Title: Behind the Mask
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: gen
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: R
Table: 1, 50ficlets
Prompt: 14, Wounds
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the Tenth Doctor. Please do not sue.***
The Doctor sighed as he looked at himself in the full-length mirror that hung in his bedroom on the Tardis, inspecting the wounds left from his most recent encounter with the Master. All in all, they weren't as bad as he'd expected.
The usual bruises married his skin, as well as scrapes and a few raw patches that would disapper within a few hours at most. The bruises would take a little longer, but they, too, would be gone in no more than a few days.
It was fortunate that his Time Lord body healed more quickly than the human body it so closely resembled, he told himself dryly, or he would always be bruised and battered.
The outer wounds would heal fairly quickly, maybe making him stiff and sore for a day or two. Then he would appear to be as good as new, the physical reminders of his ongoing struggle with the Master a thing of the past.
He was grateful for having such a resilient body, of course. He had to be; if his body wasn't made that way, then he would be in a great deal more pain after each beating than he was, and that would make it all the harder for him to bounce back.
As much as he sometimes wistfully thought of how much he'd like to be more like humans, there were times when he was thankful to be what he was. And those times were becoming more and more pronounced lately.
It was the inner wounds that worried him more -- the wounds that couldn't be seen. the Doctor couldn't help but wonder just how much damage was being done to his psyche during these bouts with the Master, even though he tried to hide it as well as he could.
How many cracks were already there in the facade he showed to the world? And how much longer would it be before he couldn't keep that facade intact any more?
Sooner or later, his mask would slip. He was sure of it. He couldn't keep on facing the Master, dealing with his extreme cruelty, and not eventually pay a price for it. He was strong, but no one had infinite reservoirs of inner strength -- not even him.
And he'd been doing this for centuries. Running from the Master, trying to hide from him and still keep the galaxy safe from his machinations at the same time, then turning and facing him in open combat when he was forced to do so.
At the moment, his outer wounds matched the inner. The Doctor grimaced as his eyes took in the dark bruises that moved in an arc down his chest, to his stomach, down to the soft, pale skin of his inner thighs.
The Master certainly knew how to bruise him where it would cause the most physical pain. But that had always been one of his talents, causing pain. Especially to him, he reflected wryly; it was as though the Master had studied him to discover what torture would be the most painful.
But wasn't that exactly what he did? He studied the Doctor's every nuance, especially when the two of them were facing off against each other. That had been obvious from the start.
Yes, the Master went out of his way to equip himself with knowledge about the Doctor's weakest spots. And when he couldn't use someone he cared about against him, he used physical rape and torture. It was just as effective as anything else.
Sometimes even more so. The Doctor winced as he lifted a hand to his shoulder, prodding as one fo the dark bruises. It would heal within a day or so, and then it would be as though this bruise had never existed, as if he'd never been harmed.
That was only the surface impression. He would know, in his hearts, what he'd been through. And that knowledge would tear into his composure, his faith in himself. Each time he encountered the Master, that faith was ripped away a little bit more.
It was already happening. Each time he had to face the Master, he came away from the encounter with less belief in himself. Even now, he doubted his ability to withstand something like this again -- though he knew that if he had to, he would manage it.
How did he always come through things like this with his body and soul intact? Sometimes he had to wonder if his body wasn't the only thing about him that was remarkably resilient. Something else that he had to be thankful for, he supposed.
And how much longer would he stay intact? Physically, his body could stand up to the Master's particular brand of torture. Mentally -- ah, that was the question.
The Doctor wasn't eager to find out the answer to that question. It would mean facing the Master too many more times for comfort, and that was something he wanted to avoid happening too often, if he possiby could.
Of course, there would be times when he was forced to square off against the other man. Until he managed to defeat the Master for good, it would happen again and again -- and he would always try his best to come out on the winning side.
He owed that much to the world. And more, he owed it to himself. He would keep going somehow, he told himself as he turned away from the mirror and reached for his clothes. And he would hope that he could summon the inner strength to eventually prevail, no matter what it took.***
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