Fic: Crocodile Clips
11/6/13 07:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
neveralarchI've committed Shalka fic! It fills the "b_e fill" and "robots/cybernetics" squares on my idfic bingo. I've been meaning to write this fic for almost exactly two years, but I kept hoping that someone else would write it for me...
Crocodile Clips
Doctor Who
Rating: adult
(sex, swearing.)
Characters: Shalka!Doctor/Shalka!Master
Wordcount: 2,500ish
Summary: The Doctor gets sidetracked while repairing the Master's knee.
A/N: Written for an anon on the best_enemies anonmeme who prompted partially-disassembled sex.
The Master's head is on a shelf and his torso is on the worktable. His spine still connects the two, pulled out and dangling across the gap between shelf and table, circuits glistening in the dim light of the Doctor's workshop. The Doctor has the Master's right leg popped out and his knee disassembled; it's been sticking recently, and the Doctor's not sure if it's a problem with the servos or the neurocontrollers or the joint itself. Possibly all three.
The Doctor sips from his gin and tonic, then picks up a small manual screwdriver.
"I do wish you wouldn't imbibe while you operate," says the Master. His mouth doesn't move from its habitual smirk - most of his facial controls are disconnected - but his voice resonates clearly from the speaker system in his chest. "I shudder to think what you might do to my wiring while intoxicated."
"It's only a G and T." The Doctor loosens a few screws, then takes off the Master's kneecap.
"But primarily G," observes the Master. "Refrain, if you please. Have you located the problem?"
"The joint is clean." The Doctor rotates it, carefully, and the Master's knee bends and turns smoothly. "None of the wires look discolored or broken, either."
"You can't see conductivity," says the Master.
"I might be able to," says the Doctor, but he stands up and opens one of the roundels on the wall, revealing a pair of crocodile clips. "Since you have no confidence in my abilities, I'll let the TARDIS test the individual conductivity." The Master's toes twitch as the Doctor connects his leg to the TARDIS.
"It's probably the neurocontrollers," says the Master, switching targets. "You did a very slapdash job with those."
"If you can find a better mechanic, you're welcome to fire me," says the Doctor. "I think I'll check the servos first."
A servomechanism automatically reacts to feedback and adjusts performance without needing conscious input. It would be impossible for the Master to walk if he had to think about each and every step, had to instantly react to minor variations in the slant and roughness and stability of the floor. It's possible that a servo is lagging and producing a delayed response that makes it seem as if the Master's knee is sticking.
The servos are housed in the Master's upper thighs, which are still attached to the Master's torso. The Doctor twirls his screwdriver between his fingers and approaches the worktable. The Master's eyes follow him, the only part of his face that's still mobile.
The Doctor leans in between the Master's thighs, and hesitates. The best position for accessing the right servo involves twisting himself so he's facing the Master's thigh and leaning against the Master's body. The Master happens to be naked, as clothes would only impede the repair process. This position places the Doctor in immediate contact with the Master's groin. Thus, the situation calls for delicacy.
After some thought, the Doctor unbuttons his waistcoat and drapes it over the Master. It bulges a little and in general does nothing to hide what the Doctor knows is underneath, but he feels a little better.
"Really, Doctor?" asks the Master. "You weren't so bashful last night."
"It's different when I'm performing repairs." The Doctor rolls his shirtsleeves a little higher, glances up at the Master's face. His smirk looks thoughtful, though intellectually the Doctor knows that the Master's expression can't change at all when he's been almost totally disconnected from control of his body.
The Doctor begins unscrewing the casing on the Master's right thigh, quick turns of the screwdriver and carefully setting the loose screws into a teacup. He tries not to dwell on the way every movement makes his arm brush against the Master, shifting the waistcoat slightly.
"You should use your sonic screwdriver for this," says the Master. "Isn't that what it's for?"
"I'd hate to accidentally disrupt any of your delicate wiring," says the Doctor, which isn't the real reason. Using manual tools with the Master feels... right. More intimate.
The Master's eyes roll, his mouth still locked in a skeptical smirk. "I'm sure I'm hardier than that. It would certainly be faster."
With the sonic screwdriver, the Doctor could have all seven of the casing screws off in a few seconds. With an old-fashioned manual screwdriver, he spends much longer on each screw, shifting his weight against the Master's disassembled form, his breath skating across the Master's unmoving skin.
"Efficiency," says the Doctor, "isn't everything."
The last screw clatters into the teacup, and the Doctor lifts away the thigh casing. Underneath, the Master's mechanisms gleam as if new. Everything is made from rustproof material, and dust is absorbed by the bio-nanites that circulate like blood through the Master's body. It's excellent workmanship, even if the Doctor does say so himself.
The Doctor snaps on a latex glove, and lifts out the tiny servo cylinder with careful fingers. The connections look clean, and when he runs a testing current through it everything responds as it should.
"It's the neurocontrollers," says the Master. "I did try to tell you."
"Yes, yes." The Doctor doesn't replace the servo right away. He takes another sip of his drink instead, lets his gloved fingers stray into the gap in the Master's thigh. All of the bio-nanites were drained before the Doctor began disassembly, so he can only feel wires and metal and plastic and circuitry, all the things that come together to form the Master's physical self spread out and inert.
"You look flushed," says the Master. "You're not drunk already, are you?"
"I haven't even had half of my drink," says the Doctor. He tries for indignation, but he can't quite muster it. Not while looking over the Master, naked and in pieces, his leg hung from the TARDIS wall, his circuits open to the air, the Doctor's fingers curled among the wires in his thigh.
"Then you have a fever, I suppose." The Master sighs, and his smirk looks put-upon. "Please try not to sneeze on my musculature."
"I'm not sick." The Doctor reluctantly pulls his hand out of the Master and stands up. "Shall we have a look at those neurocontrollers?"
"I've never seen you turn this unattractive shade of puce." The Master's eyes whir, focusing and unfocusing as the Doctor approaches his head. "And your pupils are dilated."
"Are they? How strange." The Doctor lifts up the Master's head, one hand cradling the back of his skull while the other gathers up the trailing wires that connect the Master's head to his spine. "Well, Yorick, would you prefer to be on or off during this procedure?"
"You're aroused," decides the Master. "How deviant of you, my dear Doctor."
The Doctor forces a laugh, doesn't glance back at the Master's body, exposed gears and naked skin, half-covered by his waistcoat. "Master, I'm simply performing some much-needed maintenance. On or off?"
"You're aroused by my dishabille." The Master chuckles, and the Doctor glares at his immobile, superior expression. "On, if you please. I wouldn't want to tempt you with my unconsciousness."
"I can't imagine what you're implying." The Doctor carries the Master's head over to the worktable, bending his flexible plastic spine back on itself in the process.
"Can't you?" The Master makes a tutting noise. "You've never lacked for imagination before."
The Doctor sits down and turns the Master so that he's facing away from him. He picks up the screwdriver again, brushes his gloved fingers through the Master's hair to find the screws that hold the back of his head together.
"It wouldn't be the same," the Doctor mutters. His cheeks are burning, and he's desperately glad that the Master can't see his face now. "It would just be a pile of gears. It wouldn't be you."
"I'm flattered," says the Master, sounding caught between sarcasm and sincerity.
The Doctor locates a screw and begins dethreading it from the Master's skull. There are four of these, if he recalls correctly, three short and one quite long. This one is short, and he frees the screw with a few quick turns, takes it between thumb and forefinger.
"Would you fuck me like this?" asks the Master.
The Doctor drops the screw.
It bounces away under a cabinet, as screws always will, and the Doctor scrambles after it. "Do you mind?" he asks, on hands and knees, peering under the cabinet. "This is very delicate work."
"I'm bored," purrs the Master. "And you're especially entertaining when you're flustered."
The Doctor locates the screw and gets back to his feet. "On your own neurocircuitry be it." He is glad that he can't see the Master's predatory smirk.
"I can see the appeal," says the Master. "There would be no need to waste time with stretching me with your fingers, no need to treat me as if I were made of flesh and blood. You could literally open me up. Ratchet my thighs apart and use a spanner to loosen the bolts that hold my nethers together until you can force your whole hand inside."
The Doctor dethreads another short screw, sets it in the teacup. His breathing is heavier than it should be, noisy, embarrassing. He can't seem to control it.
"You could remove the casing from my chest," suggests the Master. "Run a current and watch my cables shudder and my gears grind as you thrust your hand deeper and you push your trousers down, fumbling with your cock."
"I don't fumble," manages the Doctor. His hearts are racing, and he drops another short screw on the floor. He lets this one bounce away unmolested - he can retrieve it later.
"As you like," says the Master, indulgent. "You artfully remove your pulsing manhood and thrust it into my unresisting shell, feel stray electrical impulses tingle against your skin as sweat drips from your brow into my gears and you-"
"This sounds extremely unsafe." The Doctor begins dethreading the long screw, and every turn of the screwdriver makes his cock ache, like there's a cable running from his fingers to his balls. He needs a drink, but his gin and tonic is all the way on the other side of the table - he can't reach it from here, and he doesn't think he can stand.
"You can withstand a few volts," says the Master.
"Unsafe for you, I meant." The screw finally comes out, and the Doctor sets it in the teacup. "Sweat in your gearing? Next it will be semen, I expect, and a choice between hours of clean up or unpleasantly sticky pistons."
"It's a fantasy." The Master sounds a little frustrated. "It's your fantasy, I might add, so I would appreciate some gratitude rather than criticism."
The Doctor pries at the backplate of the Master's skull. It seems to be stuck.
"You could pull my arm free from its socket," says the Master, voice low. "Curl my fingers around your erection, the joints creaking and protesting at your manipulation. I'd watch from the table as you stroked yourself, eyes following your every move as you gasped my name-"
There must be another screw. The Doctor runs his fingers over the Master's skull again, finds the hole, fits the screwdriver. His hands are shaking. The Master is still talking, but the Doctor can't quite pick out any individual word. The Master's voice just pulses through him, manifesting as dark promising tones and insistent arousal and the striking image of sucking the Master's half-deconstructed phalanges clean while the Master watches him, his eyes whirring as they focus and unfocus, his chest open and the gears turning, turning, the Doctor bites down on a moan as the backplate falls away, clattering onto the table.
Tiny lights blink at the Doctor from the intricate workings within the Master's skull, and the Doctor watches the Master's eyes focus and unfocus from the inside.
The Doctor carefully sets aside his screwdriver, pushes his trousers down, and fumbles with his cock.
"Turn my head around," says the Master. "I want to see."
The Doctor spins the Master to face him, and knocks over the teacup of screws with his elbow. The screws bounce away into dark corners as the Doctor strokes himself with his gloved hand, the latex catching against his skin.
"There's a container of machine oil on your right," says the Master. His smirk is eager as the Doctor reaches out blindly for the tube and squirts the lubricant onto his gloved hand. He's going to regret this later, he can tell. This is not a suitable application of machine oil.
There's a pressure building up inside of him, like a spring is being wound tighter and tighter until it has to unwind or break. His thumb flicks over the head of his cock, slippery and strange from the combination of oil and latex. The Doctor pulls the Master's skull closer to him, his fingertips hooking into the gap in the back.
"You're beautiful like this." The Doctor is impressed at his own coherency. The Master blinks at him, lazily, but his smirk looks uncertain. "You are," insists the Doctor, leaning forward in his seat until he's curled into the worktable, his eyes level with the Master's own. "I can see every piece of you, your plastic and your tubing and your sharp metal edges, and I still can't see what makes you the Master, your-" The Doctor pauses to try and catch his breath, but it's too fast for him. "Your emergent properties, damn it, Master-"
He comes, and lets his head fall down onto the worktable. For a moment the only sound he can hear is his own breathing.
"I'd like to wrap my hand around your throat," murmurs the Master. "Squeeze until you're bruised and gasping my name again." He sounds affectionate, so it probably isn't meant as a threat.
"Mhm."
"Unfortunately, I'm still in pieces. And we still don't know why my knee is malfunctioning."
The Doctor tips his head sideways and looks up at the Master, blearily. He reaches up and turns the Master until he can see into the back of his head. The neurocontrollers are a thin webbing of fragile electrosilk. A section of it is singed, probably by a nearby wire that appears to have overheated and melted its insulation.
"Found the problem," mumbles the Doctor. He's suddenly very tired, and it's only with great difficulty that he removes his latex glove and rearranges his clothing into something closer to debauchery than obscenity.
"Aren't you going to do something about it?" asks the Master.
"Later." The Doctor's eyes slip closed. "I think I'll take a nap first."
"You can't nap," hisses the Master. He looks around the room - screws all over the floor, machine oil all over the table, and his leg is still attached to the TARDIS with crocodile clips. "The place is a mess."
"I tried to warn you about the cleanup." The Doctor's voice is getting quieter and quieter. "Let me just rest my eyes."
"Sex used to energize you," says the Master. It's mostly an effort to needle the Doctor into staying awake. "That was your sixth incarnation's best quality."
The Doctor mumbles something that probably isn't words. The effort has failed.
"I feel," the Master tells the room at large, "that I may have made an error in timing."
The Doctor snores.
Crocodile Clips
Doctor Who
Rating: adult
(sex, swearing.)
Characters: Shalka!Doctor/Shalka!Master
Wordcount: 2,500ish
Summary: The Doctor gets sidetracked while repairing the Master's knee.
A/N: Written for an anon on the best_enemies anonmeme who prompted partially-disassembled sex.
The Master's head is on a shelf and his torso is on the worktable. His spine still connects the two, pulled out and dangling across the gap between shelf and table, circuits glistening in the dim light of the Doctor's workshop. The Doctor has the Master's right leg popped out and his knee disassembled; it's been sticking recently, and the Doctor's not sure if it's a problem with the servos or the neurocontrollers or the joint itself. Possibly all three.
The Doctor sips from his gin and tonic, then picks up a small manual screwdriver.
"I do wish you wouldn't imbibe while you operate," says the Master. His mouth doesn't move from its habitual smirk - most of his facial controls are disconnected - but his voice resonates clearly from the speaker system in his chest. "I shudder to think what you might do to my wiring while intoxicated."
"It's only a G and T." The Doctor loosens a few screws, then takes off the Master's kneecap.
"But primarily G," observes the Master. "Refrain, if you please. Have you located the problem?"
"The joint is clean." The Doctor rotates it, carefully, and the Master's knee bends and turns smoothly. "None of the wires look discolored or broken, either."
"You can't see conductivity," says the Master.
"I might be able to," says the Doctor, but he stands up and opens one of the roundels on the wall, revealing a pair of crocodile clips. "Since you have no confidence in my abilities, I'll let the TARDIS test the individual conductivity." The Master's toes twitch as the Doctor connects his leg to the TARDIS.
"It's probably the neurocontrollers," says the Master, switching targets. "You did a very slapdash job with those."
"If you can find a better mechanic, you're welcome to fire me," says the Doctor. "I think I'll check the servos first."
A servomechanism automatically reacts to feedback and adjusts performance without needing conscious input. It would be impossible for the Master to walk if he had to think about each and every step, had to instantly react to minor variations in the slant and roughness and stability of the floor. It's possible that a servo is lagging and producing a delayed response that makes it seem as if the Master's knee is sticking.
The servos are housed in the Master's upper thighs, which are still attached to the Master's torso. The Doctor twirls his screwdriver between his fingers and approaches the worktable. The Master's eyes follow him, the only part of his face that's still mobile.
The Doctor leans in between the Master's thighs, and hesitates. The best position for accessing the right servo involves twisting himself so he's facing the Master's thigh and leaning against the Master's body. The Master happens to be naked, as clothes would only impede the repair process. This position places the Doctor in immediate contact with the Master's groin. Thus, the situation calls for delicacy.
After some thought, the Doctor unbuttons his waistcoat and drapes it over the Master. It bulges a little and in general does nothing to hide what the Doctor knows is underneath, but he feels a little better.
"Really, Doctor?" asks the Master. "You weren't so bashful last night."
"It's different when I'm performing repairs." The Doctor rolls his shirtsleeves a little higher, glances up at the Master's face. His smirk looks thoughtful, though intellectually the Doctor knows that the Master's expression can't change at all when he's been almost totally disconnected from control of his body.
The Doctor begins unscrewing the casing on the Master's right thigh, quick turns of the screwdriver and carefully setting the loose screws into a teacup. He tries not to dwell on the way every movement makes his arm brush against the Master, shifting the waistcoat slightly.
"You should use your sonic screwdriver for this," says the Master. "Isn't that what it's for?"
"I'd hate to accidentally disrupt any of your delicate wiring," says the Doctor, which isn't the real reason. Using manual tools with the Master feels... right. More intimate.
The Master's eyes roll, his mouth still locked in a skeptical smirk. "I'm sure I'm hardier than that. It would certainly be faster."
With the sonic screwdriver, the Doctor could have all seven of the casing screws off in a few seconds. With an old-fashioned manual screwdriver, he spends much longer on each screw, shifting his weight against the Master's disassembled form, his breath skating across the Master's unmoving skin.
"Efficiency," says the Doctor, "isn't everything."
The last screw clatters into the teacup, and the Doctor lifts away the thigh casing. Underneath, the Master's mechanisms gleam as if new. Everything is made from rustproof material, and dust is absorbed by the bio-nanites that circulate like blood through the Master's body. It's excellent workmanship, even if the Doctor does say so himself.
The Doctor snaps on a latex glove, and lifts out the tiny servo cylinder with careful fingers. The connections look clean, and when he runs a testing current through it everything responds as it should.
"It's the neurocontrollers," says the Master. "I did try to tell you."
"Yes, yes." The Doctor doesn't replace the servo right away. He takes another sip of his drink instead, lets his gloved fingers stray into the gap in the Master's thigh. All of the bio-nanites were drained before the Doctor began disassembly, so he can only feel wires and metal and plastic and circuitry, all the things that come together to form the Master's physical self spread out and inert.
"You look flushed," says the Master. "You're not drunk already, are you?"
"I haven't even had half of my drink," says the Doctor. He tries for indignation, but he can't quite muster it. Not while looking over the Master, naked and in pieces, his leg hung from the TARDIS wall, his circuits open to the air, the Doctor's fingers curled among the wires in his thigh.
"Then you have a fever, I suppose." The Master sighs, and his smirk looks put-upon. "Please try not to sneeze on my musculature."
"I'm not sick." The Doctor reluctantly pulls his hand out of the Master and stands up. "Shall we have a look at those neurocontrollers?"
"I've never seen you turn this unattractive shade of puce." The Master's eyes whir, focusing and unfocusing as the Doctor approaches his head. "And your pupils are dilated."
"Are they? How strange." The Doctor lifts up the Master's head, one hand cradling the back of his skull while the other gathers up the trailing wires that connect the Master's head to his spine. "Well, Yorick, would you prefer to be on or off during this procedure?"
"You're aroused," decides the Master. "How deviant of you, my dear Doctor."
The Doctor forces a laugh, doesn't glance back at the Master's body, exposed gears and naked skin, half-covered by his waistcoat. "Master, I'm simply performing some much-needed maintenance. On or off?"
"You're aroused by my dishabille." The Master chuckles, and the Doctor glares at his immobile, superior expression. "On, if you please. I wouldn't want to tempt you with my unconsciousness."
"I can't imagine what you're implying." The Doctor carries the Master's head over to the worktable, bending his flexible plastic spine back on itself in the process.
"Can't you?" The Master makes a tutting noise. "You've never lacked for imagination before."
The Doctor sits down and turns the Master so that he's facing away from him. He picks up the screwdriver again, brushes his gloved fingers through the Master's hair to find the screws that hold the back of his head together.
"It wouldn't be the same," the Doctor mutters. His cheeks are burning, and he's desperately glad that the Master can't see his face now. "It would just be a pile of gears. It wouldn't be you."
"I'm flattered," says the Master, sounding caught between sarcasm and sincerity.
The Doctor locates a screw and begins dethreading it from the Master's skull. There are four of these, if he recalls correctly, three short and one quite long. This one is short, and he frees the screw with a few quick turns, takes it between thumb and forefinger.
"Would you fuck me like this?" asks the Master.
The Doctor drops the screw.
It bounces away under a cabinet, as screws always will, and the Doctor scrambles after it. "Do you mind?" he asks, on hands and knees, peering under the cabinet. "This is very delicate work."
"I'm bored," purrs the Master. "And you're especially entertaining when you're flustered."
The Doctor locates the screw and gets back to his feet. "On your own neurocircuitry be it." He is glad that he can't see the Master's predatory smirk.
"I can see the appeal," says the Master. "There would be no need to waste time with stretching me with your fingers, no need to treat me as if I were made of flesh and blood. You could literally open me up. Ratchet my thighs apart and use a spanner to loosen the bolts that hold my nethers together until you can force your whole hand inside."
The Doctor dethreads another short screw, sets it in the teacup. His breathing is heavier than it should be, noisy, embarrassing. He can't seem to control it.
"You could remove the casing from my chest," suggests the Master. "Run a current and watch my cables shudder and my gears grind as you thrust your hand deeper and you push your trousers down, fumbling with your cock."
"I don't fumble," manages the Doctor. His hearts are racing, and he drops another short screw on the floor. He lets this one bounce away unmolested - he can retrieve it later.
"As you like," says the Master, indulgent. "You artfully remove your pulsing manhood and thrust it into my unresisting shell, feel stray electrical impulses tingle against your skin as sweat drips from your brow into my gears and you-"
"This sounds extremely unsafe." The Doctor begins dethreading the long screw, and every turn of the screwdriver makes his cock ache, like there's a cable running from his fingers to his balls. He needs a drink, but his gin and tonic is all the way on the other side of the table - he can't reach it from here, and he doesn't think he can stand.
"You can withstand a few volts," says the Master.
"Unsafe for you, I meant." The screw finally comes out, and the Doctor sets it in the teacup. "Sweat in your gearing? Next it will be semen, I expect, and a choice between hours of clean up or unpleasantly sticky pistons."
"It's a fantasy." The Master sounds a little frustrated. "It's your fantasy, I might add, so I would appreciate some gratitude rather than criticism."
The Doctor pries at the backplate of the Master's skull. It seems to be stuck.
"You could pull my arm free from its socket," says the Master, voice low. "Curl my fingers around your erection, the joints creaking and protesting at your manipulation. I'd watch from the table as you stroked yourself, eyes following your every move as you gasped my name-"
There must be another screw. The Doctor runs his fingers over the Master's skull again, finds the hole, fits the screwdriver. His hands are shaking. The Master is still talking, but the Doctor can't quite pick out any individual word. The Master's voice just pulses through him, manifesting as dark promising tones and insistent arousal and the striking image of sucking the Master's half-deconstructed phalanges clean while the Master watches him, his eyes whirring as they focus and unfocus, his chest open and the gears turning, turning, the Doctor bites down on a moan as the backplate falls away, clattering onto the table.
Tiny lights blink at the Doctor from the intricate workings within the Master's skull, and the Doctor watches the Master's eyes focus and unfocus from the inside.
The Doctor carefully sets aside his screwdriver, pushes his trousers down, and fumbles with his cock.
"Turn my head around," says the Master. "I want to see."
The Doctor spins the Master to face him, and knocks over the teacup of screws with his elbow. The screws bounce away into dark corners as the Doctor strokes himself with his gloved hand, the latex catching against his skin.
"There's a container of machine oil on your right," says the Master. His smirk is eager as the Doctor reaches out blindly for the tube and squirts the lubricant onto his gloved hand. He's going to regret this later, he can tell. This is not a suitable application of machine oil.
There's a pressure building up inside of him, like a spring is being wound tighter and tighter until it has to unwind or break. His thumb flicks over the head of his cock, slippery and strange from the combination of oil and latex. The Doctor pulls the Master's skull closer to him, his fingertips hooking into the gap in the back.
"You're beautiful like this." The Doctor is impressed at his own coherency. The Master blinks at him, lazily, but his smirk looks uncertain. "You are," insists the Doctor, leaning forward in his seat until he's curled into the worktable, his eyes level with the Master's own. "I can see every piece of you, your plastic and your tubing and your sharp metal edges, and I still can't see what makes you the Master, your-" The Doctor pauses to try and catch his breath, but it's too fast for him. "Your emergent properties, damn it, Master-"
He comes, and lets his head fall down onto the worktable. For a moment the only sound he can hear is his own breathing.
"I'd like to wrap my hand around your throat," murmurs the Master. "Squeeze until you're bruised and gasping my name again." He sounds affectionate, so it probably isn't meant as a threat.
"Mhm."
"Unfortunately, I'm still in pieces. And we still don't know why my knee is malfunctioning."
The Doctor tips his head sideways and looks up at the Master, blearily. He reaches up and turns the Master until he can see into the back of his head. The neurocontrollers are a thin webbing of fragile electrosilk. A section of it is singed, probably by a nearby wire that appears to have overheated and melted its insulation.
"Found the problem," mumbles the Doctor. He's suddenly very tired, and it's only with great difficulty that he removes his latex glove and rearranges his clothing into something closer to debauchery than obscenity.
"Aren't you going to do something about it?" asks the Master.
"Later." The Doctor's eyes slip closed. "I think I'll take a nap first."
"You can't nap," hisses the Master. He looks around the room - screws all over the floor, machine oil all over the table, and his leg is still attached to the TARDIS with crocodile clips. "The place is a mess."
"I tried to warn you about the cleanup." The Doctor's voice is getting quieter and quieter. "Let me just rest my eyes."
"Sex used to energize you," says the Master. It's mostly an effort to needle the Doctor into staying awake. "That was your sixth incarnation's best quality."
The Doctor mumbles something that probably isn't words. The effort has failed.
"I feel," the Master tells the room at large, "that I may have made an error in timing."
The Doctor snores.
