Rory

“Oh?” The Master exhales a curious purr, stepping forward into Rory’s space as though entitled to it. “That’s new.”

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Rory’s face scrunches with irritation, his pupils constricting into inhuman slits—an involuntary action. It’s a side effect of his newly contracted case of lycanthropy, and it immediately piques The Master’s interest. 

 The Master tilts his head, deep brown eyes studying the shorter man’s face with a predatory intrigue. The silver glitter of his masquerade mask shines in the low light, echoing the ever-present glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

Rory shifts on his feet, suddenly uncomfortable. He can feel The Master’s interest like an electrical current buzzing in the air. Not good. Uncertainty passes over his features, and he tugs at the cuff of his jacket. As he goes to look away he feels a hand drawing his face back, squishing his cheeks and tilting his chin up. Rory’s heart stumbles in his chest at the contact, offended by the Time Lord’s audacity, yet electrified by the heat of his touch. 

“What’s The Doctor gone and done this time, hm?” The Master asks, brows furrowing with faux concern—then, he breaks out into a toothy grin.  

“Oh, oh!” he exclaims, a thought striking him. “Or are you the one playing spy this time? Now that would be fun.” 

Memories flood Rory’s mind at the reminder—O, the hut, late nights spent drinking tea and talking about dinosaurs. For a moment, he can almost hear the sound of O’s soft and hesitant voice—but none of that had been real. O was The Master, a disguise. He shakes his head, dispels the unwelcome nostalgia. His mind swims with thoughts and the dull throb of the headache that’s been building at the base of his skull throughout this entire ordeal. The room is so loud. Patrons and chaperones exchange fake niceties and judgmental whispers. Glasses clink. A string quartet scrapes away at the front of the hall.  The faint, electrical heartbeat of the ship and the organic heartbeat of every creature on board hum in sync. It all blends into one grating symphony, tailored specifically to overwhelm his newly heightened senses. It’s enough to make his teeth ache.

I should call The Doctor, he thinks. It wouldn’t be difficult. There’s a hidden mic on his lapel, for situations just like this. ‘Just a precaution!’  The Doctor had said. All he has to do is pretend to adjust his collar and brush the speaker button. She would come collect him at a moment’s notice—that is, if she hasn’t already gotten swept up in some other nonsense.  His thoughts are interrupted as The Master speaks again, impatient. 

“Now, don’t be like that dear. I know you want to tell me,” The Master coos, as if attempting to coax a stray dog out of hiding. “You’re hiding something—” he giggles “Not very well, might I add. So come on then, out with it!” 

 Rory’s gaze meets The Master’s again, but this time, there’s an intensity in those dark eyes of his. There always is—rage and grief and loneliness spanning centuries, simmering just below the surface of his glamour. This is different, though. It’s an intensity that demands attention, demands compliance. 

Listen to me, it hisses. 

Hear me. 

Obey me. 

Rory feels his mind going blank for just a second, enraptured. The Master’s hypnotic pull tugs at the edges of his psyche, poking and prodding at mental walls and searching for weak spots.  Then, Rory quickly recognizes the trick for what it is. He shakes his head violently, golden curls falling around his face and shielding his gaze. Normally, Rory is a patient person—but a sudden surge of anger rips through his body, tearing through his carefully manicured self-control. Before he can stop himself, his palms plant squarely into The Master’s chest, shoving him hard.

“Don’t.”

Rory snarls. His sclera become a yellowish shade of green. As his lips pull back, they reveal his fangs, sharp and threatening.

 The Master staggers back with the unexpected force of the shove. His expression falters. Then, he breaks into a manic grin, raising his hands in a condescending display of peace.  He looks positively delighted by this development, and the reaction he’s managed to elicit. He quickly closes the distance between the two once again. Fellow attendees of the masquerade cast glances at the pair,  some curious, some mildly irritated. The Master’s voice lowers to a giddy whisper as his gaze flits back to the man before him.

“Ah-ah-ah,” The Master tuts, unfazed. “Don’t forget we’re in the presence of guests. Wouldn’t want to make a scene, now would we, love?” he whispers, leaning in close to Rory as his hands find the other man’s waist. His breath hits Rory’s ear, hot. 

Rory shudders at the contact.

“You don’t get to do that,”  Rory states, stern. His expression is uncharacteristically serious. His stomach churns with frustration and the sudden rush of adrenaline. “I’ll put up with a lot, Master—” Rory reaches for The Master’s shoulders, pretending for the onlookers as though they’re just another pair of dancers. Eyes fluttering shut, he grounds himself in the feeling of The Master’s purple tweed coat, allowing himself to focus on the sensation of the coarse, scratchy fabric rather than the panic and rage crawling under his skin. He breathes out. “—but you have no right to my agency. If you want to talk, fine. We’ll talk. But I will rip your fucking throat out next time you try to hypnotize me. I won’t play that game.”

For just a moment, The Master looks taken aback. Whether by the audacity of Rory’s fighting words, or by the sheer finality with which he says them, it’s hard to say. The Master’s gaze focuses on those sharp fangs, and he gets the feeling that Rory might just make good on that threat. Still, he’s faced worse odds. 

“Struck a nerve, did I?” The Master whispers, his tongue swiping his teeth as if savoring the notion. He watches Rory sharply, eyes flickering over him to catalogue every newly non-human detail. “Fine, keep your secrets then.” He huffs, as if personally offended. Perhaps even dejected. 

There’s a fragile moment of silence between the two as they dance. Just the sound of beating hearts and bated breaths. Rory’s eyes open, and he forces his expression to soften as he sighs. “I don’t mind talking to you, Master—” Rory pauses mid sentence, a laugh bubbling out of his chest in disbelief at his own words. “As completely insane as that sounds. But just… Don’t.” The words come out almost pleading. 

The strangest part is that he means it. He truly doesn’t mind talking to or being in the presence of the renegade Time Lord—so long as certain boundaries are maintained. 

The Master blinks. Once. Twice.