400-word Doctor Who Ficlet (Jack/Master)

[shinodabear.livejournal.com]

Lucy Can’t Dance
Fandom: Doctor Who (S3 finale)
Challenge: #o85 David Bowie Song Titles
Rating: PG
Pairing: Master/Jack; (implied Master/Tish, Master/Lucy)
Disclaimer: I'm not particularly much of anything, me.


Want. Take. Have. It’s so bloody simple, and they all do it without a second thought, that it comes as a surprise when, having been a victim of it themselves, they scream and cry out that it isn’t right, there’s a voice to be had in all this, blah, blah, blah.

“Don’t touch my daughter,” Francine levels him with a cold icy glare. He rolls his eyes. This statement coming from the woman who wanted her other daughter back so badly, she’d destroy the man who took her away without a second thought.

“Don’t.” Lucy brushes him away, citing some excuse that sounds only like the wind rustling leaves. He gave her the entire bloody universe. She dare say no? They all say no. Eventually. It shouldn’t really phase him. She’s just a human. A stupid little human who, really, hasn’t got all the moves to make anything more than “okay.” Bland. She’s simply bland.

Twice denied. It’s rather inconveniencing. But he knows where to go next.

Want.

The Freak flinches (in his eyes, his body never betrays him until the last possible moment) when the laser screwdriver makes an appearance. He looks deliciously confused when his arms fall and he collapses on the floor.

Take.

He motions to one of his men and handsome Jack is helped to his feet and lead over to the one room everyone on board the Valiant tiptoes by. The one room everyone is afraid of. The one room you don’t come out of quite the same. (Jack knows it well.)

Have.

His filthy body is unceremoniously thrown into the running shower, and the Master keeps an eye on the time. Technically, they do have all the time in the world, but he never liked to wait too long for things. He sits on the end of the bed, poised calmly.

It’s so simple.

“Why?” The Captain asks as he shivers, dripping wet before the bed. It’s their first real form of communication.

“Because Lucy can’t dance.” Is his answer. Because she won’t “dance” with him. She never really was much of a dancer of any sort. Her moves were bland and boring. And she knew how to say no.

This one? He never said no. Eventually.

“Dancing, then, is it?” The Captain sits beside him, eyes forward. “Your lead?”

“When isn’t it?” He smiles as the Captain’s eye close. Let the music begin.