Don't fret, precious

Continued from here; contains explicit sex, NC-17, you have been warned:

Work's never done for the two heads of Torchwood (or the head and the second-in-command, as the Doctor would have it), but it does ease off, now and then. Not reliably on the stroke of 5, not on the weekends, not in convenient stretches of days that allow holidays, but in snatches—hours, lulls, patches of dead calm in the Ongoing Storm that is life on the Rift.

They've learned to use the time they can grab—to sleep, to eat, to get out of the city, to take care of the mundane parts of their lives and to see to private projects.

And to see to each other.

The Master pushes the door of his flat open, tossing his jacket through into the living room, to land on the couch. The place is as clean as always, the flat itself worn and cheap, but its contents a range of the affordable and well-made up through the understated but luxurious. A few objects call attention to themselves—curios, pieces of art, desk and office accessories, old books—dark colors and the sensuality of expense and age. Other objects are more modern—the kitchen tools, for instance, or the borrowed-from-Torchwood console in his bedroom-slash-office (not to mention the other borrowed-from-Torchwood artifacts hidden away).

He believes you know where the bedroom is, Doctor.