Disclaimer: Nope, won't be owning Doctor Who for a little while yet...(ooh, that was an optimistic way of putting it!)
Well well well... It's been two years to the day since I saw "End of Time", and therefore two years to the day since I started writing Doctor Who fanfiction, since I had the first two chapters of "Time and Time Again" and the whole plot outline done by later that night. Thought I ought to mark the occasion...so, I'm starting this! This fic is where I'm going to put all the little bits and pieces I write that don't really fit anywhere else. Prompts, requests, AUs, missing scenes, weird little spontaneous ideas; most will probably be humourous, some might be angsty, probably be a few Bloopers'verse things in there somewhere...we'll see what happens, eh? There'll hopefully be a variety of characters (although knowing me, probably not!).
And here's the starters - a little taste of what might be to come! Came from a conversation with Brownbug about how very multi-talented and awesome John Simm is - and yes, I have recycled a chunk of my "End of Time" fanfiction "Keeping Time".
Rating, genre and character tags updated to match newest chapter.
This chapter: K+; Humour; Simm-Master
The two humans were sat with their backs to the Master in a pair of grey armchairs that spilled their stuffing through numerous tears in their worn fabric. Sheltered from the bitter December wind by a rusting scaffold, they attempted to warm themselves over a smoky flame in a dented oil drum.
The Master's muscles tensed, suddenly brimming with energy – he leaped into the air, impossibly high, before alighting on a stack of tyres behind the men. They turned in surprise; the Master hardly noticed. Realizing he still held the last remaining wrapped burger from the kiosk, he ripped into the paper and began frantically tearing bites out of it.
"Somebody's lively on his feet," one of the men commented. The Master barely heard, with the smell of the burger filling his nostrils, the taste of it in his mouth, the feel of the energy the food was giving him, even if it was quickly overwhelmed by the ferocious hunger.
"Starving," he mumbled through a mouthful. The two humans stared as he devoured the entire burger as though he hadn't eaten for a week.
"Now ye see, that's what ye don't wanna do," the older man said to the younger, Ginger, gesturing to the Master, who was by now licking the sauce off the paper, "eat it all at once. Tempting, I know. But if ye make it last, it can last all day."
It was all gone, the last of that delicious, life-giving food – but he was still so insatiably hungry. He needed more…anything…
"…more…cheese and chips, and meat, and gravy, and cream and beer…" he began muttering, eyes darting to the two men, who had fallen silent, eyeing him warily. "…and pork and beef and fat…great big chunks of hot, wet, red…" He trailed off, eyes still fixed on the two humans. That meat in the burger had tasted so good…so sustaining, so full of energy. Yes, that was what he needed…
"Good fer you, mate," the older man, Tommo, said, tearing his eyes away and nudging Ginger. "Maybe we'd better be going." Ginger glanced at the older man, and then seemed to do a double-take back to the Master, squinting thoughtfully.
"Y-you look like that bloke," he observed, and the Master met his gaze.
Oh, here it comes… Mentally he rolled his eyes, a smile spreading across his face as he licked the last of the sauce off his fingers. When it came to going incognito, maybe becoming Prime Minister hadn't been his most subtle step, let alone getting his face – as well as this regeneration had worked out – on international television.
"Hey…" Now Tommo was taking a second look at the Master's face, recognition slowly dawning in his eyes. "Hey, yeah – so 'e does…" They were so slow – the Master could have laughed aloud as Tommo turned to Ginger. "You remember, eh – how did it go again?"
"Yeah – what was it? 'Do do, do do do, dodododo do do'…" he began singing.
"What?" The Master stopped short, blinking at the men. Tommo began humming along, nodding in time.
"Hmm hm-hm mm-mm…what were the words? 'Hooow does it feel, to tre-'"
"No no no," the Master interrupted hastily, raising a finger and gesturing to his face. "Prime Minister. Harold Saxon. Ring any bells?" It was too late; grinning broadly, both men were singing along now.
"C'mon, give us a few lines! 'Thought I told you to meet me, when I walked down to the beach'…"
With a growl, the Master crumpled the paper in one hand, flung it to the ground and jumped to his feet.
"It was the eighties!" he exploded, stomping off towards the gravel heaps, the tuneless singing of the men pursuing him across the wasteland.