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crack_van2011-02-14 05:53 am
innocentsmith.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2011-02-14 05:53 am
Entry tags:
The Crane Wife, by x_los (NC-17)
Fandom: DOCTOR WHO
Pairing: Doctor/Master (Five/Ainley!Master)
Length: 70,783
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
x_los
Author Website: LJ fic masterlist or at Teaspoon
Why this must be read:
For Valentine's Day, I bring you epic AU slavefic! ...Wait, where are you going? Come back!
No, but really, it's brilliant. The premise: the Doctor was brought up on Earth instead of Gallifrey, and despite growing up to be, well, the Doctor, complete with a stolen TARDIS, has never met any Time Lords outside his family. That is, until he stumbles into a slave market while loopy with regeneration sickness. The Master, who in the absence of a lifelong nemesis has restricted his megalomania to a little beneficent galactic dictatorship, finds him there and decides he must have him...as his new scientific advisor. Shenanigans, obviously, ensue.
“The Doctor, was it?” The man settled in the chair the nurse had abandoned. He had a peculiarly penetrating, intense gaze. The Doctor stifled the impulse to squirm under it.
“You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.” He gave the Master a small smile. The slight tilt of the head this involved caused a shock of blond hair to flop forward into his face. Annoyed, the Doctor brushed it aside. His last head of hair hadn’t given him this sort of trouble, or been nearly as likely to keep him from being taken seriously. Still, this was the sort of thing one had to adjust to with a new regeneration. At least this time he didn’t feel the slightest urge to take up a new musical instrument. “If it’s not too terribly cliché, could we go through the traditional questions?”
“Ah.” The other man had what seemed to be an almost-perpetual warm smirk. “I trust you refer to ‘where am I?’ ‘Who are you?’”
“The classics,” the Doctor agreed, “beloved of those recently restored to consciousness the universe over.”
“Mm. Well, in observance of tradition, Doctor,” he leaned back and gestured at the room around them, “you’re in the Imperial Palace on Hestin Prime. You occupy a portion thereof that I have had converted from an old Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue into additional living quarters, if you care to know. And if you’re attempting to identify a certain disquieting sensation of familiarity, it may help you to know that I am, like yourself, a Time Lord.”
“Ah.” The Doctor’s eyes flared with recognition. “Hestin Prime–you must be the Master. I know you by reputation, of course. This does save me the trouble of wondering whether you’re a CIA operative.”
“Is that something you wonder frequently?”
“If I ever ran into other Time Lords, then yes, I imagine it certainly would be. As it’s never happened before, I’ve never yet had cause to.”
The Master arched an eyebrow. “You’ve never met another Time Lord, and yet you claim to be one yourself?”
“Well, no–I have met my father.” The Master’s absolutely blank look made the Doctor draw a weary breath. “I’ll explain later.”
“Explain now, Doctor,” the Master corrected him. “Or do you have some urgent luncheon engagement?”
The Doctor opened his mouth, began to say something, paused with a glare because no one ever actually called him on that, and then obliged the Master. “My father was, well, something of a renegade. He took a TARDIS out on a routine scientific mission, faked his own demise in the Medusa Cascade–which, I’m told, happened often enough back then so as not to have been particularly suspicious–and retired to a quiet life on an inconspicuous M-class planet in the Milky Way galaxy sometime in the Rassilonate era. He certainly hadn’t planned to, but he ended up marrying a local woman.
“I’m the product of that marriage. When I reached a certain age, my father told me the whole truth about the world he’d left. He offered to send me to live with relatives there, even though he’d have to expose himself as a renegade to do so. I appreciated my father’s reasons for leaving, however. And naturally I didn’t want to inconvenience my family. I asked that he educate me himself on Earth instead. Other than making a brief visit to an orbital space hanger for disused TARDISes to,” the Doctor coughed, “collect my Type 40, I’ve been nowhere near the planet. I’ve never so much as been introduced to another Gallifreyan. Until now, of course.” He smiled at the Master, boyish and charming. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise.” The Master grinned. “You know, Doctor, your origins are extraordinary–I’ve never met a Time Lord born or reared outside the Citadel.” The Master leaned back, watching the Doctor over his laced fingers. “And I suppose the CIA doesn’t even track you as a renegade–”
“Because they’ve no idea I exist? That’s right,” the Doctor agreed briskly, then changed the subject. “I’m incredibly obliged to you for rescuing me from that auction. I could never have made a respectable servant. I’d only have been blackballed in the Junior Ganymede ballot, and I don’t know whether I could have borne the snub.”
The Master waved a dismissive hand, not wanting to admit to not having understood what had sounded like a joke. “Not at all, Doctor.”
“I don’t suppose you know what became of my TARDIS?” The Doctor gave him a hopeful look. “It would have been large, blue and wooden at the time–at any time, actually. The chameleon circuit’s broken, I’ve been meaning to fix it. Reads ‘Police Public Call Box’ across the top?” The Doctor’s expression was genuine, endearingly earnest. The Master was almost tempted to tell him the truth.
“There’s no trace of a TARDIS anywhere on the revolting world I found you on,” he said, which wasn’t strictly a lie: the Doctor’s TARDIS wasn’t anywhere near Glispywallop, now. It was still inside the Master’s, the location of which, when he wasn’t using it, was a matter of Imperial state secret. The Master always wanted her somewhere discrete, well-protected and yet close at hand in case of emergencies. The capsule was currently disguised as his bedroom closet. If one pushed past the dark, plush capes and jackets and they’d find, to their great surprise, a sleek console room, vast and otherworldly.
“Oh.” The Doctor’s eyes (blue, the Master observed almost without noticing he did it, very blue indeed–a striking–what would you call that? Wedgwood? No, he corrected himself, they were darker than that–more of a cobalt shade) dropped in disappointment. Then, with some decision, the Doctor slung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. “The poor girl must have wandered off. She does that from time to time–getting on in years, you see. Well. I must be off. I’ve a TARDIS to find. Thank you very much for–”
“Off, Doctor?” the Master inquired politely, lazy in his low chair. He should have moved his legs to let the Doctor pass, but he didn’t.
The Doctor frowned at him. “As I said, I’m delighted to have been saved from slavery–”
“Ah.” The Master arched an eyebrow. “I see. You do not understand your position, Doctor. I’ve bought you.”
“Excuse me?” The Doctor goggled at him. “You’ve bought me?”
“For seventy five drachbars. You’re now mine to do with as I please.” The Master chuckled. “You have been somewhat naïve, haven’t you?”
“Seventy five drachbars? What’s that, roughly the price of a small wagon?” The Doctor’s voice had gone squeaky with indignation. Not that it was important, but he might’ve hoped to be thought worth at least as much as a cottage or something. The Doctor swallowed, eyes widening slightly. “And what exactly am I supposed to be doing to earn my keep?”
The Master, of whom he’d heard nothing but the most appalling rumors, had a tight, vicious smile. It seemed a product of unfathomable sources of private amusement. Something in it made the Doctor’s breath catch in his throat, his stomach tighten. “Tell me, Doctor,” the Master eyed him up and down, his gaze frank and infuriatingly proprietary, “how are you in the laboratory?”
It wasn’t quite the question the Doctor expected. His eyes narrowed. “If it’s about the money, I assure you, I can buy my liberty–”
“Oh, I’m far more interested in your mind than your monetary resources, Doctor.” People generally found declarations that someone wasn’t just in their bedroom because they were after money flattering, but, difficult as ever, the Doctor only winced. “Besides,” the Master smirked, “what else can one really accomplish with seventy five drachbars? I’m not currently in the market for a wagon, small or otherwise.”
“Master.” The Doctor sat down on the bed again, facing the other man at eye level. “We’re both Time Lords. From what I know of our people, we’re culturally far beyond this nonsense. Surely there’s some way to convince you to be reasonable about this situation?”
The Master interlaced his fingers in his lap. “I’m being entirely reasonable,” he said coolly. “I’ve acquired another Time Lord to work under me at bargain price. Surely it would be unreasonable of me to throw back such a catch. And I must warn you, Doctor, I won’t tolerate a poor performance from you. Any attempt to sabotage my work through mediocrity will be met with the direst consequences.”
The Doctor gaped at him, managing simultaneous incredulity, righteous indignation and rage. Splashes of red stood out on his fever-pale cheeks, striking as wine stains on a table cloth. “What’s this then, ‘Good work, sleep well, I'll most likely kill you in the morning’?”
The Master raised an eyebrow at the indecipherable reference, stood, and adjusted his gloves before turning to go out. “Pleasant dreams, Doctor.”
Whatx_los has done here is nothing short of amazing: she's taken one of the sketchiest old fanfic cliches and simultaneously subverted it - both plotwise, because the Master wants the Doctor for science before sex and because the Doctor is far from helpless, and tonally, because this fic is frequently laugh-out-loud funny (there are even some Hitchhiker's Guide crossover bits) - and also written the heck out of it in a serious way, with equal attention given to the hotness and the inherent screwed-up-ness of the trope. The Whoniverse presented is lively and chock-full of classic characters, the plot is engagingly plotty, and the AU is curiously effective in examining both characters and who they are at their core.
(I do feel I should warn for dub-con; it's somewhat inherent in the premise, and the author doesn't pull punches with that. It's not depicted as being without consequence, but there are one or two scenes that could be triggering. Fair warning.)
The Crane Wife
Pairing: Doctor/Master (Five/Ainley!Master)
Length: 70,783
Author on LJ:
x_losAuthor Website: LJ fic masterlist or at Teaspoon
Why this must be read:
For Valentine's Day, I bring you epic AU slavefic! ...Wait, where are you going? Come back!
No, but really, it's brilliant. The premise: the Doctor was brought up on Earth instead of Gallifrey, and despite growing up to be, well, the Doctor, complete with a stolen TARDIS, has never met any Time Lords outside his family. That is, until he stumbles into a slave market while loopy with regeneration sickness. The Master, who in the absence of a lifelong nemesis has restricted his megalomania to a little beneficent galactic dictatorship, finds him there and decides he must have him...as his new scientific advisor. Shenanigans, obviously, ensue.
“The Doctor, was it?” The man settled in the chair the nurse had abandoned. He had a peculiarly penetrating, intense gaze. The Doctor stifled the impulse to squirm under it.
“You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.” He gave the Master a small smile. The slight tilt of the head this involved caused a shock of blond hair to flop forward into his face. Annoyed, the Doctor brushed it aside. His last head of hair hadn’t given him this sort of trouble, or been nearly as likely to keep him from being taken seriously. Still, this was the sort of thing one had to adjust to with a new regeneration. At least this time he didn’t feel the slightest urge to take up a new musical instrument. “If it’s not too terribly cliché, could we go through the traditional questions?”
“Ah.” The other man had what seemed to be an almost-perpetual warm smirk. “I trust you refer to ‘where am I?’ ‘Who are you?’”
“The classics,” the Doctor agreed, “beloved of those recently restored to consciousness the universe over.”
“Mm. Well, in observance of tradition, Doctor,” he leaned back and gestured at the room around them, “you’re in the Imperial Palace on Hestin Prime. You occupy a portion thereof that I have had converted from an old Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue into additional living quarters, if you care to know. And if you’re attempting to identify a certain disquieting sensation of familiarity, it may help you to know that I am, like yourself, a Time Lord.”
“Ah.” The Doctor’s eyes flared with recognition. “Hestin Prime–you must be the Master. I know you by reputation, of course. This does save me the trouble of wondering whether you’re a CIA operative.”
“Is that something you wonder frequently?”
“If I ever ran into other Time Lords, then yes, I imagine it certainly would be. As it’s never happened before, I’ve never yet had cause to.”
The Master arched an eyebrow. “You’ve never met another Time Lord, and yet you claim to be one yourself?”
“Well, no–I have met my father.” The Master’s absolutely blank look made the Doctor draw a weary breath. “I’ll explain later.”
“Explain now, Doctor,” the Master corrected him. “Or do you have some urgent luncheon engagement?”
The Doctor opened his mouth, began to say something, paused with a glare because no one ever actually called him on that, and then obliged the Master. “My father was, well, something of a renegade. He took a TARDIS out on a routine scientific mission, faked his own demise in the Medusa Cascade–which, I’m told, happened often enough back then so as not to have been particularly suspicious–and retired to a quiet life on an inconspicuous M-class planet in the Milky Way galaxy sometime in the Rassilonate era. He certainly hadn’t planned to, but he ended up marrying a local woman.
“I’m the product of that marriage. When I reached a certain age, my father told me the whole truth about the world he’d left. He offered to send me to live with relatives there, even though he’d have to expose himself as a renegade to do so. I appreciated my father’s reasons for leaving, however. And naturally I didn’t want to inconvenience my family. I asked that he educate me himself on Earth instead. Other than making a brief visit to an orbital space hanger for disused TARDISes to,” the Doctor coughed, “collect my Type 40, I’ve been nowhere near the planet. I’ve never so much as been introduced to another Gallifreyan. Until now, of course.” He smiled at the Master, boyish and charming. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise.” The Master grinned. “You know, Doctor, your origins are extraordinary–I’ve never met a Time Lord born or reared outside the Citadel.” The Master leaned back, watching the Doctor over his laced fingers. “And I suppose the CIA doesn’t even track you as a renegade–”
“Because they’ve no idea I exist? That’s right,” the Doctor agreed briskly, then changed the subject. “I’m incredibly obliged to you for rescuing me from that auction. I could never have made a respectable servant. I’d only have been blackballed in the Junior Ganymede ballot, and I don’t know whether I could have borne the snub.”
The Master waved a dismissive hand, not wanting to admit to not having understood what had sounded like a joke. “Not at all, Doctor.”
“I don’t suppose you know what became of my TARDIS?” The Doctor gave him a hopeful look. “It would have been large, blue and wooden at the time–at any time, actually. The chameleon circuit’s broken, I’ve been meaning to fix it. Reads ‘Police Public Call Box’ across the top?” The Doctor’s expression was genuine, endearingly earnest. The Master was almost tempted to tell him the truth.
“There’s no trace of a TARDIS anywhere on the revolting world I found you on,” he said, which wasn’t strictly a lie: the Doctor’s TARDIS wasn’t anywhere near Glispywallop, now. It was still inside the Master’s, the location of which, when he wasn’t using it, was a matter of Imperial state secret. The Master always wanted her somewhere discrete, well-protected and yet close at hand in case of emergencies. The capsule was currently disguised as his bedroom closet. If one pushed past the dark, plush capes and jackets and they’d find, to their great surprise, a sleek console room, vast and otherworldly.
“Oh.” The Doctor’s eyes (blue, the Master observed almost without noticing he did it, very blue indeed–a striking–what would you call that? Wedgwood? No, he corrected himself, they were darker than that–more of a cobalt shade) dropped in disappointment. Then, with some decision, the Doctor slung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. “The poor girl must have wandered off. She does that from time to time–getting on in years, you see. Well. I must be off. I’ve a TARDIS to find. Thank you very much for–”
“Off, Doctor?” the Master inquired politely, lazy in his low chair. He should have moved his legs to let the Doctor pass, but he didn’t.
The Doctor frowned at him. “As I said, I’m delighted to have been saved from slavery–”
“Ah.” The Master arched an eyebrow. “I see. You do not understand your position, Doctor. I’ve bought you.”
“Excuse me?” The Doctor goggled at him. “You’ve bought me?”
“For seventy five drachbars. You’re now mine to do with as I please.” The Master chuckled. “You have been somewhat naïve, haven’t you?”
“Seventy five drachbars? What’s that, roughly the price of a small wagon?” The Doctor’s voice had gone squeaky with indignation. Not that it was important, but he might’ve hoped to be thought worth at least as much as a cottage or something. The Doctor swallowed, eyes widening slightly. “And what exactly am I supposed to be doing to earn my keep?”
The Master, of whom he’d heard nothing but the most appalling rumors, had a tight, vicious smile. It seemed a product of unfathomable sources of private amusement. Something in it made the Doctor’s breath catch in his throat, his stomach tighten. “Tell me, Doctor,” the Master eyed him up and down, his gaze frank and infuriatingly proprietary, “how are you in the laboratory?”
It wasn’t quite the question the Doctor expected. His eyes narrowed. “If it’s about the money, I assure you, I can buy my liberty–”
“Oh, I’m far more interested in your mind than your monetary resources, Doctor.” People generally found declarations that someone wasn’t just in their bedroom because they were after money flattering, but, difficult as ever, the Doctor only winced. “Besides,” the Master smirked, “what else can one really accomplish with seventy five drachbars? I’m not currently in the market for a wagon, small or otherwise.”
“Master.” The Doctor sat down on the bed again, facing the other man at eye level. “We’re both Time Lords. From what I know of our people, we’re culturally far beyond this nonsense. Surely there’s some way to convince you to be reasonable about this situation?”
The Master interlaced his fingers in his lap. “I’m being entirely reasonable,” he said coolly. “I’ve acquired another Time Lord to work under me at bargain price. Surely it would be unreasonable of me to throw back such a catch. And I must warn you, Doctor, I won’t tolerate a poor performance from you. Any attempt to sabotage my work through mediocrity will be met with the direst consequences.”
The Doctor gaped at him, managing simultaneous incredulity, righteous indignation and rage. Splashes of red stood out on his fever-pale cheeks, striking as wine stains on a table cloth. “What’s this then, ‘Good work, sleep well, I'll most likely kill you in the morning’?”
The Master raised an eyebrow at the indecipherable reference, stood, and adjusted his gloves before turning to go out. “Pleasant dreams, Doctor.”
What
x_los has done here is nothing short of amazing: she's taken one of the sketchiest old fanfic cliches and simultaneously subverted it - both plotwise, because the Master wants the Doctor for science before sex and because the Doctor is far from helpless, and tonally, because this fic is frequently laugh-out-loud funny (there are even some Hitchhiker's Guide crossover bits) - and also written the heck out of it in a serious way, with equal attention given to the hotness and the inherent screwed-up-ness of the trope. The Whoniverse presented is lively and chock-full of classic characters, the plot is engagingly plotty, and the AU is curiously effective in examining both characters and who they are at their core.(I do feel I should warn for dub-con; it's somewhat inherent in the premise, and the author doesn't pull punches with that. It's not depicted as being without consequence, but there are one or two scenes that could be triggering. Fair warning.)
The Crane Wife