Work Text:
"Target of Opportunity," definition: (DOD) 1. A target visible to a surface or air sensor or observer, which is within range of available weapons and against which fire has not been scheduled or requested . . . Generally fleeting in nature, it should be attacked as soon as possible within the time limitations imposed for coordination and warning of friendly troops and aircraft.
http://usmilitary.about.com/od/glossarytermst/g/t6273.htm
"What power would hell have if those imprisoned here would not be able to dream of heaven?" — Dream to Lucifer and the citizens of Hell, in Preludes and Nocturnes by Neil Gaiman.
His mind a million miles away, Captain Jack Harkness lay in bed alongside the Master and ran his fingertips across the cool, alien skin, trying to judge the Time Lord’s level of arousal. The dance was a familiar one now, ground into his memory by repetition and pain — greater pain upon failure, lesser pain on success.
They were completely alone in the Valiant stateroom the Master seemed to reserve for these little trysts. No guards — Jack was fairly certain no cameras, either. Given his enthusiasm for the situation in general, the Master seemed oddly squeamish about letting anyone else know what went on during their little sessions. Still, Jack assumed the Doctor received a full report.
Jack cupped the Master’s hips in his hands, lightly pressing the buried glands that lay just under his thumbs. The Master’s breath hissed out in a long, slow exhalation, as he arched his hips up to meet Jack’s touch. The glands were fully engorged — Jack circled his thumbs once, to be sure — and the Master’s gasp convinced him it was time to move along to the next phase.
As he ran his tongue along a particular region of skin, both to begin the first arousal of a new area and to provide surface lubrication for later, Jack’s mind ran through the old, familiar odds he’d long ago calculated.
Alone like this, with the Master distracted, Jack put his chances of being able to kill the Time Lord with his bare hands to be fairly good: seventy-thirty, if not eighty-twenty. Greater strength and speed or not, the Master didn’t have greater-than-human mass, and most of his vulnerable spots were perfectly accessible someone with Jack’s training and leverage.
But. Would it be an appropriate move? That was the question. After all, the Master would only regenerate. While he might change superficially, Jack could attest that regeneration didn’t change a Time Lord’s core personality. In the long run, sticking with the devil they all knew seemed the simplest route. Besides, no matter how much Jack might long to feel the Master’s neck snap between his hands he was under direct orders to do no such thing.
Jack followed the line of saliva with his fingertip, and left swelling erectile tissue in his wake, the first part of the final, complex pattern.
The abandoned warehouse, Martha catching a little, fitful sleep in the corner, Jack and the Doctor sitting next to their makeshift firepit.
“So, what’s the backup plan? You must have one. You’d better have one,” Jack had said, keeping his voice low.
“Oh, yes, I have a few, depending on how everything plays out. But I hope we won’t have to use them.” The Doctor gazed into the flames for a moment, features blank and unreadable behind his spectacles. “It could be unpleasant,” he said. “It may end up being you and me providing a distraction. If we’re captured, it’s vital that Martha escape — alone.”
His dark eyes flickered up to meet Jack’s, the rest of him still as stone.
“I’m guessing the Master won’t provide five-star accommodations and dancing girls, if he gets his hands on us,” Jack replied.
“Oh, no,” the Doctor said, with chilling matter-of-factness.
Martha and the Doctor had some plan between them, and Jack hadn’t been told what it was — nor had he wanted to know, since that way he couldn’t betray anything under interrogation. Wasted concern, really — the Master hadn’t once attempted to question Jack. He’d had other things in mind, it turned out. Nothing Jack would have predicted, that was for sure — but given that he and the Doctor were here on the Valiant as sacrifices, to attract and hold the Master’s attention, it was as good or better than anything Jack could have hoped for. So he did his duty, and only fantasized about murder.
Not to mention that any physical attack Jack might launch would necessarily have to be quick, clean and thus relatively painless in order to succeed — any hesitation and he’d be overpowered. That would be no good; he wanted to see the Master suffer.
Jack carefully worked the pattern of hidden, sensitive ductwork under the Master’s skin, allowing arcane compounds to flow and mingle beneath the skin as secretory cells were stimulated. As he usually did, he let hate warm his touch in the place of passion or love. He couldn’t conjure either of those emotions in the Master’s presence, nor did he want to. Jack’s own physical arousal, guaranteed by the chemical cocktail the Master’d injected before they began, was a now-familiar, distant irritation, easily ignored.
How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways . . .
He hated the Master for his torment of the Doctor and Martha’s misguided (but well-meaning) family.
He hated the Master for the cruelty and destructiveness of his reign over the Earth. A tenth of the population gone in the first hour — an unthinkable number of lives lost — and that only the beginning.
He hated the Master for the bizarre game of one-upmanship he played with the Doctor, taking everything the Doctor held dear and trying to make it his own — Jack himself included. That was, beyond a doubt, why Jack was here now. If there was any scrap of silver lining, it was that Rose and her family were safely beyond even a Time Lord’s reach, across the Void. Lucy suffered in Rose’s place, and Jack was deeply, horribly relieved.
Still, he hated the Master for Lucy Saxon’s sake. She had loved the Master once, Jack was certain — and her reward was to be progressively emptied out from the inside until she became a hollow shell, her eyes horrifyingly blank.
He hated the Master for the long nights when Jack lay awake in his cell, and wondered what had happened to Torchwood Three. His people, his responsibility, sent on a wild goose chase into the unknown just before literal hell broke loose. For a while, Jack had entertained an elaborate fantasy wherein his team made it to Japan and joined the famous Resistance there — until the day Japan burned and Jack shed his first and only tears on the Valiant.
He hated the Master for the knowledge he’d given Jack, knowledge Jack had spent decades desiring: the keys to a Time Lord’s pleasure. But he hadn’t wanted to learn this way, with this teacher. He’d had an different face and voice and touch in mind. One that loved, rather than treating Jack as a trained animal, capable of a few amusing tricks, and nothing more . . .
Jack wrenched his mind away from the Doctor, as he did during these sessions, not wanting to poison what he felt for one Time Lord by association with another. He applied a calculated nip to sensitive flesh, at the same time shifting with practiced grace so that the Master’s grip on his shoulder wasn’t positioned to snap Jack’s collarbone. The Master’s hand clamped down in reaction, but while Jack’s bones creaked painfully, none of them broke.
Jack eased his pressure, and the grip on his shoulder slackened in response. He went back to tracing the hidden lines of ducts and pressure points with tongue and fingers. It was all going very smoothly. The Master was clearly lost in the sensations he felt, forgetting to breathe for minutes at a time, and Jack had managed to get this far with only a few cracked ribs and a wrenched hip joint. Not even any facial bruising this time.
No doubt the Master would be pleased, and would deign to pleasure his human pet in return afterwards. The thought made Jack unutterably weary. His Time Agency training was intact despite his missing memories, and seduction and arousal were tools he’d learned to use long ago. He would mimic pleasure at the Master’s attentions effectively . . . but, Lord of the Earth or not, the Master was the lousiest lay Jack had ever encountered. He’d been with invertebrates who were better.
Not like the Master would notice — he seemed very smug about his imagined effect on Jack. The man had clearly never experienced anything like actual lovemaking. He certainly didn’t seem to notice anything amiss in Jack’s mechanistic approach during their sessions together.
In fact, Jack had long ago revised his original opinions. He no longer thought it likely that the Master and the Doctor had been lovers. If they had been, the Master would have known what real sex was about. Jack couldn’t imagine the Doctor as anything but a true and generous partner. Lucy, Jack knew all too well, had married while still highly inexperienced. Ergo . . . the Master had no clue what he was missing.
That was a new an unexpected thought. Jack considered it for a moment as he slid up the Master’s body to plant a fierce kiss on hungry lips, snaking his tongue up to strike against the unique gland that hid just behind the Master’s upper front teeth. The Master snarled with approval, and Jack flicked his tongue safely back behind his own teeth with enough speed to keep it intact.
A man can’t miss what he’s never had.
Jack slid back down the Master’s body, running his hands along the narrow ribcage, just barely catching the weirdly human nipples on the way. The Master thrashed, but Jack moved with him, and avoided torque that could have dislocated his shoulder.
Hell has no meaning without the comparison of Heaven.
A deep, almost hidden idea began to shape itself in Jack’s mind. The blackest core of his heart began to laugh. After all, what was there to lose? The target was potentially in reach and while the Doctor might not approve, it lay within the scope of his orders.
As he slid down the Master’s body, Jack began to change his tone. His touch slowed and lingered, became something other than that which was necessary to elicit a physical response. He began to trace more elaborate patterns with tongue and fingers, adding grace notes with no purpose other than the extension of pleasure.
The Master, muscles clenching, responded, and Jack knew, knew it would work. He spared a brief, vicious grin, then set to work in earnest. For once, he opened the deepest recesses of his mind and heart, letting his hate mimic other feelings in wicked parody. Warmth flooded though him like poisoned syrup.
This is how I would touch him. Jack thought, and ran his fingers in delicate arabesques over the Master’s lower abdomen, feeling whole networks of erectile tissue rising up at his touch. He chose one line and followed it with slavish care. His pleasure would be mine, and I would take all the time in the world at it . . .
The Master’s diaphragm contracted, forcing a small noise out of his throat. Music to Jack’s ears, but not for the usual reasons.
That’s it, you bastard. This is what it feels like to be loved, cherished . . .
Jack followed the line down to where it joined with the primary male organ, which he circled with his tongue, tasting salt and honey. Oh, the Master was very close now. Deliberately, Jack pulled back and used a fingertip to tease one of the secondary glands, fully engorged now and ready for release.
The Master’s entire body shook, and Jack had another, even darker inspiration.
This wasn’t the only education he’d had about Time Lords. One thing he’d learned during his time with Rose and Doctor was that the nape of a Time Lord’s neck was extraordinarily sensitive, and deeply tied to emotional responses. The Doctor’d never explained in detail, but contact there elicited feelings of relaxation, affection, and intimacy (though not necessarily sexuality). Touch in that spot was reserved for family and lovers. Towards the end of his time with them, that touch had been a common gesture of affection between members of the TARDIS crew.
The Master had never once mentioned it in all of his many lessons.
Smoothly, Jack slid his body a little further up the Master’s and slipped a hand around the back of the Master’s neck, kneading gently. The Master never opened his eyes but his body melted against Jack’s, and his breathing stopped again completely.
Oh, yes.
Working with tremendous care and unstinting tenderness, eager hate twisted into something very much like desire, Jack finished the sequence. It was difficult and uncomfortable for the human body, which had to twist in unusual ways to reach all the necessary spots. But he kept one hand on the back of the Master’s neck all the while, caressing and cradling, supporting and gentling.
When the final link in the chain clamped shut and the Master reached the end of the line, Jack was watching his face. Interestingly, the “seeing God” expression was the same for Time Lords as it was for humans.
Jack slid up and wrapped the Master’s shoulders in his arms, carefully keeping light contact with the nape of the other’s neck, running his fingers up and down along the downy skin. Reflexively, the Master rolled towards Jack and his arms went around Jack’s torso. Jack was more than able to ignore his cracked ribs in the flush of victory.
Now you know — you know what you’ve been missing all this time. It’s yours, this once . . and once only.
They embraced like lovers for a moment, and then the Master took his first breath in several minutes. The wheezing gasp of it reminded Jack of his own resurrections, life after death. His face inches from Jack’s, the Master opened his eyes. The unfocused, tawny-brown gaze was blank, open, and wondering. Jack returned a grin like a knife’s edge.
The Master’s attention snapped into focus, and he stared at Jack with horror. They both knew beyond a doubt who’d been in control for the last few minutes; the Master had been mastered. Jack could see the Time Lord knew exactly what he’d been given — and what he’d lost.
“So, big guy,” Jack purred, his tone dripping ice and venom. “Was it good for you too?”
The Master’s expression emptied out, refilled with shock, loss and pain . . . and then a surge of vicious, uncontrolled rage. Snarling, he reached out, laid his outspread hand on the crown of Jack’s head, and twisted.
Jack’s world went white, then black.
--
Jack came back to life with the familiar, burning gasp of new air in reanimated lungs. Simultaneously, he became aware of a different burning sensation, in the joints of his shoulders and across his back.
Another breath, and the oxygen cleared his head so he could take in his situation. He was on his knees, held upright by his bound wrists, which were attached by cables to facing bulkheads. He’d been re-clothed, which surprised him briefly. Then again, the Master did seem to want to keep certain secrets.
With a huff and a grunt he heaved himself to his feet, relieving the worst of the pressure on his aching shoulders. It still wasn’t pleasant, but it was bearable. Which was good — Jack had the feeling he was seeing his new permanent accommodations. From the heat and sounds and smells (grease, rubber, hot metal and ozone), he was somewhere deep in the bowels of the Valiant. Two armed guards in UNIT uniforms stood facing away from him, a short distance down the corridor. They had to have heard him start breathing again, but gave no sign of acknowledgement.
Jack’s head was throbbing, a double reaction to the Master’s aphrodisiac and to having his neck broken. His mouth tasted like formaldehyde and carrion. He swished saliva forcefully around and swallowed, trying to clear the nastiness. He thought it better not to spit; he had no idea when the Master might feel like sending him water, and dehydration was highly unpleasant. Best to stave it off as long as possible.
Still, a simple neck snap — the Master had to have been beside himself if he hadn’t possessed the control to manage something more painful.
No matter what might follow, Jack had won. He’d hit his target dead-on.
He felt laughter bubbling up, and didn’t fight it. It started as a harsh chuckle, and grew into a deep, angry belly laugh. There was nothing sane or pleasant in the sound — it was fey and vicious, and Jack reveled in it.
One guard twitched a little and started to glance over his shoulder, before snapping his head resolutely forward again. From the tension in both men’s shoulders they’d rather have been somewhere, anywhere, else than here, listening to the toxic laughter of a resurrected dead man. That made Jack laugh even harder; by the time he stopped, his recently healed ribs were aching, but he felt remarkably good for someone in his situation.
“Gotcha, you bastard,” he whispered, with a feral smile.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
This story archived at http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=17144