as badly as it always did and that the Doctor would leave as he always did. The Master even stormed out of the Doctor’s TARDIS at one point, but the Doctor came out and found him. He even held him. He wouldn’t give up on him this time.
This Doctor is a whirlwind. A tornado coming at you faster and faster, but not the kind of tornado that you want to run from. You want to be swept up by him even if you might fall. He is brighter than the twin suns of Gallifrey, seeming completely sure of himself and who he is, somehow, when he knows the truth.
This Doctor is gorgeous, in every way. They all were, technically speaking, but there is something about this one that has the Master mesmerized. It certainly is his beauty, but there is something more intangible. He tried to fight against the way this Doctor drew him in like a magnetic pull, but he gave up once he realized that resistance was futile.
The Master watches this Doctor on the dance floor of the club, in his kilt and tank top that exposes the strong, toned muscles in his arms. He spins and twirls to the point that it makes the Master nauseous at the thought of doing the same movement, but he can’t take his eyes off of him.
He moves like the music is a part of his heartbeats. He moves like he has no care in the world or like he is the only one in the club.
The jealous part of the Master wonders if anyone else notices him, this beautiful man lighting up the dance floor. He wonders whether they want him, but they don’t know who he is, that he’s not even human. He feels a sweet, possessive sense of satisfaction at knowing that beautiful man is his and only his.
The song ends, providing a brief reprieve from the blaring sounds, which the Master is partly grateful for because he doesn’t care for it. He doesn’t care for the entire environment, but he stays for the Doctor, even only as an observer.
He watches the Doctor stop for a moment to catch his breath, sweat shining on the beautifully smooth, dark skin of his face and arms from the physical exertion. Of course, the Doctor had to dance as intensely as he is.
The Doctor turns in the Master’s direction and spots him without any difficulty, despite the crowd and the distance. He can only see him.
He makes a beeline from the dance floor to the bar where the Master stands, holding his drink just to hold it at this point.
“Hey, there, handsome,” The Doctor greets him with his stunning smile and that accent that he has quickly grown to adore.
He had started calling him that, far too often for the Master’s taste at first, not because he doesn’t believe that he is attractive, but because he isn’t used to receiving that type of verbal affection.
“You aren’t tired yet?” The Master asks him, casually.
“No. I could go all night. Join me out there this time, love,” The Doctor says, knowing that he is making a nearly impossible request, but he does it anyway.
The Master glares at him as if to allow him a moment to reconsider.
For a moment, the Doctor doesn’t push, doesn’t touch or start to pull him. He looks back into his eyes, brown eyes meeting his in a moment of understanding.
“I don’t understand why you enjoy it so much,” The Master comments, not caring how mean it sounds. “Dancing in a shithole like this.”
“Because out there on the dance floor, within that crowd, I can truly be free,” The Doctor explains. “There’s no privacy, but somehow the crowd provides anonymity. It’s just me, the movement, and the music. I don’t think of anything else. Out there, I’m not the Doctor. It doesn’t matter who I am, where I come from. All that matters is the rhythm.”
The Master rolls his eyes at his words. “You’re deluding yourself, Doctor. It always matters. Avoiding who you are for a moment doesn’t change anything.”
“After everything,” The Doctor sighs deeply. “It all gets to be too much. I need moments like that. I want that for you, too. I want you to feel free. After everything we’ve been through.”
“I am free, dear,” The Master replies. “I can do whatever I like. And for some insane reason, I’m choosing to be here with you. I’m regretting it as we speak.”
A new song starts as they continue to talk, which the Doctor notes in the back of his mind before choosing to ignore it.
“No, you’re not. All these things, the Time Lords, what they’ve done, to me, to you, your past, it all still controls you. In a way, you’re still holding yourself to the way they made us, to the way we once were in our past lives, to what we’ve done before. So have I, I’ll admit, but I’m trying to break free from that. I’m a whole new me, honey. I just want you to join me. The past is holding you back from being all in with me this time, and you know it.”
The Master leans in closer to him, their faces inches from each other, to emphasize his point to the Doctor. “I destroyed the Time Lords and every bit of their precious Citadel, the planet. Their entire existence. I was King of the Ashes. They don’t control me. My past certainly doesn’t control me.”
“So prove it,” The Doctor responds, looking from his eyes to his lips. “Dance with me.”
“You’re ridiculous,” The Master comments.
“And you’ll never back down from an honest challenge,” The Doctor teases.
Without responding, the Master turns to down the rest of his drink, feeling the brown liquor burn as it runs down his throat.
The Doctor extends his hand to him, and this time, just this time, the Master takes it.
Excitedly, the Doctor pulls him onto the dance floor. He grabs the Master by the waist, starting slow to ease him into a rhythm.
The Master sways back and forth to start, and the Doctor follows his rhythm. He can’t help but look around to the humans dancing near them.
“Don’t think too hard about it, just focus on me,” The Doctor says.
The Master looks up to meet the Doctor’s eyes, delivering an intense glare that softens slowly.
Just as they find their groove, the song changes to a slower one.
The Doctor takes it upon himself to pull the Master closer to him.
“Put your hand here and…”
The Master interrupts with “I know how this goes, Doctor.”
The Master places an arm on the Doctor’s shoulder and one holding his waist. The Doctor leaves one hand on his waist and places a hand on the opposite shoulder.
With their eyes peering into the other’s, they sway gently to the slow melody.
“Doctor.”
The Master doesn’t truly know what he wants to say, if it is an apology or a rude comment, because even he can’t be sure from moment to moment, but perhaps it is better left unsaid.
“Shh,” The Doctor tells him. “Nothing else matters, my love. Just you and me and this moment. Not what happened in the past. Not what we’ve done to each other. Just this.”
The Master nods, looking at the Doctor, this gorgeous, vibrant version that he never expected to meet while still in this body, and he has the idea that he wants to kiss him.
He leans up about an inch or so, reminding him of an argument he wants to start later about their current height difference, and surprises the Doctor with a hard, passionate kiss to his lips.
When the Master pulls away, he is met with a smile, and the Master thinks it’s a bigger smile than he’s ever seen on the Doctor in any of their lives.
What he can’t believe is that he could possibly be responsible for making the Doctor smile like that.
The Doctor leans down and presses his head against the Master’s shoulder, sighing contently as they move together thoughtlessly.
The Master breathes in the scent of his cologne that he wears now, and he admits that he can’t think of anything else.
The Doctor was right, but he won’t tell him that.
Just you and me and this moment.