#roguemaster

It was all too easy, sometimes, to forget just how otherworldly the Toymaker could be. The Doctor knew, of course, that such a statement coming from him could legitimately be met with scoffs and laughter; but there was a clear distinction to be drawn between inhuman and unreal.

The deity was all too good at pretending, credits where it’s due. And it’s great, really! Because it means he’s trying , and the Doctor would never begrudge him for making that much of an effort to fit in. How could he, when he was often doing the same? 

But.

But… At times, there were moments where the facade would just- slip. And the Doctor thought that perhaps, maybe, the fact his lover was trying so hard to hide what he was only made it more jarring when he failed to do so, even for a split second. That either, he didn’t begrudge ; he was long since reproaching his very own nature to the Toymaker, and frankly quite ashamed he ever did. 

( The ease with which he casted him, back them, to an eternity in the void; with which he flew and rejected him, refusing to see the god as anything but a force, a non-being, which surely could not feel emotions outside of the tantalising anger it displayed at its loss. It still haunts him. More so when sometimes, at night, he found himself gazing at the lovely smile on the Toymaker’s face, and shivered at the reminder that it was nothing but paint on a puppet of flesh. )

Still! It’s jarring, and while the Doctor may be fully conscious of the kind of things hidden behind their lover’s handsome face, the same things could not be said for the Master. Worse yet, Rogue- sweet, innocent, beautiful Rogue, all too mortal and all too new to this kind of thing. Which is why that- while not begrudging the Toymaker for the unavoidable slips (how could he, how could he, when the Toymaker was so obviously trying?), the Doctor couldn’t help but tense when he noticed it happen. 

This thing they had, it was just so fragile. He doesn’t want it to break , like so, so many of the people he loved before, and the kind of existential terror such a being could create…

( How hateful those thoughts could be. He fought them everyday, and made sure to hold the Toymaker a bit tighter each time they raised, vindication in this attempt at pushing them away )

Tonight, the Toymaker was having a slip. It wasn’t his fault, and the Doctor knew that perfectly well: the god was simply distracted, as he often was when something fun was happening, and not paying as close of an attention to his shape as he usually did. It was no one’s fault, really, because the Doctor would not play the pointing-fingers game, and especially not at the Master’s terrible decision-making skills- alright, so maybe it was his oldest friend's fault. But then again, the Master had to be the Master.

( and by Rassilion, how the Doctor would love to stop blaming him for anything going awry. He tried, he did, but he couldn’t help it sometimes- couldn’t help but pick at the tiny mistakes and sigh at the wrong moves, decades and centuries and millenniums of bitterness laid between them and awkwardly ignored for the time being. )

( He knew he could be unfair, sometimes, because rationally the Master couldn’t be blamed for all that is going slightly wrong. He couldn’t be blamed for unforeseen consequences of innocent actions. And yet, here was the Doctor, who was supposed to be Good and Forgiving and Kind and Over All Of This Resentment, barely holding back the need to snap at him for taking a step in the wrong direction .)

( Talk about a Doctor , right. )

What happened was this: Rogue expressed the desire to see a sunset on the beach, like the romantic sap he pretended not to be, and the Toymaker had perked up so hard at the potential of making sandcastles it was simply impossible to say no. Why would he had, anyway? Beaches are cool , as long as you get the right shoes, and did not have any lingering resentment toward sand of any kind. Even the Master was on board, which was a very generous way to describe his lack of dramatic whines and complaints.

So, off they went. And it had been nice! The air was cool, the sky was beautiful, the sand was warm, and the sea was fresh. The Doctor had smiled as always, gently poking fun at the Master’s obnoxious heart-shaped glass he was all too proud to parade around with, forcing Rogue to suffer through the application of sun cream (they would not have an encore for that time his poor bounty hunter stayed too long under the sun and came back to them like a foreign cousin of good old Bannakaffalatta), and doing his best to keep track of the Toymaker’s excited rambling about all the fun games one could do in the water. 

And then, the Master tackled Rogue in the sea. No other way to describe it: it had been a full body slam, both of them going off in the salty water, clothes and all, rolling around the waves like brawling cats. The Doctor tensed, of course he did, ready to grab the Master and drag him off of Rogue- but then, he heard them both laugh, quickly joined by the Toymaker’s distinctive arpeggio, and he forced himself to do the same.

“You absolute menace!” protested Rogue, curls plastered to his forehead, drenched to the bone, sitting in the sea like a kicked puppy; but he was smiling, and laughing, eyes all crinkled on the edge, playfully splashing the Master some more. “I’m fully dressed !”

“Yes,” purred the Master, radiating wet cat energy; he went for a dramatic flop of his hair, this unfortunately alluring habit he picked up to get it out of his face, and only managed to spray more water all around. “Congratulations on the choice of the white shirt, love, it’s a treat to the eyes. ”

He was right, as rare as it was. The shirt clinged to Rogue in all the right way, and it was more than enough for the poor man to not only be eaten out by one pair of eyes, but by three.

The next moment, it was the Doctor’s turn to get pushed in the water, betrayed by his remaining lover, and they somehow all found themselves splashing around like school boys. It had been nice. It was nice.

But the Toymaker was getting distracted, and the night was falling. The light dimmed, if not for the occasional swooping of the one cast by the lighthouse, a few steps away from their spot; it made the wrongness all the more apparent.

For the white, cold light had a strange effect on the Toymaker’s eyes. It didn’t make him blink in reflex, nor did the pupils seem to absorb it. No: his eyes reflected it , turning into pools of soulless silver each time it reached his face, like would an animal. The Doctor faltered an instant- but that was alright, it would have been alright, if it had been just that. 

Then again- the edge between inhuman and unreal. The reflection could be explained by the simple presence of a tapetum membrane; the same could not be said for the way his voice was starting to sound. 

Rogue’s and the Master’s were half drowned in the environment. In the sounds of the waves crashing on the beach, in the wind, in the distance sometimes growing in between them, as it was only logical it would.

The Toymaker’s voice, however, could be heard as clear as day. 

No interferences. No parasite sound. Like he was right at the Doctor’s ear, whispering straight into his eardrums, into his mind . Like he was not really there, like it was simply a broadcast, an illusion streamed right into his imagination. Impossible. Unreal.

It was not the Toymaker’s fault. Evidently, he hadn’t noticed, and neither did the two others- but the Doctor did , and it took him slightly too long to hide his appalled expression. His godly lover turned his head toward him, beautiful for a split second with the stunning smile he was wearing, sinister the next when the light pooled in his eyes; their gaze met, and the smile faltered.

Oh, how did the Doctor hate when this was happening. When the Toymaker was looking happy and excited in such an endearing manner, and dimmed like a snuffed out light as he realised he may have done something wrong. Too late, the Doctor tried to smile back at him, bright and loving and tender; but the deity was already making himself smaller, shame and guilt written all over his face, and the next time the lighthouse’s beam caught his iris, they absorbed it cleanly, humanly .

“Sorry,” he muttered, voice drowned in the sea, loud enough for the Doctor, and the Doctor only to hear. 

Both of his hearts broke. Nothing was worse, this days, than those moments where the Toymaker would apologize for things out of his control; and the Doctor knew, shame eating at him like a snarling beast, that most of it was due to him , and the way he treated his lover in the early days- cold, dismissive, wincing at anything vaguely strange the other could let slip.

( He had been so, so scared, the first few years after their deal. Constantly waiting for the shoe to drop, for the Toymaker to reveal his nefarious plans, for there had been no way, in his mind, that a being like this would not have something sinister to wish for. And he had acted as such- for long, too long. )

( It had been an awful assumption, albeit not unwarranted; and now, here were the consequences. )

In an instant, he was by the god’s side, hands cradling his drenched face; but the blue eyes were darting away, and the Toymaker wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“No,” the Doctor hurriedly whispered, “Honey, no, I’m sorry. You did nothing wrong.”

Hesitant blue met shameful brown. He would not get, however, to know what it was that the god would have answered to him- for the Master, ah, who else! Found it a great time to ruin the moment, the intimacy, with an ill-timed comment.

“Aw,” he said, snark all over his voice, and the Doctor did his best not to grit his teeth. “Having a moment without us.”

Just like that, the mask snapped back into place, and the Toymaker smiled again- wide and fake as a painted doll. His head escaped the Doctor’s grasp, and he laughed, letting himself fall on his back, on the water, like a delighted sea star, blond strands curling in the current like a pretty halo. 

(Sometimes, the Doctor wondered- did the Toymaker take that habit from him? Repressing, and smiling, and joking when he felt like crying? Oh, how he hoped it wasn’t the case)

“Well, mon trésor ,” he called back, flirty and loud and voice perfectly mixed with the natural sounds all around, “if you want something, tu devrais venir le chercher. ”

 And of course the Master, greedy as he was, did exactly that. So the Doctor smiled, simply smiled, going forcefully with the flow. Hating himself just a bit, just a little bit , for the relief he felt- relieved that the Toymaker corrected the slip, made it easier for him , for them, to stay around.

It was so easy to forget just how otherworldly the Toymaker could be. It was also awful that, sometimes, the Doctor felt the need to keep the illusion intact.

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(Part 2 coming soon!)