"My funny valentine, sweet comic valentine, you make me smile"
He’d been waylaid on his way back to the TARDIS, his pockets, arms, and hands full of bags and boxes, the sonic screwdriver safely tucked away in an inside pocket, his eyes turned inward, visualizing how he’d install those two thingamajigs he’d lucked upon into that unreliable old whatyamacallit on the right side of the console as one faces into the TARDIS with one’s back to the outside door; although, if instead, he jerry-rigged one of them and the tiny doodad in his hip pocket into the Spatio-temporal Apparency Override feed on another of the console’s right sides (the one where, facing the time rotor, his tie was in opposition with the coat rack), it just might stop the gravitation stabilizers from doing that very naughty thing next time he tried a loop-de-loop out of the gravity well between the twin stars Meirkha and Teipkha. (Or, it might blow them into another universe, which might…yes, it just might…)
Anyway, he’d been so preoccupied with being brilliant and so bogged down with packages that he just didn’t see it coming. Now here he was, bound head to toe against a dirty wall in an abandoned alley, his sonic somewhere on the filthy ground along with rather a lot of his stuff, blood oozing from some very painful punctures in the sensitive skin of his neck, his eyelids, under his shredded finger- and toe- nails, and other bits of Gallifreyan anatomy too sensitive to even think it about let alone experience, his oldest nemesis sticking it to him yet again.
“You are out of time, my dear Doctor,” the Master purred in a cool, well-modulated, smoky baritone.
But that was just wrong! Well-modulated and smoky cried out for black hair and goatee and expensive cigars, not these soft, almost feminine lips, blond wispy hair, and doe-eyed insanity. The twisting of a large thorn into the Doctor’s nipple, on the other hand, was spot on for the sadistic Time Lord, regardless of regeneration.
“Just listen to me,” the Doctor persisted, “there is no need for this anymore. Everything’s gone… everyone. All we have left is each other.”
“All I need is love?” the Master asked softly.
The Doctor cocked an eyebrow.
“Nyah,” the mad Gallifreyan scoffed, “all I need is the TARDIS.”
“I’d die before I give her up to you.”
“Oh! Oh, very well.” The Master began to sing-song: “One, two, buckle my shoe.” He toed through the sad remains of a bouquet of exotic flowers. “Five, six, pick up sticks.” He picked up the one remaining intact long-stemmed peacock rose, ripped the petals off the stem, discarding them like so much toilet paper, and selected the longest saw-toothed thorn, which he ran through something really gross on the bottom of his shoe. “Nine, ten.” The Master smiled brightly. “I think I’ll kill you again. “ He ripped the Doctor’s tattered shirt completely off, jammed the thorn between two ribs, and twisted. The Doctor shrieked in agony, his knees buckled, and he slid down the wall as far as the bindings allowed. “Please listen,” the Doctor cried, then screamed with another twist of the thorn.
Attired in the finest silk of any time period, bejeweled, perfumed and coifed, Donna Noble was a vision of beauty. She was sexy, statuesque, goddess-like. And royally pissed off.
“Are you the wanker that ruined my Valentine’s Day? “
Donna glared at the Master. Her lips quivered as she beheld the mutilated star lilies and peacock roses. Her eyes teared up as she looked at her poor Doctor, pain and blood desecrating his ancient knowing eyes and handsome face; his long delicate throat, pale but for the tracks of blood; his chest, lean and not too hairy; abs not in the six-pack category but more than decent for a skinny boy; his coltish legs, the muscles very nicely toned, oh yes, from all that running; his…
Donna’s eyes snapped back to the Doctor’s ancient knowing eyes. “You got me flowers,” she sighed.
“Yes,” he nodded, pushing up the wall to his full height. “And draught.” He inclined his head to one of the packages on the ground, its fancy wrapping torn and soaked from a contact explosion of Guinness Milky Way that had blown the top hat off the leprechaun-shaped bottle. “I wrapped it myself.”
“And five pounds of Belgian chocolate!” Donna squealed, grabbing up another ruined package and ripping it completely open.
“A solid seven pounds, from New New Belgium,” the Doctor boasted. “Only the best for my best friend.”
Answering the Master’s mouthiness with some of her own, Donna bit into the chocolate and moaned in orgasmic ecstasy. Then she pivoted swiftly and heaved her chocolate shot put with a wicked accuracy that put the shot dead center to the Master’s forehead. He went down like the silly little nancy boy he’d regenerated into.
Donna chucked the broken Guinness bottle into the air, watched it spin, and caught it handily. “A bright, sharp little vintage,” she smiled, making short work of cutting through the Doctor’s bindings.
He threw his arms around her. “You are absolutely brilliant, Donna Noble!”
“Yeah.” Donna gestured to the unconscious Master. “But your other friend’s a complete nutter.”
“Anyone who tries to take you on would have to be.”
She punched him tenderly and handed him his things. “Come-on, Spaceman,” she said as he put himself back together, “let’s go home.”
The Doctor picked up a battered star lily and slipped it behind Donna’s ear. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Donna.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Doctor. Y’know, Nutter has my chocolate.”
“But thanks to your brilliance and courage, Donna Noble, you still have me.”
“Yeah.” With a smile, Donna gently pulled him against her side, wrapping an arm around him, and the Doctor leaned into her warmth and support and love. “I want my chocolate.”