syncopath | but none of 'em were home inside the catacomb (for twood

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but none of 'em were home inside the catacomb (for twood_rose)

He had no way of knowing how long he had been in the dark; it was a funny thing, perhaps, but even a Time Lord must concede (as much as it might personally gall him) that death is timeless by its very nature. Still, he remembered everything.

When he awoke, groggily, the first thing he did was clap a hand to his neck, expecting a mark or a hole where the persistent memory of pain told him it should be. There was nothing. A ghost feeling. He blinked twice and sat up.

The room was dim, dusty and unused, and the small sink in the corner rattled ominously before spitting out water of some unsavory color, but there was comfort, egregiously tiny as it may be, in washing up as best he could. He surveyed his surroundings again. Besides the mattress he'd woken up on (and who had placed him there?) the room boasted nothing else.

He knew when he was, but not where. Or why. Not for the first time, he wondered if it might not be a prison.

The Master took panicked strides toward the door, fully expecting it not to open when he yanked on the handle roughly, and almost falling backwards when he was proven wrong.

A maze of hallways spread itself before him, each equally dim and dusty as the room behind. As the Master began to walk, it became obvious what he'd somehow known from the moment he opened the door. It wasn't a prison.

It was a ruin.

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She blinked.

"Of course not," she answered. "I've never wanted to hurt you. You must know that..."

Again she gently squeezed his hand.

The Master hissed in a breath, extracted his hand suddenly. "You're--"

You're surprisingly adept at it.

Couldn't say that.

"We should keep moving."

She didn't know quite what to make of that, but decided the best thing to do was to just let it go. So she followed him, staying close but carefully not touching him, as much as she wanted to.

The Master led her through the ruined city, silent mostly. Occasionally he would order her to stop, keep as still as possible, until he fired off a few arcs of light into the darkness and something fell screaming to the ground.

He rarely turned to look at her, but he could feel her ploddingly human presence always just a step behind him, and though he would never admit it to himself, it was strangely comforting.

They made it to what might have once been a bridge, over what might have been a river, but was now little more than a pile of rubble in a dry, scraping hollow, and the Master stopped abruptly, knelt and scooped a handful of sandy dirt. He passed the screwdriver over it, let it run through his fingers thoughtfully, and finally stood up.

"It may be safe enough here."

She stopped and surveyed the ruined landscape. The wind swept over the ragged surfaces, creating eddies of dirt and dust. Rose pushed back her hair again, and looked up at the sky, unable to tell whether it was night or day.

"No stars," she murmured.

For a moment she was Lucy, they were in Utopia, and the Master was breathing in that special, intoxicating aura-- a blend of terror and exhilaration-- that he'd never been able to recreate on Earth. No matter how hard he'd tried.

This time, he knew the stars were still out there.

"There was a war," he said softly. "Overnight, the planet, as you say, 'went nuclear.' Primitive weaponry, really. Still, it was highly effective. Three solar days of screaming and chaos. It was really something to see, Rose. The few survivors succumbed to radiation poisoning in a matter of weeks. Over time, debris has accumulated in the atmosphere, creating the illusion of eternal twilight."

He spoke blandly, with little interest-- as if he were lecturing from a textbook.

She listened to him, still staring at the sky, her mind putting terrible images to his words. When he was done, she edged closer, pressing slightly against his side, as if looking for warmth, comfort.

"You know where we are, then?"

"Oh, yes," the Master's eyes glittered a little in the dim light. "I've been here before." He smiled tightly. It couldn't be a coincidence that he'd been transported to a planet he'd had a heavy hand in destroying. Someone had arranged this.

"The planet Terrata. On the outskirts of the Waning Wind, in the Mon Galaxy. Former population, 3.5 billion Monng. Current population," and he finally looked squarely at Rose with a peculiar scowl on his face, "Us."

She shifted her glance to him, and drew back a little.

"Can't be a coincidence, can it? The two of us, out of a whole universe of people, and here, out of a whole universe of planets..."

She swallowed and looked away.

The Master snorted a little. "Of course it isn't a coincidence," he muttered. "It is clearly someone's infuriatingly sentimental idea of punishment."

He paced a short way off, and then back again, like a cat in a cage, as he began to tap his screwdriver unconsciously against his thigh.

"You don't have to stay with me," she said lowly. "If that's part of your punishment, you can leave, I won't hold it against you."

He stopped short and looked at her for a little while, as if he were seriously considering it. Still tap-tap-tapping.

"At any rate you wouldn't hold it against me for long," he finally retorted, "Seeing as you'd likely not last a day here on your own." That was his excuse, anyhow.

"Maybe not," she said with a shrug. "But that's not your problem, is it? I mean, what do you care?"

The Master continued to stare at her. She was, in essence, correct. Why should he care about an Earth child, one of the Doctor's companions? After all, the rules were quite different here than they were in Wonderland. If he managed to engage in a liaison with Rose-- if he even continued to interact with her at all-- there was no Doctor here to hold it over, to gloat to. To hurt.

Then again, there was a definite possibility that the Doctor would indeed show up. As was his perennial habit, it seemed. And with him may be the Master's only means of escape from this planet.

With a logical course of action he felt a little more himself. The Master walked slowly back to Rose and put a hand on her shoulder.

"I do care. A great deal."

She regarded the hand on her shoulder for a long moment. Then, silently, she turned toward him, stepped close, and tilted her head to rest it against his shoulder. Her own hands reached out tentatively to rest on his waist.

He froze for a tiny moment as she embraced him, before almost reflexively drawing her closer. Her hair smelled faintly of the perfume in his pocket, the small vial he'd stolen from the TARDIS a very long time ago, and he half-wondered where she'd gotten more.

He pressed his other hand against the small of her back, trapping her there, and allowed himself a little sigh.

"I am glad I found you again," he murmured.

Rose sighed as well, quietly, and let her hands slide around his sides, embracing him.

"I'm glad too," she murmured in return.

It had been a long time since they had last seen each other, and she and the Doctor had been to so many places, seen so many things. And yet the Master was never far from her mind. She would wonder where he was, how he was, and even lie awake at night thinking about the tenderness they had shared, the vulnerability she could swear she had witnessed, and wonder if it was all an illusion.

The hand on her shoulder began to absently stroke her hair, as the Master incrementally relaxed. It was refreshing to indulge in this behavior in a context that supported it, where consequences had little meaning. Where it was actually expected of him. It was similar to his marriage to Lucy, in some ways. The freedom to pursue his desires, and nobody to foil him, laugh at him...

Of course, she laughed. Once.

He pulled her even closer.

His hand on her hair, his arm holding her close, all felt so amazingly comforting. Safe.

Right.

"Master," she whispered.

The utterance of his name was almost too much for the Master to bear. He allowed his eyes to close, and buried his face in her hair. He touched his lips gently to her scalp, before beginning to trail a series of kisses down toward her neck, each more insistent than the last.

Her breath hitched, and a small, soft sound slipped from her lips. She closed her eyes, and let one hand drift up to gently touch his cheek, her fingertips ghosting over his skin.

The Master paused again, his eyes snapping open, as Rose touched his face. His hand on her back shot up almost irritably to grab her offending wrist as he pulled back. He stared at her, not really sure why he'd done it, and breathing more rapidly than one might expect for the level of activity he'd just been engaged in.

She yelped, half in surprise, half in pain. She stared back at him, her body tense. He seemed like a snake wound up to strike if provoked, and she had no idea how to get away without provoking.

"I'm sorry..."

Her apology, the heady mix of fear and pain, his own frustration-- the combination was paradoxically alluring. The Master relaxed his grip on her wrist until he was holding it with gentle firmness, feeling still very much in control, and closed the distance again, murmuring into her hair.

"Why are you sorry?" He very much needed to hear it.

"Touching you like that," she murmured. "It bothered you. I don't know why. I didn't mean to, but it did."

She swallowed, closed her eyes, and slowly nuzzled up against him. She wanted to touch him, but would wait until he gave her clear indication it was okay.

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