A/N: Takes place in a vaguely post-Claws of Axos AU in which the Doctor and the Master are travelling together. But not an AU in which the Earth gets sucked dry by the Axons. Er. ---
“I only mean, Doctor, that this comes as something of a surprise,” the Master said, watching the Doctor’s hands. “I would think grooming me would be beneath your dignity.”
“Leaving that beard the way it was would be beneath my dignity.” The Doctor didn’t break his gaze; the simple single blade of the razor flicked against the Master’s cheek, delicate. “You looked absolutely appalling. One of us had to do something about it. Up.” The pressure of his fingertips under the Master’s chin was enough to get his point across, and the Master raised his head accordingly. He adjusted his grip on the razor and inspected him with a criticism falsely cool; the metal’s slow stroke began again.
“Some might call it subservient,” the Master continued.
“Would they?” The Doctor smiled – he couldn’t see him, but he knew he was smiling. “Seems to me I’m the one holding a very sharp blade up to your throat.”
“Excellent point.” It was a simple observation, not meant to threaten or alarm. “And yet the fact remains that you are the one performing the menial task for me. Knives notwithstanding, of course.”
“Of course.” The Doctor didn’t respond for a moment, focusing on his task instead, but as he made his way along his chin, to the edge of his jaw, he noted with a casual air: “You could say that I’m abasing myself, doing something for you that you’d do yourself. But –”
And suddenly the blade of the razor pressed harder into the Master’s skin – not hard enough to draw blood, not yet, but enough for him to feel its edge and know what it could do with just the slightest bit more force. “– aren’t you still counting on me not being careless?”
Their eyes met, and in the still, perfect curve of the blade the Master could almost feel his temptation. Not the temptation to wound, no – the Doctor was never so direct. But if his hand just slipped, if he only pricked his skin and left the smallest, most impermanent mark…
For all that the Doctor pretended to be above such crude gestures of power, the possibility had obviously not escaped him.
Carefully, the Master raised his hand, and let his fingers rest along the blade, urging it on its inevitable course.
But the Doctor only smiled again, and withdrew the razor, wiping it clean as if nothing had happened. And the both of them laughed, quietly; with relief, with satisfaction, perhaps with both.
“Does this mean you’ll let me cut your hair?” The Master asked, as the Doctor went back to work.
“No. Why would I do a thing like that?”
“You’ve let it get terribly unruly, Doctor.”
Requests: Poul/D84 (both from "The Robots of Death"), Victoria Waterfield/Jo Grant
Three/Delgado!Master
---
“I only mean, Doctor, that this comes as something of a surprise,” the Master said, watching the Doctor’s hands. “I would think grooming me would be beneath your dignity.”
“Leaving that beard the way it was would be beneath my dignity.” The Doctor didn’t break his gaze; the simple single blade of the razor flicked against the Master’s cheek, delicate. “You looked absolutely appalling. One of us had to do something about it. Up.” The pressure of his fingertips under the Master’s chin was enough to get his point across, and the Master raised his head accordingly. He adjusted his grip on the razor and inspected him with a criticism falsely cool; the metal’s slow stroke began again.
“Some might call it subservient,” the Master continued.
“Would they?” The Doctor smiled – he couldn’t see him, but he knew he was smiling. “Seems to me I’m the one holding a very sharp blade up to your throat.”
“Excellent point.” It was a simple observation, not meant to threaten or alarm. “And yet the fact remains that you are the one performing the menial task for me. Knives notwithstanding, of course.”
“Of course.” The Doctor didn’t respond for a moment, focusing on his task instead, but as he made his way along his chin, to the edge of his jaw, he noted with a casual air: “You could say that I’m abasing myself, doing something for you that you’d do yourself. But –”
And suddenly the blade of the razor pressed harder into the Master’s skin – not hard enough to draw blood, not yet, but enough for him to feel its edge and know what it could do with just the slightest bit more force. “– aren’t you still counting on me not being careless?”
Their eyes met, and in the still, perfect curve of the blade the Master could almost feel his temptation. Not the temptation to wound, no – the Doctor was never so direct. But if his hand just slipped, if he only pricked his skin and left the smallest, most impermanent mark…
For all that the Doctor pretended to be above such crude gestures of power, the possibility had obviously not escaped him.
Carefully, the Master raised his hand, and let his fingers rest along the blade, urging it on its inevitable course.
But the Doctor only smiled again, and withdrew the razor, wiping it clean as if nothing had happened. And the both of them laughed, quietly; with relief, with satisfaction, perhaps with both.
“Does this mean you’ll let me cut your hair?” The Master asked, as the Doctor went back to work.
“No. Why would I do a thing like that?”
“You’ve let it get terribly unruly, Doctor.”
Requests: Poul/D84 (both from "The Robots of Death"), Victoria Waterfield/Jo Grant