Archive of Our Own

The being that was until recently known as the War Chief sipped his fourth (or was it fifth?) drink, grateful that this bar actually served beverages that had an effect on Time Lord physiology. He had invested a great deal of effort into his involvement with the War Lords, and he supposed he should feel fortunate in his escape, but really he just felt ignored. The aliens had scattered at the first sign of interference from Gallifrey, but the Time Lords had been much more interested in getting their hands on the Doctor than bothering to chase down the culprits of a scheme with only galactic ambition, that probably wouldn't have worked anyway. So now he sat, downing drinks in an out-of-the-way bar, stuck, with no transportation and no one to care what he did.

But the Doctor, the Doctor had cared. He had, in the end, given himself and his companions up to the not-so-tender mercies of the Time Lord authorities, in order to stop the War Chief's plot. He would not have expected that. Not from either the cheerful and eager boy he vaguely remembered from the academy, or from the more recent legends of the Renegade that had the powers-that-be on the council gnashing their teeth in frustration. And now that they were gone, whisked away to face whatever punishment was in store, he who was once the War Chief found he missed it, mattering that much to someone.

Looking down, he realized his glass was once again empty and started trying to catch the bartender’s eye, or at least one of the six he had waving merrily on stalks above him, when his own eye was caught by a young man making his way through the crowd. He barely looked old enough to be out on his own, but he moved with a grace and energy that looked almost dangerous, while at the same time being somewhat flighty, like he couldn't stop moving if he wanted to. “He moves like he wants to be tied down,” said a voice from deep in the back of the former War Chief's mind. And suddenly another drink was not at all what he wanted.

He followed the intriguing stranger across the floor and out into dingy corridors that wound their way all through the lower levels of this space station. At first he seemed to twitch in about three directions at once, but eventually settled on heading off in the general direction of the blue section. That suited fine. There weren’t many occupants down there, and those few wouldn't care what two strangers got up to.

He caught up with the youngster while he was poking his head into a murky and abandoned storage room. Taking advantage of his distraction he pushed him inside, pinning his face to the wall. “If you really want me to let go, say so now, and I might just listen,” he breathed softly into the nearest ear, before flipping the young man around. He gripped each slender wrist tightly, pressing them against the cold metal of the wall panels, before taking his first good look at just whom he had been chasing.

He was light and slender, his face too long to be pretty, but his neck equally long in a way that made his captor’s mouth water. His skin was pale, shining in the dim light, topped with a shock of wild dark hair that seemed to throw the whole look into disarray, just by existing. The features were set in an expression of impatient indignation as he tugged uselessly at his wrists for a moment before looking up and capturing the former War Chief’s gaze, and giving him the first hint that this may have not been one of his better ideas.

Those eyes didn’t match the face, or the body for that matter. They were old, so very old and so very tired. They were eyes as deep as the vortex, twice as lonely, and even the sparking anger that glittered in them like lightning on the horizon, did little to warm them. They were cold and dangerous, and under their scrutiny it seemed as if he was the one pinned in place. Frozen while he drowned in those eyes, as he felt the double rhythm of the pulse in those wrists pound at his hands like hammers. Like drums.

It took all the will power he had, and some he must have stolen from somewhere, to force his own eyes closed, to bring himself back from the edge of that abyss. As self-determination slowly returned to his extremities, he made to move back, to unclench his hands and release the shark he had somehow caught hiding in a minnow’s body. But his fingers had loosened no more than a fraction of a degree when he was stopped by a voice.

Not the harsh angry voice, or the cold deadly one, he would have expected from a being with those eyes. This voice was soft, surprised, maybe pleased? “Master?” it said, “Master, please...” Then a note in the voice, half order, half plea, “Don’t let go.”

His eyes flew open, and his fists clenched around the other’s wrists so hard it had to have hurt, but the young-looking old man in front of him just melted against him at the gesture, his eyes now half hidden under that crazy hair. The desire from earlier, that had driven him out of the bar to track a stranger through murky corridors, surged to the forefront again, demanding. His whole body was shaking with it as he felt the universe slot into place with a nearly audible clang, the reverberations coursing through him like orgasm.

He bent his head once more to whisper in that ear. “Say it again. I like it when you say my name.” Then he sunk his teeth, hard, into that long neck, right below that ear, and this time when “Master” fell from those lips, it was loud and desperate, echoing off the walls in the dirty storage room. The being formerly known as the War Chief embraced his new name, and set himself with determination to make the one beneath him scream it as many times as possible before the night was over.