"Use the teleport," the Doctor whispers in her ear.

Martha looks at him in disbelief. She doesn't want to leave him, he can see that. He knows she wants to save him, like she's saved him so many times before, but she can't. Not if she wants to save the world.

They only have a minute, while the Master is distracted. While he's sending down the Toclafane, whatever they are, to massacre--no, to decimate the population. He only has a minute to think of a plan when everything he has has been stripped away, even his body's strength. When the Master holds all the cards. What does he have? He has Martha, who has the teleport and her key. He has his mind. Think, think. To stop the Master he needs power, a massive amount of power. What can he access? What's in reach? The TARDIS is useless until the paradox machine is gone. The firepower of the Valiant wouldn't be enough to stop six billion deadly little globes, even if he was willing to use guns and missiles which he isn't. He thinks of the kinds of power, the forms of it, matter and energy and people, yes, people. Psychic energy. The Archangel network. Yes!

"Use the countdown," he whispers, urgently. His old-man voice sounds so strange to his ears, like a new regeneration. "Tell everyone. When the countdown ends, think of me. I can save them."

Martha's confused, but the sky is torn apart, her family is held at gunpoint, people are dying and she's Martha, she has to help. She has to do something. That's what he saw in her on the moon, that's what she's done during all their travels together. She'll go to the ends of the Earth for him, and that's good because that's what he needs her to do.

A tear streaks down her cheek as she pulls away from him. As she stands and backs away, the teleport in her hands. And then she's gone.

The Doctor sees Jack's surprise and regrets that there wasn't a way to send him away, too. But then Jack looks at him, and the Doctor realizes he wouldn't have gone anyway. Oh, Jack, he thinks. Typical of him, never leaving a man behind. Jack wants to save him, too, but staying by his side won't help him do that.

All the same, the Doctor is privately grateful. He knows he doesn't deserve the sacrifice that Jack is making.

The Master whirls around, glowing with success, and anger flashes in his eyes. "Sent her off, have you? Or did she run away?" He strides over and grabs the Doctor by the arm, yanks him to his feet and drags him to the window. "All you did was make her death faster. She's going to die down there with the rest of humanity. Look at it, Doctor. Isn't it beautiful? All that glorious destruction."

The Doctor looks, and wishes he had the strength to struggle. He's been helpless before, but never like this. He's never been unable to even save himself, except once, and he refuses to think of the Earth in the same way as Gallifrey. He refuses. Martha's going to survive, she's going to do her part. The Master is too much of a showman not to have another grand broadcast, just like today's. Even if it's the last possible moment, even then it isn't too late. The Doctor will hold out for months, years if he has to. He knows the Master won't kill him. All he has to do is survive and be ready.

The Master can take everything away from him, but the Doctor will only use the Master's tools against him. The Archangel network, the Paradox Machine. Whatever the Master builds on the paradox will be undone. That's enough. It has to be enough, because that's all he has of hope.

Lucy presses close against his other side, long nails digging into his shoulder and his arm. There's a waft of her perfume, lilacs and baby powder.

The Toclafane swarm like corpse flies. The Doctor can still smell Jack's recent death, burnt cotton and flesh. He feels sick.

This close, the Master's telepathic field hums against his own. Time Lords recognize each other the moment they meet, except that the Master has always been far better than him at mental tricks, disguises. Like making himself smell human to fool the Family of Blood. Like the Master pretending to be the Portreeve or Professor Thascales or Sir Gilles Estram. But the Master's pretence of Harry Saxon has been dropped, and there's a part of the Doctor's mind that thrives on his presence.

"Stop this," the Doctor pleads, because he has to even if it's futile. "Please, stop this."

The Master ignores him. "So it came to pass," he says, dramatically, "that the human race fell and the Earth was no more. And I looked down upon my new dominion as master of all, and I thought it... good." He turns to the Doctor with such a smile, such pleasure, and the Doctor's hearts break for Earth, for the Master, for all of them.

"I've waited so long for this," the Master says, eyes wide with madness. "We're going to have so much fun. Isn't that right, Lucy?"

"Oh yes, Harry," Lucy says, gleeful.

"A new Time Lord empire, Doctor. Can you imagine? And all because of you." The Master leans closer. "You freed me, Doctor. You brought me here. Every single death is all your fault. I want you to remember that as I conquer the universe."

"It doesn't have to be this way," the Doctor says, but even as he says it he's not sure he believes it anymore. "I told you, everything's changed."

"I know, I know," the Master says, voice rising with condescension. "And thank goodness for that. There's no one to stop me, least of all you."

He pushes the Doctor down, and the Doctor cries out in pain as he hits the ground. His body has betrayed him, so weak and fragile. His bones are brittle, his muscles atrophied. Whatever the Master did to him, it wasn't anything like normal aging, even for a Time Lord. A hundred years should be nothing to him, but instead he can barely stand and his left heart is irregular, skipping beats and out of time.

At the Master's command, a pair of burly security guards drag him up, pinning his arms painfully back.

Lucy giggles, and grips the Master's suit with whitened knuckles. She's like a porcelain doll, pale and cracked. "We've done it, Harry. Just like you promised."

"That's right, my sweet," the Master says. "The end of the world."

"It's wonderful," she says, breathily. "Oh, Harry."

The Master turns to her, rests his hand over her belly. Gives a considering hum, and then turns to the security guards. "Take him away," he orders. "Put him somewhere with a view." He wraps his arms around Lucy and draws her close. "The wife and I have some celebrating to do."

The Doctor struggles as he's dragged out of the room. "Master!" he rasps, with his old voice and weak lungs. "Stop this, please! Master!"

The last thing he sees before the lift doors close is the Master casting him a smug look over Lucy's shoulder.



A tenth of the population. Six hundred million people, dead. Only the Master could delight in something so awful.

The Doctor's wrists hurt. His chest aches. He's been left hanging from the ceiling for some time now, hung from his wrists with old-fashioned shackles. This incarnation of the Master seems inordinately fond of spectacle. Not that he wasn't in the past, but he's never been so gleeful about it. Never so, well, insane.

There's something wrong with him, there has to be. The drums he keeps going on about, for a start. Despite the story he told about the Master and the Untempered Schism, the Doctor's known him for hundreds of years and the Master never ranted about drumming in his head. And even if he'd heard them, he'd have had to hide them from their professors and anyone else he made psychic contact with, and it all seems terribly unlikely. No, whatever the drums are, they're a recent thing. Probably happened to him during the War, since he heard them as Professor Yana.

If the drums have driven him mad, or are part of his madness, then the Doctor can save him. He's certain of that. If he can get into his head, he can find the source and eliminate it, fix it or whatever needs doing. He'll do anything to bring the Master to his senses, to save him. He refuses to consider the alternatives.

There are cities on fire, down below. He can see the smoke, if not the flames. Even if he closes his eyes, he can't rid himself of the sight. And the Master is right that this is his fault. If he hadn't locked the coordinates to twenty-first century Earth, if he'd been able to reach the Master in time on Malcassario, if he'd seen the watch and taken it from Professor Yana. The Master could have lived out his life as a kind, brilliant human, a wonderful old man.

Selfishly, the Doctor is relieved that Professor Yana is gone. He'd rather have the Master, with all his cruelties, than a friendly human. If he'd kept the watch, he wouldn't have been able to trust himself with it.

He's not the last anymore, and everything else pales in significance. Everything, even the sight of Earth burning beneath him. He's been alone for so long, he's been carrying the loss of his people and now there's someone who understands, someone who's been through everything he's been through, even the War. Gallifrey isn't just a name to him, or a distant myth. They once stood on it, side by side and then face to face.

Of all the Time Lords there ever were, the Master is both the worst and best to have survived.

Tuning into the Archangel network was harder than he'd anticipated, but now that he's found the right frequency he's starting the arduous and tedious job of building psychic threads between it and the receptor ganglions in his mind. It's convenient, in a way, that they've been largely unused since the loss of Gallifrey. The only thing that's kept it from being a painful static is the TARDIS, but even without the usual filters she's hardly enough to take the place of the whole population of Time Lords and the Matrix. When they were there, he put so much effort into blocking them out, denying them, running away from them. He didn't want to be beholden to them. But the moment they were gone, the moment he woke up in a new body with the worst headache in all of history, he realized how terrible it was to be alone.

So reserving a corner of his receptors for the TARDIS, for the Master, the Doctor dedicates the rest to Archangel. It's going to take months to make enough connections. He's not sure how many he'll need. A thousand? A million? There are fifteen satellites, but there's six billion... no, five billion and four hundred million humans, and falling. How many can Martha reach? How many will still be alive in a month, in six months? How many humans will he need to have enough psychic energy to restore his body, to defeat the Master? Humans of this era aren't very psychically powerful, most of them aren't even sensitive at all. He's not entirely sure what the consequences will be for opening himself up to that much raw humanity.

The worst of it is that he doesn't know how much time he has. The Master could be ready to destroy Earth in a matter of weeks, for all he knows. How many threads could he build in a week? And he has to shield all of them, has to connect them carefully or he'll be discovered.

He doesn't have the answers for any of that. He'll just build as many as he can as fast as he can and hope it's enough. It's not an ideal plan, as things go, but for one conceived in less than forty seconds it's not terrible.



"Enjoying the view?" the Master asks.

The Doctor would glare at him, if he could see his face. Unfortunately, he's chained into position facing the window, and the Master is behind him. There's the slightest reflection of the both of them, so he settles for glaring at that.

The Master pouts. "Don't be such a wet blanket," he says. "I'd've thought you'd be enjoying your retirement. Should I get you a rocking chair?"

He gives the Doctor a push, making him swing gently. The Doctor's long since lost feeling in his arms, but it makes his shoulders hurt.

"It's not too late to stop this," he rasps.

"Oh, but it is," the Master replies. He halts the Doctor's swing with a hand on his back, and leans close. "I win, Doctor. You need to stop being a sore loser. Buck up, old timer. Take it like a man."

"No," the Doctor rasps, defiant. "This isn't like you. You're better than this."

The Master laughs. "Now who's the crazy one? I don't need help, Doctor, but you do. Isn't that what you wanted? To talk? You never told me how it felt. Was it your idea, or did they make you do it?"

The Doctor aches to tell him, but he refuses to give the Master the satisfaction. He presses his lips together.

"Hm, I suppose I should make the first gesture," the Master says. He steps away, and then suddenly the chain holding the Doctor goes slack and he crashes to the floor. The Doctor gasps and coughs, and a sharp pain in his side makes him think he's cracked a rib. He starts to push himself up, but he can't muster the strength. His left heart falters, then beats.

The Master crouches down and looks at him with mock sympathy. "That cough doesn't sound good at all." He clucks his tongue. "You're not going to be any fun like this. I can hardly torture you when you're already dying at my feet."

"Then don't--" The Doctor coughs weakly. "Don't torture me."

The Master pretends to consider this. "It's a thought, but no." He smiles, suddenly. "I know. Boys!" he calls.

The burly security guards return, lifting the Doctor up by his arms. He greys out from the change in position, his hearts too weak to pump fast enough against gravity, and when his vision clears they're carrying him down a hallway.

"Just a sec," the Master says, and walks on ahead. The Doctor hears laser fire, and then two thumps. A Toclafane whizzes down the hall.

"I thought you might like some company," the Master says, as the Doctor is carried over. "Dump him inside."

The Doctor smells something stomach-churningly familiar even before he's pushed into the room to collapse on the hard, metal floor. When he looks up, he recoils in horror, fury, nausea. He turns and is sick in the corner.

"Oh, he'll be fine soon enough," the Master chides. "Should be interesting, though. Do you think each half will grow back like an earthworm, or will he just snap back together? We could each hold an end."

"Go away," the Doctor rasps, sickened. "Leave him alone."

"Is the date off, then?"

The Doctor glares at him until the Master smugly turns and leaves. They're locked into the room, which is a prison cell, and the Doctor forces himself to look at the halves of Jack on the floor.

There's less blood than he would have expected, but that's probably because the laser cauterized the flesh. The Doctor doesn't know how Jack's immortality works except that it's completely unnatural. But there's wrong and then there's wrong, and this is... unspeakable.

The halves are at an angle to each other. The Doctor shuffles over and pushes the lower half until it's aligned with the upper half, his skin crawling all the while. Then he sits back against the wall and waits.

When it happens, it's so fast he almost misses it. A blink and Jack isn't two pieces of a corpse but a whole body, eyes wide and gasping for air. He pushes himself up, disoriented, feeling the burnt line of his shirt with the bottom half cut away, and then starts in surprise when he sees the Doctor.

"Doctor?" Jack says, frowning. He crawls over to him, then leans against the wall, holding his head like he's dizzy. "Tell me he didn't do what I think he did."

"I'm sorry," the Doctor says, inadequately. What else can he say?

But Jack just seems resigned to it. "The javelin was worse," he says, in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. "Are you okay? What's he done to you?"

The Doctor shakes his head in disbelief. "How can you even--"

"It doesn't matter," Jack says, hard and gentle at the same time. "I'm used to dying. At least it was quick. You're a hell of a lot worse off than me."

The Doctor coughs and winces, resting his hand lightly over the cracked rib. "You have a point," he admits.

"He's probably listening," Jack says. "Maybe even watching."

"I know," the Doctor says. "At the moment I don't particularly care."

"Me either." Jack takes the Doctor's hand and moves it aside so he can check him over. It's a kind gesture, if a pointless one. He half suspects it's an excuse for Jack to touch him, but all things considered the Doctor thinks he'll let this one slide.

"Is there something wrong with your hearts?" Jack says, frowning. His hand rests over the left, then the right, then back again.

"My left's always been a bit wonky," the Doctor admits. "Didn't matter before. Guess it'll be the first to go."

"Is it going now?" Jack asks, concerned.

"Not sure." The Doctor closes his eyes, feels the light pressure of Jack's hand against his chest. "Not right away, at least."

"Can you live with just one?"

The Doctor looks at him. "He's not going to let me die," he says, as kindly as he can. "You'd have been better off with Martha."

Jack looks terribly angry, then deadly calm. "I wasn't going to leave you alone with him. He can kill me all he wants, I don't care. You're not going to be his only punching bag."

"I'm not," the Doctor says. "He has Earth to kick around."

"It's not the same," Jack says. "He wants up close and personal."

"And now he can use us against each other," the Doctor says, suddenly angry. "Do you think he'd have cut you in half if I wasn't here to see it?"

"Yes," Jack says, certain.

The Doctor sighs, knowing he's lost this particular argument. He knows Jack has a point. The Master's madness will have an outlet, and that could be the Doctor on his own or Jack there to share the burden. It's not that he isn't grateful, but it doesn't actually make their situation any better.

"Besides, when we break outta here, you'll need me," Jack adds. "You're not in any shape to wrestle guards to the ground."

The Doctor laughs, then winces. "Don't make me laugh."

"Do you want me to bind it?" Jack offers.

"Really, Jack, there's no point," the Doctor says. "Either it'll heal or he'll break it the rest of the way."

Jack sobers. "Don't talk like that. You're supposed to be the optimist, remember?"

"He's won this one," the Doctor admits. He imagines that the Master is dancing with delight, listening in on this. He wishes he could reassure Jack with his plan, but he can't. It's a secret that he needs to keep, on a ship full of prying eyes and ears. "You don't know what he's like. Imagine me, but better organized."

Jack snorts. "Organized at all, you mean."

"I resemble that remark." The Doctor shifts, pushing himself up a bit. "There's nothing the Master loves more than a good plan. Usually something long-term."

"Like being elected Prime Minister," Jack says.

"Exactly like that. Whatever he's got planned, it's going to take a while."

"You want me to be patient," Jack says. "Got it. But don't expect me to be happy about him torturing you."

"I expect he's counting on that," the Doctor says. But like his cracked rib, there's nothing he can do about it. Helplessness doesn't sit well on him. "I'm trying to get through to him," he says, thinking it safe enough to admit.

"Think there's anything to get through to?" Jack says, dryly.

"I know there is," the Doctor says. Maybe it's a fool's quest, maybe he only believes it because he needs some hope to cling to. But he truly believes it. He has to believe it. Even when all of this is over, if Martha and the countdown and everything go according to plan, he's going to have to deal with the Master's madness. There has to be a way to reach him, because the alternative doesn't bear thinking about.

Jack shifts, stretches out his legs, then pats his thigh. "Come on. You need to rest."

"Jack..."

Jack just looks at him. Damn him.

"All right," the Doctor relents. He winces when he moves, and Jack gently helps him, helps the old, injured man that his friend has become. Jack's coat protects him from the cold of the floor, and he rests on his less injured side, with his head on Jack's thigh. "Make one lewd joke and I'm sleeping somewhere else," he warns.

"I'll be the picture of modesty," Jack says, loftily.

The Doctor snorts in disbelief, but he has to admit this is nice. That he's tired and worn, and sleep will help him heal. A coma would help even more, but he won't leave Jack alone any more than Jack would leave him. What a pair they make.

Jack's hands are gentle on his thin hair, his bony frame. He's warm and strong, and his single heart beats steadily, the way it will beat forever. The Doctor lets it lull him to sleep.



The Doctor wakes screaming in agony. Blinding, overwhelming pain, every cell in his body being torn apart and pulled back together.

It's only when it's over that he can even recognize what's happened to him. That it was the pain of the Lazarus technology, of being de-aged. He's weak, more exhausted now than he was when he went to sleep, but he's healed, young, strong. He gasps on the floor like a landed fish, trying to orient himself.

The Master is standing over him, fondling his laser screwdriver. Jack is pinned against the wall by the guards, threatened by a hovering Toclafane.

"That's more like it," the Master says, satisfied. "Nothing like having a shiny toy to play with. Now I have three! What do you say, Jackie boy? Want to feel like a kid again?"

"Go to hell," Jack spits.

The Master tsks. "Quite a mouth on him. Usually your pet humans are better behaved."

The Doctor struggles to his feet, staggers back against the wall. He's dizzy, shaky, but his hearts are strong again, he feels full of life and energy. His confidence surges back. "Whatever game you're playing, forget it," he says, angrily.

"I haven't even begun," the Master replies. "I just wanted you out of the way while I took care of a few things. You're so cute when you snuggle. Tell me, Jack, does he still make those little snuffly noises when he sleeps?"

Jealousy flashes across Jack's face.

"Of course, since he was all old and wrinkly, he probably snored." The Master wrinkles his nose.

"Like you weren't listening in," Jack retorts.

"Would I do that?" the Master says. "Actually, I would. You have me there. I was hoping you would talk about something interesting, like your precious Martha or some pathetic escape plan, but instead it was all blah blah blah, take a nap on my leg. Boring!"

The Master raises his hand and snaps his fingers. The Toclafane lasers Jack through the heart and he drops like a stone. The Doctor moves towards him, but before he can reach him the guards are dragging him out of the room. "Let me go!" he demands, struggling wildly. He stills when the Toclafane hovers menacingly in front of him, blades extended.

"You don't think I'll kill you," the Master says, eyes narrowed. "You're probably right. But I'll be more than happy to make you wish you were never born."

They stare at each other, the Doctor furious, the Master cold. The Toclafane hovers to the side as the Master steps closer, reaches up. Touches the Doctor's cheek.

"This new body of yours... it's very nice. I like it. I've decided to explore the possibilities. Kick the tires."

"I don't care what you do to me," the Doctor says.

"You know I only take that sort of thing as a challenge," the Master chides. "Now I've no choice but to make you care. I wonder what it will take."

The Doctor glares defiantly at him.

The Master pats him on the cheek. "All good things," he says, and turns and walks down the hall. The guards drag the Doctor after him. "But first, time to meet the wife!"

Another consistency of the Master across his regenerations is a love of luxury. The finer things in life. It goes with his love of power, and really what's the point of power if he doesn't have luxury? So it's not a surprise that he's dedicated an extensive suite for himself. He would've had a mansion if it'd fit into the Valiant's schematics. Maybe transdimensional engineering would have taken too much time.

The sitting room looks like it should have come with a fireplace. It's oddly patrician, more classy than all the wood, leather, and steel of the meeting areas. Lucy's influence, perhaps? He can't really see the Master picking out seventeenth century furniture to decorate his warship. Or maybe it's just part of his Harry Saxon front.

The Doctor is released, to his surprise.

"Wait outside," the Master tells the guards. They leave, but the Toclafane remains, bobbing gently in the air.

"Try anything stupid, and we'll find out if you can grow back that hand a second time," the Master tells him.

The Doctor nods. Better to save his energy, anyway. Even if he fought his way out of this stronghold, he doesn't have anywhere to go, not with the TARDIS out of commission and probably guarded by a dozen of those deadly globes. He'd run out of regenerations before he could even reach her.

"Or maybe I'll go for a matched set," the Master says. "What do you think? Classy, eh? Not quite what I'd have gone for, but you know how it is. The old ball and chain. Now the rest of the place, that's all my work. Ministry of Defence. It's amazing what a little hypnosis will do for government efficiency. Can I get you anything? Drink?"

"No," the Doctor says.

"Don't be rude," the Master says. "Say, 'no, thank you.' Or better yet, 'No, Master.'"

"No, thank you," the Doctor says.

The Master laughs, then looks at him coldly. "Wrong. Try it again."

The Doctor is very, very tempted to say something rude. But instead he forces out the words. "No, thank you, Master."

The Master softens. "There, was that so hard?"

The Doctor declines to comment. If he didn't have to reserve his energy for the Archangel threads, he'd recklessly challenge the Master at every opportunity. It'd be futile, of course, but so very satisfying. But no, he has to choose his battles. Humiliation is less damaging than the probable alternatives.

A drink is pressed into his hand. A sniff identifies it as very high quality scotch.

"To us," the Master says, raising his own glass in a toast. "Come on, raise your glass."

The Doctor grits his teeth. The Master's testing him, trying to provoke a reaction. Instead of tossing the drink in his face, the Doctor calmly sets the glass on the small table nearby. "I'm not thirsty," he says.

The Master's eyes narrow, but he doesn't press the issue. He downs his scotch and puts the glass down next to the Doctor's with a thump.

"Mm, good stuff," he says, licking his lips. "Too bad no one's going to be making any more of it. You need to learn to appreciate these things, Doctor. You never know when it'll all be gone forever." He leans closer. "Do you miss them? All that pomp and nonsense?"

"Do you?" the Doctor asks.

"Maybe a little," the Master admits. He steps away, walks slowly around the room. "You tried to warn me."

"Yes," the Doctor says, feeling a glimmer of hope. "I know what it's like. When you wake up--"

"And no one's there," the Master finishes. "Except you. It made the universe feel very... empty."

"Yes," the Doctor says, completely understanding. Feeling a rush of relief that the Master understands.

"The Time Lords were supposed to be forever," the Master continues, ruminating. "No more Matrix. When we die, that's it, do you realize that? Oblivion. Even after they sold me to the Daleks they never even considered exclusion."

When the Doctor thinks about death without the Matrix, it feels like there's no ground beneath his feet. Immortality wasn't just a goal for Time Lord society, it was a lifestyle. From Rassilon onwards, death was the ultimate enemy. Everything was engineered against oblivion and entropy, from mirror organs to regeneration to block transfer computations to the removal of Gallifrey from the time stream. The Matrix captured the mind of every Time Lord on the moment of death, no matter where or when or how. The Master was swallowed by the Doctor's TARDIS, and he was still in the Matrix to be restored to fight the Daleks.

Now there's nothing. No one. It's all gone, forever.

He looks at the glass on the table and picks it up. Takes a sip and then slowly downs the rest. The burn feels good going down, and it warms his stomach. He hasn't eaten or drunk anything for two days, and he threw up the last of the chips in Jack's cell. He places the empty glass back down.

The Master is looking at him with approval. He's not sure how that makes him feel.

"Come along," the Master says, and opens the door to the bedroom.

If the sitting room was Lucy's domain, the bedroom is clearly the Master's. Modern luxuries, every line reeking of power. Cold, black, with splashes of steel, dark wood, velvet, leather, silk. A large bed in the centre, white silk sheets and a rich garnet coverlet, and sprawled on top is Lucy.

Her blonde hair is down, silky and long against her pale skin, the white bed. She's dressed to match in a silk nightgown that clings to her body, and even the Doctor is aware of the cup of her breasts, the soft curve of her belly. Her lips are painted a frosty pink, almost paler than they'd be on their own.

The Master's suit is starkly black against all that white as he sits beside her and rests his hand below her breast. "Wake up, my darling," he says, sweetly. "The Doctor's here."

Lucy murmurs as she stirs, her eyes fluttering open. She stretches, arching her back, and the Master's hand moves up to cup her breast. She doesn't protest, doesn't pull away, but smiles as his fingers cup and tease. The Doctor can't look away.

The Master abandons her breast and caresses down her body, then turns to the Doctor. "Don't stare. It's rude."

The Doctor tries to speak, then averts his eyes. He'd expected... well, not this. Violence. Cutting words. Not this.

He hears them kiss, hears the faint creak of the bed. The rustle of fabric. With shock he realizes the Master might actually be about to have sex with him in the room. He looks up and takes a sudden step back when he sees them entwined on the bed together, still fully clothed but that doesn't make it any less obscene, erotic.

The Master looks at him. "I told you not to look," he chides. "Now go wait outside."

The Doctor stares at him in disbelief, then walks back into the sitting room. Closes the door behind him and leans back against it. The Toclafane gives a little spin and settles into the middle of the room, blades extended in silent warning.

He can hear them. The door isn't nearly thick enough to block the quiet murmurs, the rustle of fabric. Why does the Master want him to hear this? The Doctor could move to the far side of the room, could block off his hearing, but he can't make himself step away from the door.

His mind greedily draws picture after picture to go with the increasingly loud sounds from the bedroom. Lucy sounds very... excited, but it's the Master he strains to hear. He's forgotten about a lot of things in his life, out of carelessness or necessity, but he's never forgotten anything about the Master.

He refuses to let himself become aroused. His body tries to redirect blood to his cock, to make him erect, and he denies it. He might be unable to stop himself from imagining them naked together, from remembering the Master and himself, but he won't give the Master the satisfaction of opening the door and finding him in such a state.

He's fucking her. He can hear the slap of flesh, the rhythmic creak of the bed. The Doctor was so surprised when he saw the Master had a wife, and he's still surprised now. For all his desire for power, the Master has preferred less sexual avenues. Maybe it was living so long as a human that changed him. Perhaps the destruction of Gallifrey released him from the Time Lord's lifestyle of repression, along with everything else.

The Doctor can relate to that, too.

He finally tears himself away from the door when he can hear that they've finished, that they're dressing. He spies the decanter of scotch and decides to pour himself a second glass. If the Master doesn't like it, well, that's only a bonus.

The alcohol goes down smooth, and it goes straight to his head. He shouldn't have any more unless the Master lets him eat.

When they walk out of the bedroom, they smell of sex. Human sex and Time Lord sex, and it's heady on the Doctor's senses. The Master is still in his suit, just barely rumpled and the Doctor wonders if he bothered to undress. Lucy has changed from the silk nightgown to a cream silk dress and pearls, and her hair is up in a tight bun. The dress clings. She's barefoot in stockings.

"Oh, Harry, you have a little..." she says, and rubs at a smear of her lipstick that decorated the corner of the Master's mouth. "There, all better."

"We haven't been properly introduced," she says, reaching out her hand to the Doctor. He takes it automatically, shakes it.

"You're supposed to kiss a lady's hand," the Master says, and raises his eyebrows pointedly.

The Doctor's lips twist, and he kisses the back of her hand. Her fingers smell strongly of the Master's body.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Lucy coos, taking her hand back. "Harry's told me so much about you."

"Has he?" the Doctor says.

"We're going to have tea," she continues. "You must join us."

"Yes, you must," the Master says, making it an order instead of a request. He places his hand low on Lucy's back, then does the same to the Doctor.

The Doctor suppresses a shiver.

"I knew you'd get along," the Master says, escorting the both of them through the archway.

The dining area is as tastefully decorated as would be expected. The table is next to a long window that reveals the smoking Earth below. The Doctor's step falters, but the Master's hand on his back turns into a grip and a push. He's given the seat with the best view, the Master and Lucy on either side of him. There's an old-fashioned tea set, a tray laden with biscuits, and another with sandwich triangles.

Lucy does the honours, pouring him a cup with two sugars. The Master must have told her how he likes his tea, which is somehow more disturbing than it ought to be. Maybe it's just the fact that they're having tea while humanity burns and dies beneath them. He tries not to let his disgust show, if only because he knows the Master wants that reaction.

He takes several triangles, fills his plate with biscuits. He slips a few into his pocket to bring to Jack, in case the Master's trying to starve him. It's not much, but at least it's something. It's the least he can do.

He eats, sips his tea. It's all very civilized, very domestic. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"...so I called the whole lot of them to the UN," the Master says, building up a story. "And they actually came! Anyone that stupid deserves to die, so I put bombs under all their seats. When they sat down after that anthem, bang!" He slaps the table. "Limbs everywhere."

Lucy laughs. Whatever her reasons, she truly delights in the destruction of her own species, her home planet. She's hardly the first person the Doctor's ever met who was that self-destructive, but he still finds it unsettling. He might not be the poster boy for saving native planets, but he destroyed Gallifrey as the ultimate last resort. He never sought its destruction.

The Doctor holds his tongue through the meal, because he knows the Master is only trying to provoke him. He's not going to give him the satisfaction. The Doctor might be all but powerless in this situation, but he can control himself.

"Be a dear and give us a moment," the Master tells Lucy.

"Of course," she says, and politely excuses herself.

"Feeling better?" the Master asks. "Little rest, little food."

"Just fine, thanks," the Doctor says.

"You can take the rest with you," the Master says, gesturing to the remaining sandwiches and biscuits. "To go with the ones in your pocket. Oh, don't look so surprised. I know you'd never forgive me if I didn't let you feed your pet."

"Jack's not a pet," the Doctor says.

"He's a freak," the Master says. "An interesting freak. What did you do to him?"

"Nothing," the Doctor says, which is the truth.

The Master gives a dismissive hum. "Your taste in humans has always been questionable. I'm doing you a favour, wiping them out. You need to broaden your horizons. Find a new species to obsess over."

"So you can murder them, too?" the Doctor says, tersely.

The Master just shakes his head sadly. "If you're going to be like that, it's time for you to go back to your cell."

The Doctor bites back a retort and gathers up the food for Jack. "He'll need water."

"Of course," the Master says, reasonably. "Already done. The new cell has all the amenities."

"Good," the Doctor replies. He refuses to thank the Master for that.

"Off you go, now," the Master says, giving him a little wave. "Bye bye!"

The Doctor stares at him, then turns and walks out. The Toclafane hovers around him, and then the two guards are there to escort him, as usual. At least this time they don't physically haul him about. The benefits of being cooperative, perhaps? He doesn't doubt that's a lesson the Master wants to impress upon him.

It seems to take longer than it should to reach the new cell, and he's almost certain they've gone out of their way at least once. When he steps inside, the little stack of sandwiches and biscuits tumbles from his hands.

"Oh no no no," he groans, and hurries forward. Jack's body is draped over the full tub, his wrists are bound behind his back. When the Doctor pulls him out, upper half sopping wet, he finds a long knife sticking through his heart. He distantly wonders which killed him first, the knife or the drowning.

The Doctor asked for water. He curses the Master as he works at the wet rope, as he sees the way it's deeply cut into Jack's flesh. On anyone else it would have permanently damaged his hands. A matched set, the Master said.

He doesn't think Jack can come back to life until the knife is out. He can't imagine him coming back to life with it still in his heart, only to die again. It's the stuff of nightmares, the kind of story passed around in whispers about regenerations gone wrong, when he was at Academy.

He grits his teeth, braces his knee on Jack's chest, and pulls hard. The knife resists, then slips free with a sickening sound. The Doctor throws it away. He hates weapons, hates death. He hates this. Why can't he hate the Master?

He dries Jack's face with the corner of his jacket and carries him to the bed. He sits with Jack's head in his lap and waits for him to wake up.

It doesn't take as long as it did when he was cut in two. Jack gasps back to life, coughing up water.

"If he keeps punching holes in me, he'd better get me some new clothes," Jack says, when he's recovered enough to sit up. "And don't apologize. It's still not your fault."

The Doctor doesn't believe that, but there's no point in arguing about it. "I brought you some food," he says, moving to gather up the fallen biscuits and sandwiches. They're a little dusty, but none the worse. Jack accepts them gratefully, scarfs them down. Humans can't go as long as Time Lords without food, even a human as unusual as Jack.

When Jack's eaten every last crumb, he sits back with a sigh. "Man, I needed that." He looks at the Doctor curiously. "What'd he do to you this time?"

The Doctor looks away, not sure how to answer that. "Nothing, really," he says, lightly. "I met Lucy, and they invited me to tea."

Jack raises his eyebrows. "And that's it?"

The Doctor squirms at the memory of listening to them have sex. Jack would just make a joke about it, and somehow that feels wrong. Some things are too private to share, and it's not like they did anything to him. Just sent him out of the room. Not that he wanted to stay.

"That's it," he says. "I don't think you want to know what they did to the UN."

"Good point," Jack says. "So what, every time they take you away, they're going to leave my body here for you to clean up?"

"I don't know," the Doctor says. "Maybe. I hope not."

"He's letting us stay together," Jack observes. "He really likes his games, huh?"

"He really does," the Doctor agrees.

Jack stands and walks around the room. It's roomy, as cells go. There's no privacy to speak of, of course. One bed, but big enough for two. A tub with no curtain. It's almost as if... no, it can't be.

He looks at Jack, who's found the knife and wiped it clean, and is looking for structural weaknesses. Jack's shirt is in tatters, from the lasers and the blade. It's burnt and bloodied, even though the skin beneath is as flawless as ever, if rather dirty. His mind's eye flashes on the Master's hand around Lucy's breast. He's really not sure what to make of all this.

There's a glug as Jack drains the tub, and when it's empty he stops it up again and refills it.

"I don't know about you, but if I can take a bath I will," Jack says. "I'd do it when you were out, but..." He gives an apologetic shrug.

"But you're dead when I'm not here," the Doctor finishes, figuring he might as well spit it out. "Scrub away."

Jack gives him a very Jackish smile and starts to strip. The Doctor lays down on the bed and determinately doesn't look, staring up at the ceiling. Listening, on the other hand, isn't as easy to avoid. Especially when he's already listened in once today.

He saw Jack naked a few times back when they travelled with Rose. Jack did it on purpose, shamelessly walking out of the bathroom and dropping his towel, eager to provoke some sort of reaction from him. The Doctor was even more tightly wound back then, still having difficulty even sitting down for a simple domestic dinner without feeling the urge to flee. He's loosened up in this regeneration, in no small part due to the influence of the both of them.

He thinks of Reinette. He stops thinking of Reinette. He listens to the sound of Jack splashing in the tub and rubbing himself clean with the remains of his undershirt.

Time Lords aren't supposed to get horny. Sex was looked down upon as something people did in private but never discussed, the way twentieth-century humans treated sexual kinks and medical problems. Only the lower species let themselves be controlled by mere physical urges. Reproduction was uncommon and usually involved at least one laboratory, since they only needed a handful of replacements a year to keep the population stable. He was taught along with all his peers to use the control Rassilon gave them over their autonomic systems to master their bodies, to control themselves. Romance was considered only for the weak of will, recreational sex only for the shameless.

It fell to the renegades to break those rules, along with all the rest. Maybe he's paying for that now.

"There's no towels," Jack says.

The Doctor turns his head. Jack is standing there, wet, naked, a vaguely apologetic look on his face but a twinkle in his eyes.

"I know modesty is extinct in the fifty-first century, but--" the Doctor begins.

Jack laughs. "I'll get dressed when I'm dry. I don't want to be stuck in wet clothes between deaths."

"That would be inconvenient," the Doctor replies, averting his eyes. He expects Jack to make things easier on him, cover himself a bit, but he doesn't. Shameless as always.

Or more than shameless. Jack won't stop staring at him.

"This is what he wants," the Doctor says, hearts quickening.

"Is it what you want?" Jack counters. "Because I don't know about you, but if I have to spend months getting killed, I want something good to hold on to." He walks to the bed, sits on the edge. "Can't it just be that?"

The Doctor doesn't have a response for that. When Jack's fingers start to open the buttons of his jacket, he feels a surge of lust.

"There was something in the food," he says, grasping for an excuse. "When it wears off--"

"I'll still want you," Jack murmurs. Pushes side the wings of the jacket and works loose the knot of his tie. "I don't care about him. I care about you. You need this, too."

"No," the Doctor whispers, but he doesn't stop Jack from pulling off his tie, from opening the buttons of his shirt. If it was just the food, he wouldn't have felt the same lust towards the Master and Lucy's tryst. Maybe it was the scotch. He knows it says something about him that he always needs an excuse for giving in to his physical desires, that he never shook off those early lessons even after he rebelled against them. Maybe it's just that it's harder to let go of the little pieces of Gallifrey he carries, now that it's gone.

He stops holding back his arousal, and his cock aches with the sudden rush of blood. If the Master wants them to have sex, if Jack wants them to have sex, there's no point in fighting the fact that he wants it, too. And Jack is the safest outlet for his lust that he can imagine.

Jack's hand slides beneath his opened shirt and he bends down and kisses him deeply. The Doctor accepts it passively, then pushes up into it with a sharp breath.

"You're trembling," Jack murmurs, stroking down his side. Even that intimacy is more than he's allowed himself in a long time.

"He'll hurt you," the Doctor says.

"He'll do that anyway." Jack spreads open his shirt, pulls it free. Rests his hand over the bulge in the Doctor's trousers and gives him a light squeeze.

The Doctor moans.

"It's the end of the world," Jack says. "Let me do this for you. For us."

To us, the Doctor thinks, and he knows this is what the Master wants. But he doesn't care. "Jack," he breathes.

Jack's grip tightens over his crotch, then releases. He unzips, opens, pulls off the Doctor's trousers and pants and shoes. Takes hold of his cock with a broad, hot hand, slightly damp from the bath. All of Jack is slightly damp as he climbs on top of the Doctor and presses full against him.

"Oh," the Doctor moans, overcome. All this touch, all at once. He spreads his thighs and Jack settles between them, a heavy weight, all that skin and heat. He's so hot. The Doctor reaches up and lightly holds him, the way he held Reinette, as if too tight a grip and Jack will break, which is so absurd he has to laugh.

Jack chuckles. "What's so funny?"

"Me," the Doctor says, breathily. "I'm funny."

"You're handsome," Jack murmurs, rocking slowly against him. "Beautiful. Pretty."

"Pretty?" the Doctor says, mustering indignance.

"Don't knock pretty," Jack says, bending to nuzzle his neck, to kiss the bend of it.

The Doctor is barely more covered than Jack, his arms still clothed, but he feels a hundred times more naked. He concentrates on breathing, on the places Jack's body touches his. Every touch seems magnified, the slightest brush intense. Jack's cock is like a brand against his own, it's so hot. How do humans stand it, always being so feverishly hot?

Reinette was warm. Lucy's hand was cool, but hands often are, except Jack's hands are impossibly hot as they run down his body, as they slide beneath him and pull him closer. He arches up and Jack groans against his neck, sucks and laps at the sensitive skin.

He has no idea what he's doing. Not in the technical sense, but in the logical sense. In the sense that they're captives, that the world is ending below them, that the Master has cameras and microphones trained on them right now. The Doctor shivers and Jack's hands tighten on his body, Jack thrusts against him, and the Doctor wraps one leg up around him, then the other. Thrusts up and lets his fingers dig into Jack's back, holding onto him like he'd float away if he let go, as if Jack wasn't pinning him down and holding him and taking every pleasure he can.

"Jack," the Doctor sighs, moans. "Jack, please, Jack..."

Jack murmurs in approval, in pleasure. Kisses the other side of his neck, sucks at it hard enough to leave a mark. It's not that Jack doesn't care that the Master is watching them, but that he's glad of it. What better way to take control of his captivity than this? Blatantly staking his claim on the one thing both Jack and the Master want: him.

The Doctor can't even begin to analyze his own motives. Maybe it's enough just to feel good, to give Jack this victory. There are worse ways to be conquered.



When they've both come, brought to completion by Jack's practiced hand, they lie tangled together, pleasantly tired and sticky. The Doctor's mind has stopped reeling, but only because he feels too content to worry anymore. It's probably the afterglow. He rather likes the afterglow.

He's content to hold Jack, but Jack hasn't stopped touching him, kissing him every so often. Jack's wanted to do this since 1941, and he's not remotely satisfied yet. Of course, the thing about Jack is that he could fuck his way through Cardiff and still not be satisfied.

The Doctor manages another set of threads as they lie together, idly weaves them as Jack's hands wander his body. If he listens very carefully, he can just make out the barest whisper of a few thousand human minds. If they all thought the same thing at the same time, he could probably harness enough energy to light a match. Still, it's a start.

"I want to wash you," Jack murmurs.

The Doctor blinks. "There's still no towels," he points out.

Jack just smirks, eases himself out of the Doctor's full-body grip, and stands. Takes the Doctor's hand and tugs him to his feet.

While the tub fills, Jack admires the Doctor's back, and his backside. Kisses his arms, his shoulder, and presses against him. Jack's cock is already starting to harden again. To go along with the irrepressible libido, fifty-first century humans have conquered the whole problem of refractory periods. Even if the Doctor doesn't normally indulge in such things, it's good to know the sexual habits of the rest of the universe. Otherwise there can be all sorts of embarrassing situations.

The Doctor feels strange as he eases down into the tub. "You drowned in here," he says, meeting Jack's eyes.

Jack just shrugs. "And then I took a bath. I'm not letting him control me. Now lie back."

The Doctor obliges. Jack has a bar of soap, and he lathers it up before washing the Doctor with it. The Doctor closes his eyes and relaxes in the hot water, under Jack's touch. Weaves another thread, another. He wishes he could tell Jack what he's doing, that he has a plan, but it's not an option. Even a mental whisper would be too much, because the limited training Jack has at shielding wouldn't be nearly enough to save him from the Master.

Jack washes his inner thighs, his balls. The soap bumps against the bottom of the tub as it's tossed aside, and Jack's fingers reach under and back and tease at his arsehole. The Doctor doesn't know if he wants that or not, though there's no question that Jack does. He rests one hand on Jack's arm, stilling him but holding him in place.

"We don't have to if you're not ready," Jack says, understanding.

The Doctor nods in gratitude, and Jack's arm moves as he finds the soap. His hand comes back to caress his balls, his cock, washing them and pleasuring him. His mind follows the easy motion of Jack's hand, the back and forth of the weaving of the Archangel threads, and the hot water makes him feel soft and lazy. He drifts.

When he wakes up, the water is cold and Jack is gone.

The cell isn't big enough for a proper pace, so the Doctor sits cross-legged on the bed and meditates. Well, works on the threads, mostly, but that only takes part of his attention, and the rest needs to do something or he'll fret himself silly.

He knew this was a bad idea. Sex, intimacy... it always complicates things, and he finds humans complicated enough to begin with. All those feelings and expectations and shifting interpersonal trickeries. It's hard enough to have to sit helplessly by as a friend is tortured. It's all just one more thing for the Master to use against them, which is probably why he encouraged it in the first place.

He can't seem to figure out what the Master is up to. The whole business with Lucy, and now Jack... And all the while the mysterious Toclafane are down there, slowly exterminating humanity. And why have tea one moment and the next... he doesn't know what the next is yet. Whatever it is, it's not a good thing.

The Master is plotting something. He can always tell. Of course, the Master is always plotting something, unless he's done that thing where he's hoist by his own petard, which is usually how his schemes end. Some detail, some variable he can't control. That's generally how the Doctor manages to win, time after time. Free will, the bane of the biggest control freak in the universe. The Doctor tries not to smile because it'd look suspicious, but he's privately pleased that it's free will that he'll be using to stop him this time, too. The variable of the human race.

He hopes Martha is all right down there. He wonders if he'll eventually find a connection to her, out of the billions of humans. It's a shame the Archangel network isn't sophisticated enough to enable true telepathic communication, as opposed to simple psychic energy transfer. The most he can hear is a muddled burble, and without another powerful mind on the other end, he can't hope for more.



Two days pass without any sign of Jack or the Master, and then three. A tray of food is brought into the room, and even though he tastes it carefully for any suspicious additions, it's just food. He gives up on meditation and paces, checks and rechecks for vulnerabilities, and most of all he worries.



A full week after Jack's disappearance, the Master arrives. The Doctor lunges to the front of the cell and grips the bars.

"Tell me what you've done to him," he demands. "Tell me."

The Master raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Well, isn't that interesting. Conquer the entire Earth, enslave your very favourite species, and where's the outrage? Take away your handsome freak, and there's demands. Was he really that good in bed?"

The Doctor glares at him.

The Master gives him a condescending look. "You think this will all go away. Break the paradox machine and zap! All better. I don't think. This is here to stay, Doctor. Humanity is dying. Maybe it's not real enough for you, locked away up here. Would you like to see? I'd love to show the place off now that I've settled in. Put up a few paintings, knocked down a few cities. Still some boxes to unpack but isn't there always?"

"Why are you doing this?" the Doctor asks, voice tight with anger.

"Because I can," the Master says. "Come on, I've even brought your coat. Wouldn't want you to catch a chill."

The door to the cell clicks open, but just in case the Doctor was planning anything the three Toclafane extend their blades. With six billion of the deadly little monsters, they make a hell of a bodyguard. The Doctor takes his coat from the Master's gloved hand and puts it on.

"Cooperation is a beautiful thing," the Master says. "Or should that be obedience?"

"Just get on with it," the Doctor says, tersely.

As they walk down the hall, another three Toclafane join the party. The Master has an entourage. The Doctor supposes he should be flattered at the implication he could escape if there were any fewer. If anything, it encourages him to look for just such an opportunity. He doesn't need to be the Master's captive to follow through with the Archangel plan, and now that he's back to his normal self he wouldn't even need to spare the power for restoration. He could rig up another perception filter, maybe find Martha, rescue Jack. Yes, it's sounding better every second.

"So where are we going?" the Doctor asks, taking care to sound grumpy instead of hopeful.

"I thought we'd start with your old stomping grounds," the Master replies. "I am still Prime Minister. Though I've called dibs on Air Force One. The Americans do know their jets."



When they reach the ground, there's a limo waiting for them. The Doctor stares out the window as they drive through the city. It's a remarkably clean occupation, with little sign of the chaos that must have ensued those first few days. But the quiet tells the story far better than fires or riots.

London is a dead city.

The Master was right about one thing. It didn't feel real until now. The Earth from above is a smoky marble that's easy to distance himself from, even as he works to save it. It won't make him shout at the Master any more than he already has, because there's no point to wasting his energy there, but it does make him all the more determined to bring this horror to an end as soon as he can. He'll redouble his efforts on the threads. With Jack helping to spread the word, they can cover the globe in half the time. Maybe they can find another way to stop the Master and the Toclafane so he can reach the TARDIS. He could even rescue Martha's family.

He's always been rather fond of hope.

"I took a week to study human leadership styles," the Master says, conversationally. "It was all pretty boring until the last hundred years. Do you know who really got it right?"

"I'm sure you'll tell me," the Doctor replies.

"The communist dictators," the Master says, almost admiringly. Not that he could ever genuinely admire someone besides himself. "Now they knew how to grind down a population. None of that usual toss about being descended from the gods or blood lines. They just slapped the propaganda around and started slaughtering."

"You're modelling yourself on Stalin?" the Doctor asks, unable to hide his disbelief.

"Mao Ze-Dong," the Master corrects. "Higher body count, more long-term success. Well, until me." He grins. "I've already commissioned the first set of statues. Banned all representations of leaders other than myself. Oh, and did I tell you about the factories? And the farms." He gestures at the empty streets. "Too many temptations in the big city. I've sent them all off on hard labour. It'll be good for them. Break their spirits early, you've got slaves for life! Well, until I kill them."

The Doctor's jaw clenches. He aches to reach across the limo and grab the Master, strangle him until he agrees to stop all this madness, but he can't. He can't indulge his anger because it simply won't help, because if he's out of action or even dead, there's no hope at all for Earth. He has to keep his priorities straight.

But the Master presses on. "And really, once you assassinate all their leaders and slaughter a few hundred million of them at random, humanity is remarkably obedient. They're all so very scared, you know. They're good at being scared. As long as they're afraid, you can get them to do pretty much anything. Is that why you like them so much? Did you pick up a human, smack her around a bit, and then make her do your bidding? It'd explain why they spent so much time screaming."

"No," the Doctor says, angrily. "You don't know anything about them."

"Me? I lived as one of those creatures, with a tiny little mind, for decades. I've spent the last eighteen months dwelling among the idiots, waiting for you. I know them better than you ever will, especially as I don't have rose-colored glass embedded in my eyes. Funny thing, Doctor. I'm not the one who can't stand to stay on Earth for more than a few days at a time. Seems to me your pattern is that you can't get away fast enough, as soon as the excitement's over. As soon as you're not the hero."

The Doctor tries to ignore how much that stings. "They don't need me to stay and run their lives for them. Unlike you, I don't have a compulsive need to control the universe. I'm quite happy to let it run itself."

"Says the biggest meddler since Rassilon," the Master laughs.

"It's not my fault that the universe is constantly in peril," the Doctor replies, finding his calm again. "So what if I help where I can?"

"Was destroying the Eye of Harmony your way of helping?" the Master asks, archly.

The Doctor frowns thinly. "Yes," he says.

The Master just smirks at him.

There's actual signs of life at the heart of the city, along with swarms of Toclafane, keeping everyone in line. They walk into 10 Downing Street and the Doctor feels an eerie shiver, thinking of the last time he was here. The Slitheen and Harriet Jones and locking themselves in the closet while missiles bore down on them. It had been a miniature recreation of the end of the Time War, in a way, complete with his own survival with miraculous odds.

He doesn't regret bringing down Harriet Jones. She shot a retreating enemy in the back, and that made her no better than the Sycorax leader. There's also the realization that if he hadn't the Master would have soon after, and that would have been a far less pleasant removal from power, if not life. But this should be a golden age, and it isn't, and that is his fault even if nothing else is.

Actually, now that he thinks about it, she's probably dead now anyway. The Master must have killed anyone who could be a threat or a challenge to his power, and that includes former Prime Ministers. But as long as her death was after the Paradox Machine engaged, it can be undone. It's only temporary, like Jack's deaths, except she won't remember any of it any more than the rest of the world will.

The thing of it is, he doesn't actually know what the paradox is. Oh, it has something to do with the Toclafane, that much is obvious. But they aren't exactly chatty, and the Master hasn't given any clues.

"Welcome to the seat of government," the Master says, grandly, when they reach his office. "Do make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?" He gestures at one of the humans he's kept as slaves, and the young man scurries off to make tea.

"What are you going to put in it this time?" the Doctor asks, dryly.

"Milk and sugar," the Master says, as if that's a stupid question. "What, did you think I drugged you?" He snorts. "As if."

The Doctor decides not to try to figure out if he's lying or not.

"The nicest way to watch other people die is over the rim of a teacup," the Master says, airily. He picks up a remote and presses a button, and a set of flatscreen televisions flick on. Each one shows smoking ruins, huddled masses, factory floors. The Doctor's hands grip the arms of his chair.

"Why are you showing me this?" he asks. "What possible purpose could there be?"

"To make you understand," the Master says, calmly. "I know you're beavering away at some little plan. If you didn't have one you would be shouting at me with much more enthusiasm. Whatever it is, it's going to fail."

"You're wrong," the Doctor says, confident.

"You're the one who said this wasn't a game," the Master replies, holding his gaze. "I'm not playing. In a year, the Earth will be a memory, used up and disposed of. With the Time Lords gone, this universe is mine, and I have every intention of conquering it down to the very last rock."

"I'm not going to let you do that," the Doctor says, unflinching.

"Maybe not yet," the Master replies. "But all in good time." He looks away as the tea arrives. "Two sugars for my companion," he says, leaning back in his chair.

When the tea's been poured and stirred, the biscuits set on small plates, the Master shoos everyone else out, even the Toclafane. For the first time, they're alone.

The tea and biscuits taste bland, but only because his appetite has been destroyed. He eats to keep his strength up, because he's only fed every few days and a week of starvation would take too much out of him. He forces himself to watch the screens because they're what he's fighting for, the people suffering and dying across the globe. He needs to remember that, hold on to it.

He wonders if the building was restored to the same specifications as before.

The Master finishes his tea and stands up, walks to the window and looks out. His back is to the Doctor as he nibbles on a biscuit, watches someone as someone starts screaming out on the street and then stops screaming.

The Doctor reaches into his pocket and grips the handle of the knife that he pulled from Jack's chest. That Jack secreted under the pile of the Doctor's clothes, with the implication that if the opportunity arose, if the Doctor could get close enough, he should use it.

"Any time now," the Master says, sounding bored.

"What?" the Doctor asks, casually.

"If you're going to use it, now's the time," the Master continues, still facing the window. "You could go for the hostage scenario. You could even kill me! I still have, oh, eleven regenerations left? You could kill me a few times over. Go for the heart. Slit my throat. I'll even let you do it from behind, so you don't have to look me in the eye as I bleed to death."

The Doctor feels sick. Numb.

The Master turns around. "Come on, where's that fighting spirit? I leave you a weapon, I take you to the one place where you have a shot at surviving and organizing a resistance. All you have to do is kill the only other Time Lord in existence and you just sit there? Stand up. Stand up."

The Doctor stands, pulls out the knife. The Master walks over to him, stands before him, arms spread.

"Kill me," the Master demands, coldly. "Finish the job. Save your precious humans. Isn't that what you did last time? Your genocide isn't done yet, Doctor. Finish it."

The knife clatters to the floor. The Doctor burns with shame, with horror and regret.

The Master bends down and picks up the knife. Spins it in the air and catches it. Presses the point to the Doctor's throat. He feels a prick as it breaks the skin.

The Master shakes his head. "I'm going to have to punish you now. You've been so very, very bad." The blade presses harder, just a fraction.

The Doctor feels a drop of blood trail down his neck. He averts his eyes, fights the urge to flinch. After a long minute, the knife drops away.

"Field trip's over," the Master says. He looks at the Doctor knowingly. "I think we've all learned something today."



The Doctor is silent on the drive back, on the flight up. He's silent as he's escorted to a room, stripped and shackled. He's silent as he waits for his punishment.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't. Not the Master. He can't kill him. It's not even that he refuses to kill on general principles, it's that he can't kill the Master. He can't lose him.

Because of that, because the Doctor is weak and guilty and needs his enemy to survive, humanity suffers. He deserves to suffer along with them.

But the Master doesn't hurry to punish him, not at all. He leaves the Doctor in that bare, cold room, chained to the floor by his ankles. No clothes, no food, not even any cameras. He feels dismissed.

A day after his failure, the Master arrives, followed by a covered cart. The man who pushes it in looks pityingly at the Doctor and refuses to meet his eyes. The Doctor can't say he blames him. The man leaves and closes the door behind him.

The Master claps his gloved hands together. "Right! Where shall we start? So much to do... Ah, of course. Stand up."

The Doctor stands. The Master takes the chain between his wrists and hooks it to another, thicker chain that hangs from the ceiling. A remote control pulls it taut, until he's hanging just high enough that he has to rest on the balls of his feet.

"Better," the Master says, and walks slowly around him. Sizes him up. "It's a shame your freak kept getting in the way of the camera during your little rut. I think he did it on purpose, don't you? Trying to shield you from my prying eyes. When he finds out what you've done, do you think he'll be disappointed? Angry? Or will he forgive his Doctor because he loves him so very very much?"

The Doctor stays silent. There's nothing to say, even as he thinks that Jack will be more ashamed at him for this than for leaving him behind on the Gamestation.

"You wanted to know what happened to him," the Master continues, stopping in front of him. "Since you obviously care more about that freak than all those normal humans, I'm going to tell you. No, I'm going to show you. I think you need a hands-on demonstration. Of course, since you barely have any lives left I can't give you the full experience, but lucky for you I know exactly how much your body can take before the regeneration process kicks in." He grins. "Isn't it wonderful having another Time Lord around?"

He turns, takes a step and then turns back. "Oh, and if it's ever too much, you can have one of those quaint little safe words. How about 'Please stop, Master'? Though that's really more of a phrase... And heck, it's not like I'm actually going to stop!" He laughs and pulls the cover off the cart.

The Doctor shudders and looks away. He'd be sick if there was anything in him to throw up.

"Don't be such a prude," the Master chides. "It's not like I'm going to use the acid, skinning knife, and the battery all at once. We're going to be doing this for days."

"What's happened to you?" the Doctor rasps, aghast. "You were never this... this..."

"Sadistic? Murderous? Insane?" The Master grins like a shark. "You happened to me, Doctor. I heard all about how the High Council blamed you for the Time War. You didn't have the guts to take the Daleks out. You didn't even have the brains to make the attempt in secret. No, you had to advertise. You fired the first shot, Doctor, and that makes it all your fault. All of it." The grin is gone now, replaced by seething fury. "It's your fault Romana sold me to the Daleks. Your fault I had to slither around in that disgusting animal, and then couldn't even find a decent body. Your fault your insane TARDIS ate me. And it's so very much your fault that I was brought back and forced to fight a fleet of murderous, fanatic Daleks and escape by turning myself into a wretched, pathetic human. Yes, Doctor, you happened to me!"

The Doctor gapes at him.

The Master composes himself. "So you understand, Doctor, I'm going to enjoy this very much. In fact, I'm going to relish it. Please scream as much as you like."

The Doctor nods dumbly. The Master reaches for the portable stereo and turns the music on loud.

Seven days later, the Master stops.

The Doctor is carried to his cell and left on the floor, bloodied, burned, broken. Weak from blood loss, from hunger and thirst. Unable to stand, even if he had the strength, because the damage is too great. His body's healing processes limp along, barely even as strong as a human's.

To say that everything hurts would be like saying the Blitz was a slight inconvenience. He screamed until he lost his voice, and then screamed silently. The Master only stopped when he was fully satisfied.

"Next time, kill me when you have the chance," he said, spit on him, and left the room.

The Doctor loses consciousness. When he wakes up, Jack is calling his name, horror and fear in his voice.

The Doctor opens one eye; the other is swollen shut. "Jack," he mouths silently.

"Oh, thank god," Jack says. "I thought... I don't know what I thought. I don't even..." He looks back and forth over the Doctor's ruined body. "Can I carry you onto the bed? I don't want to make it worse." He gives a bitter laugh. "I don't think it can even be worse."

The Doctor manages a nod. "Bed," he mouths.

"Okay. Okay." Jack looks for a way to gather the Doctor up without touching an injury, and gives up. "This is gonna hurt. I'm so sorry."

It hurts. The Doctor passes out.

When he wakes up, the broken bones in his limbs have been reset. The blood has been cleaned from his body, and Jack's coat is wrapped around him.

Jack breathes a sigh of relief. "I was worried you might not wake up," he says. "Hold on, I'll just..." He stands, walks out of the Doctor's line of sight, and then comes back his tattered t-shirt in hand, sopping wet. He holds it over the Doctor's lips and squeezes, trickling water into his mouth.

The Doctor accepts it gratefully, weakly laps up every drop. Jack repeats the process two more times.

"That's enough for now. You shouldn't have too much at once."

The Doctor nods. Shivers, teeth chattering. The water was cool. He's been cold for so long, his body doesn't have the strength to be warm anymore. "Need sleep," he mouths.

"You need to sleep?" Jack says. "Okay. If you're cold... Would it help if I held you?"

The Doctor gives a tiny, weak smile, and nods.

Jack returns that with a sad smile and carefully joins him on the bed. All that heat that seemed almost too much before is now the dearest balm, soaking into the Doctor's bones and chasing away the chill. He stops shivering and falls into a healing coma.



When Jack's voice drags him awake, he feels less like the dead, but he's starving. Fortunately, the main reason Jack woke him is because they've been given food. Also, his voice is back, if not quite to normal standards.

"I could eat a horse," he rasps. "If it was cut up in small pieces and tenderized."

Jack shakes his head. "It's all easy stuff, fruit and bread and soft cheese. And look, cups!" He holds up the paper cups they were given like small prizes.

The Doctor gulps his way through several cupfuls before Jack insists he eat. The Doctor feels vaguely like a baby bird the way Jack is caring for him, but he's far too grateful to complain.

"You need to eat, too," he rasps, when he realizes Jack isn't having anything.

"I'll be fine," Jack says. "There's plenty. Besides, I don't look like I was run over by a truck. Several trucks, some of them on fire."

"But you were," the Doctor says, meeting his eyes. Everything the Master did to him, he did to Jack, but worse.

But Jack just shrugs it off. "Didn't stick. He kills me, I bounce right back."

They both know that's a lie, but the Doctor is hardly in a position to argue. He eats as much as he can, drinks more water, and then feels sleepy again.

"I might be out for a few days," he warns. "Just let me sleep."

"Okay," Jack says. He leans in and kisses the Doctor on the forehead, brushes his hair tenderly. "I'll be here when you wake up," he promises.



The next time the Doctor wakes up, he's surprised to find that he's dressed in his suit, and his own coat has joined Jack's in blanketing him. Jack is asleep, pressed against him, snoring softly.

The Doctor allows himself a horrified, full-body, gut-twisting shudder at what the Master did to him, to the both of them, and then lets it go. Collects the fear and pain and breathes it out like so much röntgen radiation.

He feels whole again, if still achingly sore. The swelling has gone down or disappeared, the broken bones healed, the internal damage and burns and... and everything. It's better. He probably shouldn't schedule any marathon torture sessions for at least a week, but if he tears himself out of Jack's embrace he can stand.

Not that he's in any hurry to do that. Maybe if Jack was awake, but as long as he's asleep the Doctor is willing to indulge his trauma and be held, comforted.

As the Master tortured him -- and he thinks of it as torture and not punishment, because no one could be that self-loathing -- he told the Doctor in detail about all the things he's done to Earth. The people he's killed, the cities he's burned. He flooded New Orleans and Amsterdam, just for kicks. He's planning to melt all the glaciers because he was sick of all the whining about global warming. He's building fusion mills and missiles galore, all so he can aim them at the stars.

The Master loves to gloat, and when he gloats he talks too much. The Doctor supposes it's good that he got something positive out of all that... out of all that.

He's not going to think about it. It won't help. The Master wants him to be traumatized, wants him to suffer long after the final round of whippings and electrocution.

The Doctor has been tortured by many people in his long existence. He's been locked up and interrogated and sometimes just brutalized. He was always able to get over it with a minimum of fuss. But even as he denies it, he knows it's going to be a lot harder to get over this. The Master's fury was breathtaking.

He wonders if it's going to happen again, if the Master isn't done with him yet, and he feels scared. Genuinely scared, because there are things worse than dying and the Master has just added 'a week of horrific torture' to that list. Right below destroying Gallifrey and its entire timeline, and above pulling the switch to annihilate humanity in 200,100.

Dying would be easy. The coward's way out. And even if he refuses to kill, even if he needs the Master to live, he's not that sort of coward. The Earth needs him, Martha needs him. She's out there executing a plan she doesn't even understand, believing that he'll save the world against impossible odds. Her faith in him is as breathtaking as the Master's rage.

He wants to believe in himself the way she believes in him. It's just... difficult, right now. With the ghost memory of torture shrouding him, inescapable. Suffocating him, like the Master's hands around his throat, like the rope he used after that, like the piano wire...

The Doctor stumbles out of bed, clumsy after so long asleep, and barely makes it to the toilet in time. There's not really anything to throw up, just acid, bile. He's shaking, shivering. He crawls to the tub and turns on the faucet, washes out his mouth. Rests his forehead against the cool porcelain.

He refuses to feel this way. He refuses. He's stronger than memory, than fear. He has to be.

There's a touch on his shoulder and he yelps. Skitters away and has his back against the wall before his senses clear. His hearts are racing.

"Whoa," Jack says, holding up his hands.

"Sorry," the Doctor mutters. Suppresses his adrenaline, forces endorphins. He feels a rush of relief as his neurochemicals stabilize. "I thought you were asleep."

"No kidding," Jack says.

The Doctor would really like to insist that he's okay, that Jack should go back to sleep, but he can't. At least he doesn't have to explain any of it. Jack saw more than enough the moment he was brought back to their cell. Not that there isn't still enough visible evidence, even after the healing coma.

"You were out for four days," Jack says, joining him on the floor but leaving an obvious space between them. "Was that enough?"

"I wouldn't have woke up if it wasn't," the Doctor replies, and gives himself points for the neat evasion.

"No one's come by, except to bring the food and your clothes. I'm glad you warned me. It was weird enough watching you heal in fast-forward."

"You're one to talk," the Doctor says, trying for humour but ending up with vaguely defensive.

But Jack doesn't seem to notice. "You know, I never asked anyone what it looks like."

"Not much to see," the Doctor replies. "One second you're dead, the next you're fine."

"Huh," Jack says. Peers at him. "You're not scarring."

"Of course not," the Doctor says, affronted. "What's the point of tissue that can't regrow properly?"

"I know. It was just so bad." Jack stares at his wrist, his neck. At places where acid ate down to the flesh. Now it's just pink skin, tender and new. In two weeks there'll be no visible trace of the damage that was done.

"Time Lords don't scar," the Doctor says, and leaves it at that.




In a way it was easier when he was unconscious. Now that he's awake, he itches. His healing bones itch, his healing skin itches, even his insides somehow manage to join in the torment. It wouldn't be so bad if there was the remotest distraction to put his mind to, but unless he wants to take dozens of baths or ruin his recovered voice shouting at the Master's cameras, all there is is Jack. And Jack doesn't seem equipped to deal with a fidgety, jumpy, itchy, bored Time Lord. He goes so far as to offer more sex, in that way of his that isn't quite blatant but nowhere near subtle. But the Doctor refuses, can't bear the thought of intimacy when no matter how much he heals, no matter how much he tweaks his neurochemistry and rationalizes his emotions, he still feels like he's in pieces.

They're sleeping in shifts, more to give each other a modicum of space than out of any attempt at being on guard. The Doctor's sleeping like a human, long stretches at a time. He'd be a lot better off if he'd just go back into a coma, but he can't bring himself to do it. He can't go into that deep a sleep when he doesn't know what he'll wake up to.

Days of nothing but healing and itching and boredom, his only distraction the trauma he can't seem to shake off. It'd drive anyone mad. Oh, there's the threads, but by now he could do those in his sleep. Does, in fact, because he needs to make up for the lost time. At least he knows how much time they have.

He decides to take a break from the tedium eating away at his sanity by telling Jack what he learned from the Master's gloating.

"A year?" Jack says, shocked.

"Well, eleven months," the Doctor corrects. Eleven months until the Master's missiles are expected to be ready to fire, and after that he won't need the Earth or its humans any longer.

"We have to do something now," Jack insists. "We have to stop him."

"I know," the Doctor says, turning towards the bars so he doesn't have to look Jack in the eye.

Jack comes up behind him, leans in close to mutter in his hear. "I checked your clothes when they gave them back. Your pockets were empty."

The Doctor sighs. "It's no good," he says, in a normal voice. "The knife's gone."

Jack scowls. "Damn it. When did he take it?"

"He didn't," the Doctor says. "I gave it back to him."

Jack gapes at him. "You what?"

The Doctor turns to him. "I told you before. I'm not here to kill him. I'm here to save him."

"That was before he took over the world!"

"I'll stop him," the Doctor insists. "I will. I promise, Jack. But not the Torchwood way."

"Forget Torchwood," Jack says. "This is survival. This is Earth."

"It's murder."

"It's war," Jack retorts. "People die. Monsters die."

"Not him," the Doctor says, arms crossed in defiance.

"I can't believe I'm hearing this." Jack walks away, walks back. "How many has he killed? Five hundred million? A billion?"

"If you count accidents, he once destroyed a quarter of the entire universe," the Doctor says, lightly.

Jack is speechless. "And you think you can save him?" he says, incredulous.

"I have to try."

"Why?" Jack cries. "What possible reason could you have that could justify letting him live? Just handing over the only weapon we had to stop him?"

"Because he's the only one of them I didn't kill," the Doctor says, tersely.

That takes the wind from Jack's sails, even though he doesn't look any happier. "I thought the Daleks killed your people."

"No," the Doctor says. "I did. I had to. So don't talk to me about sacrifice. Don't talk to me about war and death. Don't you dare presume you have the right to do that." He's breathing fast, air hissing through his clenched teeth. "I'm going to save him, and the Earth, and all the humans he's killed. And you are not going to hurt him."

Jack visibly backs down. Put in his place, which is good because no matter how long lived he is in human terms, he's a child. He doesn't even realize how much he doesn't understand, thinks he's seen it all, thinks he knows more than his elders, just like any child. There's so much he'll never even be neurologically capable of understanding.

No one is, not anymore. Except the Master, the only one left. He's the only one who understands, and that's why the Doctor will do anything not to lose him again.



After almost two weeks alone with Jack, the Doctor is almost glad when they come for him. He walks out of the cell and feels far more relief than trepidation, which is the opposite of what he would have expected but he doesn't care.

Despite the tension between them since the Doctor's admissions, Jack watches him go with undisguised worry.

The Doctor is escorted to the Master's suite. Inside there's no guards, no Toclafane. Perversely, it seems his failed attempt at killing the Master has earned him trust. Or maybe the Master liked his little speech to Jack. It wasn't that he forgot that their every word was being listened to. He just didn't see the point in hiding his intentions when the Master already had a very effective demonstration.

There's no Master, either, or Lucy. The Doctor wanders from room to room, poking through cupboards and drawers and generally being nosy. He doesn't expect to find anything, but the change of environment has woken his slumbering curiosity. He raises an eyebrow at the sex toys and lingerie, but doesn't dwell over them.

An hour later he's settled into the kitchen with the biscuits and eaten all the best chocolate ones in a minor act of spite. If he can't intimidate the Master, at least he can irritate him. If anything, that's the role he's been most comfortable with over the thousand-plus years they've known each other, circling around each other like irregular satellites and only occasionally getting each other killed.

Besides, he was hungry. Still is, since it's been a couple of days since he was given anything to eat. He spends the next hour gradually eating all the second-best biscuits, then the remaining half a container of caramel ice cream, then feels a bit ill from all the sugar and makes himself toast with lots of marmalade, using his fingers to spread it, especially after licking them.

Satisfied, he plops himself down on the antique sofa, shoes on, and takes a nap, just to show that he's perfectly comfortable falling asleep in his erstwhile-torturer's sitting room.

When he wakes up, the Master is lounging in the chair next to him.

"I thought you'd polish off the scotch while you were at it," the Master says, mildly.

"I didn't feel like being drugged," the Doctor replies, deliberately casually. He's not going to give the Master the satisfaction of making him jumpy.

The Master just shakes his head. "Where did you get that idea? I'm hardly going to ruin two hundred year old scotch just to drug you."

"Yes, you would."

"Oh, all right, I would," the Master relents. "But I didn't. Frankly I'm offended. Drugs are such a shortcut."

"And hypnosis isn't?"

"Hypnosis is useful for making people shut up and listen," the Master says. "Shame you're so resistant. It'd do you a world of good."

"Sounds like a shortcut to me."

"Only because you're being deliberately obtuse. I don't need to drug you. You're far too easy to manipulate just the way you are. It's hardly even a challenge."

The Doctor rolls his eyes. "So now what? More sadistic torture because the CIA hijacked me to do their dirty work and I refused?"

The Master's eyes narrow. "Excuses, excuses. Do you never take responsibility for anything?"

"I have for you," the Doctor replies.

The Master snorts. "Your delusions are endlessly entertaining. No, I thought since you'd finished whimpering in the corner, you might like some company."

"I had company."

"Pets are hardly company," the Master replies. "I mean someone who can actually hold a conversation without rubbing himself on your leg."

The Doctor is torn between amusement and indignance on Jack's behalf. "No piano wire behind your back, then?"

"I'd never hide my piano wire from you, Doctor," the Master says, with an almost fond smirk. "Oh, I was rather angry with you."

"Is that what you call it?" the Doctor says, incredulous.

"I needed to get some things out of my system," the Master says. "Overall I'd say it was a success. I'm sure we can move past it. Unless there's another Time Lord you're determined to save from himself?"

"I can hardly trust you," the Doctor protests.

"Thank god for that. How boring would that be? If it makes you more comfortable, I can practice my flaying technique while we chat. We really didn't get enough of that in."

"No, thanks," the Doctor says, feeling suddenly lightheaded even though he's lying down.

"Very well." The Master looks satisfied, the way he did when the Doctor hung battered and broken before him, the Doctor's blood on his hands and his knives and his lips. But there's no painted smile now, just his own shark's grin.

The Doctor sits up, look at him with undisguised curiosity. "After all that, what? You want me to keep you company?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes," the Doctor says, without a trace of doubt. "You don't torture someone for seven days straight and then invite them round for tea!"

"By whose standards?" the Master replies, pointedly. "Human or Time Lord?"

"It's hardly that simple," the Doctor protests. "And by anyone's standards."

The Master gives him an even look, stands and walks over to the drinks tray. Pours two glasses and brings them over, hands one to the Doctor, who takes it despite his reservations.

"If I wanted you out of my life, I've had a few thousand opportunities to kill you. Is the fact that you're sitting here and not a bloody pile of rotting flesh enough to get through your impressively thick skull?" The Master takes a sip, relishing the flavour.

"Amazingly enough, no," the Doctor replies, and firmly ignores the twinge of hope. He knows the Master better than to believe this is anything but another trick. Another game to amuse himself, and the Doctor doesn't want to play. He puts down the glass, his scotch untouched. Stands up. "I'd like to go back to my cell, now."

The Master shrugs. "Your choice," he says. "We'll try this again tomorrow."

The Doctor turns away and walks out to meet the guards.



Jack is, of course, immediately relieved and concerned. He looks the Doctor up and down like he's checking for injuries, which of course he is. Not that there's anything to find.

"I'm all right," the Doctor says, waving him off. "Really, he didn't do anything."

"Maybe nothing physical," Jack says, his anger at the Master barely contained.

"I barely spent five minutes with him," the Doctor says. He thinks of how he did spend the time in the suite. "I don't suppose they fed you while I was there?"

Jack shakes his head. Now that the Doctor looks, he can see the drawn look of starvation on Jack's face. He's becoming uncomfortably familiar with it.

"I didn't think to bring back any food," the Doctor says, chagrined. "I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter," Jack says. His tone is casual but there's a tension running underneath. Not surprising, really. The Doctor wonders which of them is holding up better under the strain. Not that either of them is inclined to talk about it.

The Doctor looks at their cell. It feels so much more cramped after the hours of the Master's extensive, airy suite. The thin mattress on the platform bed, the naked bath and toilet. Their view is of bars and then the military grey steel of the far wall. Grim would be too kind a description. It's hard to believe they've spent over a month in and out of this room, even harder to imagine spending another eleven months in the same way. A year has never felt so long to him before, and it's barely begun.

He wonders if he made a mistake. If his headlong rush into defeat on the Valiant is only being compounded by a plan with too many variables, too poor odds of success. Even if Martha evades capture, even if she finds enough allies to travel the globe, she's a vulnerable, fragile human. She could get sick, could die in any number of ways. Without her, no amount of Archangel threads will be enough, because there simply won't be enough minds synchronized at the crucial moment. And Jack doesn't even have the hope of knowing there's a plan because he chose to stay by the Doctor's side and suffer with him.

He thinks he resents Jack for that. He never asked Jack to sacrifice himself. Well, except the once. And the time before that. But those were different circumstances and he was a different man. He was asking Jack to save the world, not him. Maybe to Jack, there's no difference between the two. Another person whose faith he doesn't deserve. Like Rose coming back to the Gamestation, believing in him when he'd already given up on himself. Like the way she came back to his side at Canary Wharf, only to almost die in the worst way imaginable, the endless death of the Void. He couldn't save her except to send her away, couldn't stop the Daleks from turning Australasia into a radioactive crater.

Somewhere down below, Martha is convincing thousands of humans to believe in him. Will the cost of that be worse than the Master's tyranny? Will Earth be a second Gallifrey, defeat snatched from the jaws of victory?

No, he won't let that happen. The Earth is too precious, the Master too important. He won't fail either of them. Even if the height of the risk makes him dizzy, he'll follow through, no matter what.

The next day, the guards come to take the Doctor and he reluctantly obeys. Not that he really has a choice in the matter.

"I'll bring you something," he promises Jack.

Jack's eyes are hollow with hunger, but determination burns behind the pain. "I'm not taking anything from him," he says. Even though they both know Jack would take anything given by the Doctor's hand, no matter the source.

The Master is home when the Doctor walks inside. He looks delighted to see him.

"Since you raided my cupboards last time, I had the slaves make you a little something," he says, escorting the Doctor into the kitchen. There's a small feast laid out on the table. The smells make the Doctor's mouth water and his stomach rumble.

He ought to refuse it. He ought to throw it all in the Master's face or demand that it all be taken to Jack.

"No," he says, arms crossed.

The Master acts hurt, not that the Doctor believes he's even capable of that emotion. "But I made it specially for you."

"I thought your slaves made it," the Doctor points out.

"Same difference," the Master shrugs. "I ordered them to make it. I even had them bake you a cake!" He walks over and picks it up, offering it out.

"Fine," the Doctor says. "Send that to Jack, and that platter. And send the rest to Martha's family. I expect you're starving them, too."

The Master fights a smirk. "Nope. But it'd be a shame to send their hard work back untouched. I might have to punish them."

The Doctor frowns at him. "I'm this close to leaving," he warns.

"All right, all right," the Master says. "I'll give your pet something to eat."

"Good," the Doctor says. "And don't even think about sending him dog food or some other nonsense."

"The thought never even crossed my mind," the Master says. He calls the guards in and has them carry away the cake, the platter, and several other items.

"There, happy now?" the Master asks.

The Doctor drags out the silence, then uncrosses his arms. "It's a start," he says.

"Good!" The Master pulls out a chair for him, then sits down himself. "Moral objections won't keep your strength up," he says, and waggles a triangle of turkey sandwich at him.

The Doctor reluctantly sits down and takes the sandwich. He's stopped expecting any funny business with drugs or poison, at least for the time being, and finds himself eating generously. It's no surprise he's so hungry. His body's burnt up almost all its paltry reserves between semi-starvation and the effort of healing. If nothing else, fattening himself up a bit will stop Jack from looking at him like the slightest breeze will knock him over.

Besides, skinny as this body usually is, even he feels uncomfortable about how loose his suit currently hangs. It's possible the Master prefers him fitter as well, given the satisfied expression he's wearing.

"Do you have some sudden fetish about watching me eat?" the Doctor asks, dryly.

"Only when it's from my hand," the Master says.

The Doctor gives him a look. "It's from Martha's family's hands."

"By my instruction. From my table, my stores. Of course, everything on and around Earth is mine now. Including you, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't," the Doctor says. "Now who's the one with delusions?"

"Still you," the Master says.

The Doctor only stops eating when he's near to bursting. He leans back with a groan. "No more," he says, raising his hands in surrender. At least he'll be able to hold out for the next few days of starvation.

"You didn't even try the pudding," the Master protests.

"If I did I think I'd explode," the Doctor says. "Eat it yourself."

"I'll save it for when you come back tomorrow," the Master says.

The Doctor looks at him curiously. "What happened to the schedule?"

"There's no schedule," the Master says. "I just feed you when I feel like it. After a few days the two of you just lie around like lumps, and I like my entertainment livelier."

"What are we, your goldfish?"

"That's an insult to goldfish." The Master smirks. "Though the two of you gasping about underwater does hold a certain charm."

"Don't even think about it," the Doctor warns. If the Master really does want his company, the Doctor's going to use that for every inch of leverage he can.

"Don't be such a stick in the mud," the Master replies. "I didn't say I wouldn't let you surface. Once in a while."

The Doctor rolls his eyes. He's too stuffed to muster a glare.

There's what could almost be described as a companionable silence, and then the Master breaks it. "Would you like a book?" he asks.

"A book?"

"Yes, one of those things made of lots of pieces of paper with scribble all over them. As I recall you're ridiculously fond of them. At least the boring ones with humans in them."

The Doctor's eyes narrow. "Is it an evil book? Hitler's diary? Your autobiography?"

"You guessed!" the Master says, delighted. He pulls a wrapped box from somewhere and hands it to the Doctor. "Well, that and my bestselling novel."

The Doctor is almost afraid to unwrap them for fear of what ridiculous nonsense the Master dreamed up for Harold Saxon's life. "I can't believe this," he says.

"If it helps, think of it as research," the Master says.

"You're not Harold Saxon," the Doctor points out.

"What, you think I hired some ghost writer? I poured out whole weeks on those modern classics. The reviews were unanimously glowing."

"That's because you hypnotised all the critics."

"If you truly know me, Doctor, you know I never do anything halfway. I expect you'll even like them, if you can get past your unsightly prejudices."

The Doctor feels insulted enough to actually unwrap the damn things. "Kiss Me, Kill Me," he reads. "The Call of Duty. Which one's the autobiography, again?"

"Was that a joke?" the Master says. "Did the dour Doctor make a joke?"

The Doctor ignores him. He reads the inside flap. "You actually compared yourself to Churchill?"

"Best I could find," the Master shrugs. "Most of the local bigwigs were inbred morons and the rest were royals." He laughs at his own joke.

The Doctor is unimpressed. He switches to the other work of complete fiction. "A political thriller. Why am I not surprised?"

"See? You do know me," the Master says, pleased.

"Speaking of Saxons, where's your Lucy?"

"Oh, she's off somewhere," the Master says. "I wanted us to have some alone time together."

The Doctor is torn between bemusement and apprehension. Even with this regeneration's mercurial nature, it's an astonishing switch to have the Master practically wooing him after spending days hurting him in every way he could think of that wouldn't kill him, after a month of some torture or other. This is probably a torture too, except he hasn't figured out how yet. The Master is layer after layer of ulterior motives, and the Doctor can't resist the mystery.

"I suppose I could do with something to read," the Doctor says. "Even if it is a load of rubbish."

"Insult me all you want, Doctor. I know it's just your way of showing you care."




The Doctor returns to his cell with a full belly and a spring in his step. The Master insisted he take the books back with him, and frankly anything will be better than staring at the walls for hours on end. If nothing else the books will give him something to taunt the Master about tomorrow.

Strangely, he feels like he's getting his feet under him for the first time since Martha told him about the Professor's watch. Maybe it's just that he's feeling healthy again. Never mind that the Master is the one who made him so unhealthy to begin with.

The Doctor's smile fades when he sees Jack, sees the untouched food, and sees the confusion and anger replacing the worry on Jack's face.

"What's wrong?" the Doctor asks, as the guards lock the door behind him.

"You were gone for hours. I was worried."

"You don't look worried."

"I wonder why that is," Jack says, sarcastically.

The Doctor chooses to ignore that. "Why didn't you eat anything? You must be starving."

"I don't trust anything from him. And I sure as hell couldn't eat while you might be hanging somewhere like a piece of meat."

"Jack, he didn't do anything," the Doctor says, trying not to be annoyed. He knows Jack means well, but it's not like he can't handle himself. And if the Master hurts him, he'll deal with it the same way he's dealt with it so far. He doesn't need Jack to try to protect him, especially not when he clearly can't. "And as for the food, I made him send it to you. So you wouldn't starve to death."

"Made him? How can you think he'd do anything if he wasn't getting something out of it?" Jack says, upset. "How can you even be in the same room as him after what he did?"

The Doctor walks past Jack. Sits down on their bed, placing the books beside him. "I don't know what you expect me to say."

Jack just stares at him. "Sometimes I forget what you are."

"And what's that?"

"Inhuman," Jack says, coldly.

The Doctor has no idea what to say to that. After the countless time he's save the Earth or some distant human colony, after everything he's sacrificed for the good of the universe, suddenly he's the bad guy because he doesn't act all... all human?

"I didn't ask you to stay," he tells Jack, restraining his temper. "Maybe you should have gone with Martha."

"Maybe I should have," Jack says, tersely. "If you're going to turn all buddy-buddy with him after he breaks your bones and burns off half your skin."

The Doctor can't breathe for just a moment. For just a fraction of a second he's back in that room, in indescribable agony, his only wish that he didn't have to save the world because then he could die. He can smell his own burnt flesh. And then he's back and he's fine and Jack's angry with him over nothing. Nothing at all.

When he looks up, Jack's expression has softened. "I didn't mean that," he says, regretful.

"Yes, you did," the Doctor says, chest inexplicably tight. He takes a few steady, slow breaths and it fades. "You need to eat or you'll die."

"Then I'll die. It'll give him something to entertain himself with other than you."

"Don't talk like that," the Doctor says. "Please, Jack." He looks down at all that food. Enough to feed a dozen people. He was only trying to help. Why can't Jack understand that? All of this is only about him helping, doing something good. He needs that.

Jack relents. After the first reluctant bite his hunger takes over, and to the Doctor's relief he's eating. He's not going to starve anymore, not if the Doctor can help it. He's not going to slowly die from hunger. The Doctor can spare him that, at least.




Jack might have accepted the food, but he has absolutely no interest in reading the Master's books. That's fine with the Doctor, since he finds himself feeling ever so slightly possessive of them. They amount to an actual gift from the Master, even if an incredibly ego-centric gift.

The "autobiography" of Harold Saxon is predictable and not very good. Well, it's good for a specific and narrow range of good, largely to do with propaganda purposes. But it's no use for understanding what makes this incarnation of the Master tick, which is what the Doctor actually cares about.

It's not that he doesn't know already. Of course he knows. But every regeneration brings something new. A predilection for manipulation or a sudden optimism, a particular sense of humour, talents he didn't have a body ago. The Doctor knows the core of the Master the way the Master knows the core of him, but it's the bits that surround the core that need to be learned anew every time. That's how it works between Time Lords. There's no human equivalent, which is why he doesn't even try to explain it to Jack. Jack only sees what the Master wants him to see.

One look, those small bare seconds, and the Doctor knew it was the Master slipping into his TARDIS. That was all he needed. It's that knowing that he feels when he sees the Master. That certainty of connection, free of artifice. When he looks at the Master, he doesn't see Harry Saxon, homicidal Prime Minister. He sees his rebel-in-arms, he sees his worst friend, best enemy and his occasional, reluctant collaborator. He sees what remains through regenerations and stolen bodies and even relegation to the Matrix. Harry Saxon is just a disguise, like John Smith, like Professor Yana.

Yes, the Master tortured him. Yes, the Master is using the Toclafane to slaughter millions, ravage Earth. But there's so much more to the Master than that, if one has eyes to see. And he does, he does.

Madness isn't the same for Time Lords as it is for humans. All Time Lords go mad eventually. You can't live for centuries, millennia, and conform to some limited definition of sanity. You can't feel the turn of the universe, see the way time turns back into itself and spirals and whirls and not have it change you, make you something different, something greater. The Doctor might have spent most of his life denying his heritage in one way or another, but now he's the only thing his heritage has left and he feels it so keenly.

One alone can't keep a culture alive. A language unspoken will die.

The second book, the novel, is a much more interesting read. It's a roman à clef, an obvious yet subtly twisted story about a heroic politician and the chaotic terrorist who threatens to destroy the world. Naturally, the Doctor gets to play the villain.

"I do not keep a harem," the Doctor says, making sure to sound as annoyed as possible.

"Did I say you did?" the Master asks, innocently.

"My character has a harem," the Doctor says, holding up Kiss Me, Kill Me.

"Funny, I don't remember writing a story about you. Did you read it backwards to find the hidden messages?"

"I read it forwards and they're hardly hidden. Nice touch with the subliminals, not that they'd work. But frankly your motivations don't make sense. The plot's thin and incoherent and mostly serves as an excuse for gratuitous sex and violence."

"Thank you," the Master preens.

"And I do not kidnap people. It's not my fault if they wander after me and I'm too busy to put them back right away."

"Once again, I point out that your name isn't anywhere in my book."

"'The Physician'? Repeatedly and insultingly referred to as 'the Quack'?"

The Master grins. "Now that you mention it, I do see the resemblance."

"Did you run out of languages to call yourself 'master' in?" the Doctor retorts.

"Only the stylish ones. Besides, that would be far too easy. I like keeping you guessing."

"So I've noticed," the Doctor mutters. "'Henry Northman'? You've been reading too many history books."

"I wouldn't need books if you hadn't broken my TARDIS."

"Your TARDIS?" the Doctor replies, outraged. "Not a chance. Don't even think about it."

"Bit late for that."

"Just because you've saddled her with that horror of a machine doesn't make her yours."

"A Time Lord needs a TARDIS," the Master replies, unruffled. "I prefer not to have to kill you to make her choose me, but if I must..." He shrugs. "Plenty of time for that later. What did you think of the ending?"

The Doctor sips at his scotch. "A bit much, don't you think? Your 'Physician' spending all that time on a plan only to have it fall apart at the last moment? Harry-- sorry, Henry barely had to lift a finger in the end. Not a very satisfying victory." A sly smirk curls his mouth. "Nothing at all like you biting off more than you can chew, of course."

The Master looks vaguely peeved. "Nothing at all."

The Doctor smirks and takes another sip. They've had lunch and scotch and companionable conversation. Even actual small talk. He's never known the Master to make small talk in his life. It baffles and intrigues the Doctor in equal measure.

They're simply spending time together, with only the usual verbal sparring. They haven't done this since his UNIT days, and before that at the Academy. He wonders if this regeneration of the Master is any good at foils.

It feels almost like he's in his second century again. His 110s was a good decade for them in particular. The two of them against the establishment, up to no end of mischief.

If he's learned anything from the novel, from the past few days, it's that the Master genuinely enjoys his company. What else could explain the palpably intimate tension between 'Henry' and 'the Physician,' the politician and the terrorist? If the Master had an audience in mind as he wrote it, it could only be the Doctor.

"I thought we might play a game tomorrow," the Master says. "I assume you're familiar with Shogi?"

"Bit rusty, but I'd wager I could beat you soundly," the Doctor says, smugly.

The corner of the Master's mouth twitches. "Would you like to make a bet?"

The Doctor straightens in his seat. "What sort of bet?"

"Jack."

"No," the Doctor says, his good mood gone in an instant.

"You haven't heard my proposal yet," the Master protests.

The Doctor frowns at him. "Fine, tell me."

"If you win, I'll stop starving him. He'll get regular meals."

"And if you win?"

"Nothing," the Master says. "I just want to make sure you're properly motivated. Surely the chance to save your pet from starvation...?"

There's a catch to this, the Doctor is certain, but he can't really see what it could be. Of course there's no guarantee the Master will fulfil his side of the bargain, but there's no reason for him not to, really. As long as the Doctor is getting fed regularly here, Jack should get more than what he can convince the Master to let him take back with him. It would be nice not to have to worry about that, at least.

"All right," he agrees, warily. "It's a bet."

The Master smiles. "Excellent. And since you said you were rusty, I'll even give you something to practice with." He hands the Doctor a small wooden board and a pouch of wooden pieces.

"If I didn't know you better, I'd think you actually wanted me to win," the Doctor says, taking the game.

"You'd be amazed at how dull ruling the world is," the Master says. "You're the closest thing I have to a challenge. Not much of one, admittedly. But needs must. Impress me, Doctor. Or I'll find another way to entertain myself."

The Doctor finds it hard to breathe, just for a moment. Just for a moment the menace in the Master's tone, in the tilt of his head, gives him a nasty jolt. He covers by examining the game pieces, the antique board.

"Showa period, from the look of it," he says, lightly. "Quite a find."

"Hm. Time for you to get back," the Master says, standing. "I want you to have plenty of time to practice."

"The leftovers," the Doctor begins. "I want to bring them with me."

"No. If he always gets your table scraps, he won't want his own food anymore."

The Doctor frowns. "Fine. After I win, it won't be a problem."




Jack doesn't know how to play Shogi. He hasn't even heard of it before.

"It's a variant of chess from Japan," the Doctor explains. "Basically the same pieces, plus a few."

Jack examines the pieces. "These all look practically the same."

"The kanji are highly stylized," the Doctor says. "It's not white or black, but the direction of the pieces that determines the loyalty. And when you flip them," he turns a piece over, "that means they've been promoted."

"Like being kinged in checkers?"

"Basically," the Doctor agrees. "The most interesting bit is when you capture an opponent's piece, you get to drop it back on the board with it loyal to you."

"Sounds complicated."

"Well, he's hardly going to invite me to play Go Fish or Old Maid," the Doctor says, quirking a smile.

"I wish you hadn't accepted. It's just an excuse to keep starving me."

"He doesn't need an excuse," the Doctor says.

"Then it's an excuse to make you feel responsible. You shouldn't play his games. You shouldn't even play his board games."

"He didn't say he'd starve you if I lose," the Doctor points out. "Just that you wouldn't starve if I win. I can handle him, Jack."

Jack looks skeptical. "Not that I've seen."

"Thank you for your enthusiastic support," the Doctor says, dryly.

"That's not what I meant," Jack says, testily. "I'm just worried about you, okay? He tortured the both of us for two weeks straight. I think I'm allowed to be worried about you."

The Doctor takes the pieces and sets them up, balancing the board on his thigh. "I didn't get to be this old without knowing how to take care of myself."

"You haven't exactly been easy on the regenerating, either."

The Doctor looks sideways at him. "Been reading up on me, have you?"

"I had time to kill," Jack replies. "Between UNIT and Torchwood there's a lot of information out there."

"I thought Mickey used that virus," the Doctor says, annoyed at the thought of being spied on.

"It only took information off the web," Jack points out. "Not the private databases, not the backups, not the paper files. Besides, it's not like I only came in at the end. I was there for some of the collecting."

"Jack Harkness, have you been spying on me?"

"Only so I could find the right you. Not that it did me any good."

The Doctor tries not to be hurt by that. He also tries not to feel guilty. "Yes, well. I'm sure you'll be back in the bosom of Torchwood in no time at all."

Jack looks pained. "They're dead. The Master showed me their bodies. They froze to death."

"Oh." The Doctor looks down at the board, feeling awkward. "Well, that'll be sorted out, too. But first, do you feel like a round? They say teaching is the best way to learn."

"You do know how to play," Jack says, concerned.

"Of course I do. I introduced the Drunk Elephant piece. I just haven't played in a few hundred years. Or five. Maybe six."

"Six hundred years?!"

"It's like riding a bicycle," the Doctor says, undaunted. "Now come on. "This is the gold general, and this is the silver general, and that's the honourable horse."

The Master insists on having lunch first. "You'll have a clearer head on a full stomach," he insists. "Besides, I know you'll want to be civilised about this."

"All right. But I want to make one thing clear. I win, you don't starve him. Ever."

The Master sighs. "God, you're tedious. Do you know how long he's going to live?"

"Yes," the Doctor says. "And as long as he's your prisoner, he gets three meals a day. If you won't agree to that, there's no point in playing."

"Fine, whatever," the Master says, uninterested. "Now eat up. I'm sick of looking at your cheekbones."

The Doctor tries not to smile too smugly. He tucks into lunch. He figures two weeks of eating like this and he'll have some meat on his ribs again. Faster if they have dessert. "Do you have any more ice cream?" he asks, with a mouthful of steak.



"So, what's it going to be? One game or best two out of three?"

"Two out of three," the Master says, settling down at his side of the large Shogi board. "You can't whine about wanting another chance after you lose three times in a row."

"And neither can you," the Doctor replies. "Sente goes first."

"Indeed I do," the Master says, consideringly. He moves a soldier two spaces.

Standard opening. The Doctor does the same. Two moves later, the pattern becomes apparent. "Aigakari trap," the Doctor says, as he blocks the Master's attempt at his Honoured Horse. "You're making it too easy."

"Just lulling you into a false sense of security," the Master replies.

Three moves later, the Doctor frowns as the Master takes his first casualty, a flying chariot. The Master smirks as he plucks it from the board.

"Beginner's luck," the Doctor says.

"You're going to have to try harder than that."

The Doctor frowns at the board and plots ahead five moves. Proudly snaps a silver general up from under the Master's nose. It's the Master turn to scowl.

The game goes on. The Doctor has to admit they're well-matched, but the Master, for all his tactics, isn't quite as good as he is. But then, the Master didn't spend seven years stuck in 12th century Japan after his TARDIS broke down. There hadn't been much to do except play Shogi, avoid battles, and mess about with the Buddhists. As monks went they were no K'anpo Rinpoche, but it passed the time until he could finish the repairs and she could grow a fresh batch of transducer cells.

Piece after piece is captured and then dropped back in, promoted and un-promoted. There's two checks before the Doctor finally sees the checkmate and captures the Master's King.

"Gotcha," he says, and leans back proudly.

The Master looks irritated, but accepts the win. "All right. So you'll lose two times instead of three."

"Keep telling yourself that," the Doctor says, smugly.

"Keep gloating and win or lose I won't give you any food."

"Now, now," the Doctor chides. Grins and starts resetting his pieces.

The second round starts off well enough, but by halfway the Doctor is struggling. The Master managed to take both his bishops, and with four against him he's having trouble protecting his king, much less keeping his strategy intact.

Four moves before the end, he can see he's going to lose. He grits his teeth in frustration and sees it out, looking desperately for an out and not finding any. The Master takes his king with no small satisfaction.

"I so enjoy winning," the Master says. "Let's do it again so I can win some more."

"The deciding game," the Doctor says. "This one's mine."

The Master merely smiles at him. "I think it's sweet that you're still going to try. Shame you don't get points for effort."

"I don't need them," the Doctor replies.

The final game is even tighter than the first. For every move either of them makes, the other counters it. For every piece taken, its opposite number meets the same fate. There's several perpetual mates that need to be backed off on either side. What I couldn't do with a Drunken Elephant, the Doctor thinks.

There's a moment when his stomach knots as he thinks he's about to lose, but then, as if by magic, he sees the opening he needs. He takes it.

"Yes!" The Doctor takes the king, tosses it in the air and catches it. "I win. How do you like that, eh?"

The Master leans back, mouth drawn thin. "So you do."

"It was a hell of a game, I'll give you that." The Doctor grins broadly. "I could do that all over again. Not that I will, because that was fair and square. You have to keep your side of the bargain."

"I never intended otherwise," the Master replies. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. "Yes. Take him," he says, and clicks it off, tucks it away.

The Doctor frowns, concern sucking away his good mood. "What do you mean, take him? What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm taking away your pet," the Master says, smoothly. "I've decided you're far too worried about him, so I'm giving him a new home. Don't worry, he'll get his three square meals."

"You can't take him," the Doctor says. It feels like the ground's falling away, even though he's sitting down. "That wasn't part of the deal."

"It's for your own good. You know he was suffering, being with you. You wanted him to be with Martha. Since she's undoubtedly dead by now, I'd kill him for you, but as I can't I've done the next best thing."

"And what's that?" the Doctor asks, lightheaded.

"He's keeping up with the Joneses," the Master says. Smirks. "You should see your face."

The Doctor stands, shaking his head. The Master can't take Jack away, he can't. "Let me out of here!" he says, going to the door and tugging at the handle. It's locked tight. He pulls and pulls but it won't budge.

He turns to the Master with a snarl. "Give him back!"

"No," the Master says.

"You can't take him," the Doctor repeats. Panic fizzes at the edge of his thoughts. He can't go back to that cell, not without Jack there. He can't. He has to stop them from taking Jack. He turns back to the door, pulls at the handle, pounds on the door. "Let me out!" he shouts. "Let me out!"

"Interesting," the Master says. "But also annoying. Time for you to leave."

The door suddenly opens and the Doctor crashes through and right into one of the guards. There's a high-pitched whine and the Doctor screams as a million volts zap through his system. He collapses to the floor, twitching. The last thing he sees is the guard standing over him, taser in hand. Reaching down to shock him again.

He blacks out as the pain hits.



He comes to lying flat on his back. He's on the bed in his cell. His nerves tingle where he was shocked. He sits up.

Jack is gone, along with any trace he was ever here. He's gone. Panic wells in the Doctor's chest. Jack's gone Jack's gone.

He tries to pull himself together, but it's hard. It's so hard. He doesn't know why he feels so terrified but he does.

"Stop it," he mutters to himself. "You're fine, stop panicking."

Jack can't be gone. He can't. But he is. Assuming the Master wasn't lying, he's with Martha's family. Isn't that what he wanted? For Jack to be fed, for him to be somewhere else, somewhere safer than by his side?

He did want it. He does. But he can't bear this without him. He didn't realize how much he was relying on him, not until Jack was gone.

Damn the Master for this. If he'd lost, would Jack have been taken? Maybe, but maybe not. Maybe this is his punishment for winning. But it's worth it, surely, if it means Jack won't starve over and over because of him? Jack is his responsibility, and that means it's up to the Doctor to protect him. Not the other way around. He's not the weak one, not the fragile human.

Jack was right. He shouldn't have played the Master's game. He shouldn't have opened himself up to this. He was damned if he won and damned if he lost, and the only way to escape would have been not to play at all. It's impossible to win when the Master is setting the rules. He should know that better than anyone.

Even the mattress was changed so he couldn't smell Jack's scent. Bastard, he thinks, cursing the Master. Bastard. How did he know? How did he know taking Jack was the worst thing he could do, when even the Doctor didn't know?

What's done is done. The Doctor's on his own now, alone. That's what he wanted, wasn't it? No one has suffer by watching him suffer. He doesn't have to feel guilty about anyone else's pain. He doesn't need anyone. That's what he's been telling himself since he lost Rose. Since the Time War. He's better off on his own. He doesn't have to watch anyone else die if he's on his own.

He curls up on the bed, wraps his arms around himself. He'd give anything for Jack's warmth right now, his steadiness, his concern. But it's gone.




The next day, when the guards come to take him to the Master's suite, he refuses to budge.

"I'm not going," he tells them, angrily. "You hear me, Master? I'm not playing anymore."

One guard pulls out his taser, but the other stops him. Speaks in low tones into a walkie talkie. A few seconds later, they're gone.

The Doctor waits for them to come back, for them to try to force him out, but no one comes. Good, he thinks. See how the Master likes being alone. Give him a taste of his own medicine.

He curls up on the bed. Sulks and misses Jack, misses Martha. Misses his ship so badly. If he could only reach her, only tear out that horrid paradox machine, this would all be over. Everything would be fine. But they might as well be on Pluto for all that he can reach any of them.

The next day, the guards come again at the usual time. Once again the Doctor adamantly refuses to go with them, and once again they leave. It's the same the next day, and the next, and the next.

There's no food. He drinks water but that's all he has. Even if the Master gave him something, he isn't sure he'd eat it. He doesn't want anything from him, not when he knows there'll be a cost. He doesn't waste energy on pacing, on exercises, just lies on the bed and weaves thread after thread into the Archangel network. It's the only hope he has to hold on to.

The more days pass, the more everything feels bleak. He might not see Jack again until this is over, might not see anyone. The Master won't let him have anyone, he can see that now. That's why he took Jack away.

He didn't used to find it so hard to be alone. Before the War he preferred company but didn't need it, not like he does now. There wasn't that gaping emptiness inside him, in his hearts and his mind. Even the millions of humans tied into him through Archangel barely constitute a whisper.

Under normal conditions a week without food would be tolerable. As long as he was sitting quietly, it could even be part of a normal round of meditation. It would take forty days for him to become delirious, to risk regeneration. But this isn't normal conditions. His reserves were hardly replenished from three days of proper meals after a month of starvation and torture. His body used up so much to heal.

After ten days he can feel himself weakening but he still refuses to leave the cell. He knows the sensible thing would be to go to the suite, to eat to keep up his strength so he can save the world, but he can't bring himself to do it. He can't go back there and make himself vulnerable to another loss. He can't let the Master take anything else away, even if it feels like there's nothing he can take. There's always more to lose, and he of all people should know that by now.

On the sixteenth day, the Master stands outside his call.

"Is this some sort of hunger strike?" the Master asks. "Or are you actually going to sulk yourself to death because I took away your security blanket?"

The Doctor says nothing. He doesn't want to give the Master the satisfaction of hearing how weak he is. He doesn't want to engage in conversation with him knowing it can't lead anywhere helpful.

"If you insist on being childish, I'll wait until you go into a coma and then hook you up to a feeding tube. Won't that be a pleasant thing to wake up to? I might even leave it in for a while, just until you're fattened up. I prefer you strong enough for conversation at the very least."

Strong enough for torture, the Doctor thinks. That's what he really wants. The Doctor doesn't want to play that game, doesn't want to be strong so the Master can make him weak. He doesn't want to suffer that way again, screaming until his throat goes raw, every nerve alive with pain, no part of him that doesn't hurt. Especially now that when it's over there'll be no Jack to put him back together, to wash away the blood. He can't face recovering from that on his own. He'd rather starve.

After a few minutes of impatient waiting, the Master gives up and leaves. The Doctor closes his eyes but doesn't sleep.



The next day, the guards come again. But this time they don't talk to him, don't make demands. They just open the door.

Lucy walks inside.

She's traded the white for cream-coloured silk, traded the pink lipstick for red, but otherwise she seems the same. He wonders what she's been doing with herself all this time. If the Master kept them apart for a reason or if she was given some task in the conquering of humanity that kept her busy.

"Hello, Doctor," she says, in that slightly breathy voice.

The Doctor doesn't react. Lucy looks at him, then turns back to the guards. They hand her a tray and she carries it inside, and they lock the door behind her.

Everything on the tray would be easy for him to eat, the same as the food he was given after being tortured. He doesn't want any of it. He could go for a good week yet before any important organs started to falter.

"You can't pretend to be asleep if your eyes are open," she says, lightly. "It's not very convincing that way. And if you close them now I won't believe it."

"I'm not pretending anything," the Doctor croaks. His voice is rusty after so long without speaking. He coughs lightly, his throat dry.

"Here," she says, offering a cup half-full of what looks like orange juice. He wonders if the groves of the Americas are still there or of this is just frozen concentrate. He wonders if all this time the Master has been starving humanity the way he's been starving Jack. The Doctor could have demanded they be fed too, but he doesn't think it would have helped.

Lucy puts the cup back on the tray. "At least you're speaking. That's a start."

"Why are you doing this?" he rasps. "Why are you --" he coughs "-- helping him?"

"I suppose it must seem strange to you," Lucy says, a distant look in her eyes. "But I love him. He saved me, you see. From the evils of the world. From myself." She looks down at the Doctor, meeting his eyes. "I was once like you. Locked away, punishing myself." She reaches down and brushes hair from his forehead.

The Doctor turns his head away. He doesn't want her pity, her sympathy. She needs saving from the Master, not by him. "You're destroying your own species. Don't you care?"

"Yes. I'm glad."

The Doctor stares at her in disbelief.

When she smiles, there's madness in her eyes. "The Earth doesn't deserve your sacrifice, Doctor. It isn't worth saving."

"You're wrong."

Lucy shakes her head. "Harry's told me all about you. How you rejected your whole species for a better life. How you needed to leave them behind so badly." She gives a delicate laugh. "We both know that need to leave."

"I didn't want to destroy them."

"But you did," she says, gently. "We've made the same choices."

"No," the Doctor rasps. "They're nothing like the same."

She looks at him pityingly. "I know it hurts. But it feels so much better when you accept it. Harry showed me that. I believe he can show you, too." She looks away, stirs the mashed potatoes with her spoon. "Would you like to know how?"

The Doctor stays silent.

"I tried to kill myself," she says, almost dreamily. "My father had me taken away. It was very quiet and green, very beautiful, but it was a prison. Harry found me. He saved me. He killed my father for me." She smiles. "I was so grateful."

"How can you be grateful?" the Doctor says, aghast.

Lucy looks down at him, her eyes suddenly cold. "Because of what he did. My father... he blamed me for my mother's death. She died giving birth to me, so her life became mine. Do you understand?"

The Doctor nods, feeling a wave of disgust and pity. "I'm sorry."

"I became his perfect wife," she says, a quiver in her voice. "When I couldn't live with myself anymore, I tried to make it stop. Then I tried again. I could never take enough pills, you see. Not when he always knew where I was."

She looks away, stares at the wall, distant and almost vacant. "Harry hated the world as much as I did. That was what brought us together. For better or for worse." She looks down at him, focused again. "You need to eat. You must be so terribly hungry. It won't stop until the end. It only gets worse and worse, until one day you can't bear it anymore. It doesn't have to be that way."

She offers him the cup again, but he doesn't take it. She presses it to his lips.

"Please, Doctor. If not for yourself, do this for me. For Harry. We want you to get well."

She tilts the cup just so, and the Doctor can taste a hint of sweetness. He's so hungry, so tired, so tired of being alone. He hasn't felt any kindness since Jack was taken away. He doesn't want to die.

He parts his lips and a trickle of juice pours onto his tongue. It tastes impossibly good. He swallows in tiny gulps, the first liquid to pass his lips in days. He stopped drinking water when he felt too weak to stand and couldn't bear to crawl.

"That's better," Lucy says, almost motherly. She strokes his cheek with the back of her hand, fingers cool for a human but still warm to his senses. It reminds him of Jack and he feels something break in his chest.

Lucy takes the cup away. Wipes his lips with a napkin. "We'll try something solid when you've finished all the juice."

The Doctor says nothing, but he wishes he didn't feel so horribly grateful.

Even with Lucy's gentle coaxing, he can't manage more than a few spoonfuls of food. Anything more is too much after his long starvation. When it's time for her to go, the thought of being alone here again is unbearable. He misses Jack so much, but Jack is gone.

"You must feel so lonely," Lucy says, as if reading his mind. "You shouldn't have to stay in this place."

Suddenly there's a syringe in her hand. The Doctor's eyes widen in panic. He pushes himself away but hits the wall behind him.

"It'll be easier if you don't struggle," she tells him. "It won't hurt, I promise."

"Please don't," he rasps. He remembers the Master and his needles, the burning in his veins. He shakes his head slowly back and forth. "I don't want it."

She hushes him. "It'll be all right. Just be a good boy now." She takes his arm with surprising strength and pins it to the mattress.

A quick movement, a prick, and the Doctor feels the drug rushing through his bloodstream. It doesn't hurt but he can feel it dragging him down, down. He struggles against it but to no avail. His vision greys, fades.

There's a needle in his arm. He can feel it. He reaches for it with his other hand but something stops it. A restraint of some kind.

He pries his eyes open and finds himself in a room. Not the cell, and the recognizes the walls, the ceiling. He's in a room in the Master's suite. The guest room he saw when he was snooping, though that seems to have been an eternity ago.

He's been changed out of his clothes and into pyjamas. There are restraints around his wrists, his ankles. There's blankets keeping him warm and a saline drip in his arm. He's not sure how long he's been asleep, but there's the faint muzziness of the tranquilizer.

He concentrates. It's been less than a day. Twelve hours, 34 minutes, 21 seconds. 22. 23.

He still feels weak, sluggish, but no longer dehydrated. Not that he isn't thirsty, but it's not as bad. He twists his hand feeling for the fastening, grateful for this regeneration's long fingers. Leather, but padded. A steel buckle. Too sturdy and awkward to undo on his own. He suddenly realizes he's seen these restraints before, in that drawer full of sex toys. He feels a flush of embarrassment.

Still, could be worse. They're more comfortable than something like handcuffs, and he's rather relieved not to have the association with traditional hospital restraints of this era. The last time they were used on him he woke up in a morgue. Not the most pleasant of memories.

Not that he's out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. If he wants to keep up the metaphors, he's in the lion's den. And the lioness's, apparently. But he can't deny that he's glad to be out of that cell. If he never sees it again it'll be too soon.

He lies awake feeling the slow trickle of saline into his veins. The suite is quiet. As much as he needed to refuse the Master, he needs to regain his strength in order to make it through the next ten months or so. If he wants to save the Earth, save humanity, which he does. He isn't like Lucy, so broken she let herself become the Master's toy. He wishes he could save her, too, but he doesn't even know where to start, and he has to save himself before he can save anyone else. He has to start thinking in terms of survival.

If he can save the Master, he will. But he can't do that if he loses himself in the process.

He hears a door open, close. The murmur of voices. Footsteps on the thick carpet. Lucy walks into the room, bearing a tray very similar to the one before. She sets it down and sits on the edge of the bed. Perches, really.

"You're awake," she says, pleased. "Are you feeling better?"

"A bit," the Doctor admits, his voice no less creaky. "Thank you."

Lucy's polite smile widens to a grin. "Oh, you are feeling better. I'm so glad. Are you up to eating?"

"Might as well try," the Doctor says. With any luck he'll be able to keep it down, and the more he can eat the stronger he'll feel.

He's not exactly surprised when Lucy leaves the restraints on and feeds him herself. He's cooperative, more concerned with the food than how it's delivered. And it's not like he has any dignity to worry about at the moment.

When he starts to feel full, he also starts to feel sleepy. He yawns as Lucy is wiping his mouth. She gives him a fond look and pulls up the blankets a bit.

"Rest up," she says, and gives him a delicate kiss on the forehead.

The Doctor is asleep before she's even left the room.



The next few days vary little from this routine. The Doctor wakes up, eats, and then sleeps again. The only variation is when she detaches his cuffs from the straps on the bed and helps him to the toilet. At least he has the strength for that.

He's not going to starve himself again, not as long as he has the choice. He suspects he was following Jack's example, and in the end it did more harm than good. This isn't a situation where he can hold out for rescue. He's the rescue, and he's no good to anyone like this.

The cuffs never come off. They're not only buckled in place but locked rather securely, and unless he can get hold of his sonic screwdriver he'll have serious difficulty getting them off. He examined them in the bathroom and found metal wire woven between the leather, so simply using a knife on it wouldn't be enough. The Master clearly wants these to stay on. Not that he's seen him. If the Master has been in the suite, he's never around when the Doctor is awake. There's only Lucy, who despite her seeming fragility and refined nature, clearly has some sort of experience in nursing.

When he asks her, she says that she took care of her father. And that puts an end to that conversation.

As he feels up to it, Lucy helps him walk around the suite, and then lets him go on his own. He's no longer bound to the bed once the drip is removed, and after a week he's wandering the suite by himself, raiding the fridge as his appetite demands.

He doesn't get his clothes back, but the pyjamas are comfortable enough. It reminds him of his most recent regeneration. Classic stripes, though no satsumas in sight. It's a safe bet that the Master has CCTV footage somewhere with him in stripey pyjamas from that day. It's amazing to think that all that time, the Master was in London, right under his nose.

When he enquires after the Master now, Lucy says he's overseeing the fusion mills in Japan, but he'll be back soon. The Doctor isn't sure if that's a bad thing or a good thing.

Now that he's awake for hours at a time, he engages Lucy in conversation. Her father used to be in the House of Lords, which explains quite a lot about her. She went to all the right schools, excelled in athletics as well as languages. She gave her spare time to charities and helped the Master with Harry Saxon's autobiography. She's intelligent and ambitious in a narrow way, but also undeniably mad. Which made her the perfect woman, no doubt, as far as the Master was concerned.

She loves Harry Saxon quite deeply. It could be called devotion, but it's more than that. It seems that once the Master displaced her abusive father, he became the centre of her universe. In her eyes, he can do no wrong. It gives the Doctor the shivers and he wonders if the Master hypnotised her at all, but on reflection doesn't think it was necessary.

Lucy Saxon willingly surrendered herself to the Master. If she ever recognized her own free will, she doesn't seem to have had any use for it.

Apart from recovering and Lucy, there's a small library he can entertain himself with. Mostly political theory, but it's still something to read. He's getting strong enough to feel bored again, but it's still a hundred times better than that cell. Maybe a thousand.

He looks out at the window but they're too far up for him to truly see what the Master has wrought.

Finally, the Master returns. The Doctor is at once glad to see him and anxious about what he might have in store. For the moment, he decides to aim for casual yet wary.

"I trust he's been behaving himself," the Master says, after he's kissed Lucy hello rather emphatically.

"He's been very good," Lucy says, as if the Doctor is a child she's been looking after. "No trouble at all."

The Master releases her from his arms and walks over to the Doctor, who's sitting with Hegel's Elements of the Philosophy of Right open in his lap. He looks him over, then takes his arm and pushes up his sleeve. He pinches the Doctor's forearm, then checks the lock on the cuff. Satisfied, he lets go. The Doctor is rather bemused.

"Checking to see if I'm done yet?" he asks.

"Making sure you're not still starving yourself to death," the Master replies, evenly.

"I'm not," the Doctor says.

"Good," the Master says. His stiff posture relaxes. "You shouldn't have done that, you know."

"I think he punished himself enough, Harry," Lucy says. Not placating, exactly, but with an air of protectiveness.

"I agree," the Master says. He pours himself a drink, takes a seat on the couch. "It's good to be home," he sighs, and takes a long sip. "Bloody Japan. You'd think they'd be more obedient, but no."

Lucy settles beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Do we need to help them behave?"

"I'm very tempted," the Master says. "I can be very generous, but I don't like it when they refuse to learn." He looks over at the Doctor, the message implicit. The Doctor gives a small nod, then deliberately goes back to his book.

The Master leaves him alone as he relaxes from the hard work of enslaving humanity. Lucy dotes on him shamelessly.

When it's time for dinner, two servants come in. To the Doctor shock, one of them is Martha's mother. They stare at each other until the Master intervenes.

"Ah, Doctor. I think you've met Francine." He smiles. "Francine, meet the Doctor. He's going to be our guest for the foreseeable future."

"I see," Francine says, not sure what to make of this. She sees his physical condition, his clothes. Then her eyes catch on the cuffs on each wrist and ankle, and he can see her making up her mind. He's a prisoner like her, and that's all she needs to know.

"Tell the Doctor about Jack, Francine," the Master prompts. "He gave up quite a lot to save him from my tender mercies."

"Jack's fine," Francine says, and he can tell that she's holding something back but she's not lying either. "We take turns feeding him."

The Doctor would have preferred a more positive report, but it's still a relief to know that the Master was true to his word. At least he's following the letter of his promise. "Thank you, Francine," he says, quietly. "I'm glad to hear it. I hope you and your family are all right."

"We are," she says, tightly.

Before the Doctor can ask her to tell Jack he's all right, the Master puts and end to the conversation. Francine casts a look at him over her shoulder as she goes into the dining room.

It's all right. She'll tell Jack something, at least. That he's not dead.

It's not until the servants are gone that the Doctor realizes he's been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the Master to hurt him, physically or emotionally. It's almost harder because nothing's happened yet, because all he can do is anticipate.

But all the Master does is invite him to sit down and eat.

Delayed shock, that's what it is, the Doctor thinks. Delayed by a good month, but that's irrelevant. He just wishes he could make himself relax. A tall order given his situation, his captivity, his... whatever this is. But he managed it before. This shouldn't be any different. But it is.

"Stop worrying," the Master says, mildly amused. "Anyone would think I starved you and it wasn't something you did to yourself. I already said I wasn't going to punish you."

That finally gets the Doctor's hackles up. "I don't recall you having any right to punish me or not," he says, annoyed.

"Fair point," the Master concedes. "All right. So we understand each other, these are the ground rules. As long as you're on the Valiant or Earth, I have the right to do anything I want to you. If you misbehave, we'll start with punishments and move on to isolation. If you're a very naughty Time Lord, I'll take it out on the humans. There's plenty of population centres I'm not doing anything useful with."

The Doctor's stomach tightens. "And I'm just supposed to accept that?"

The Master chews thoughtfully. "Well, you could throw yourself out the window. But there's no guarantee I wouldn't take out my grief on a whole continent." He smiles smugly. "Cheer up! We're going to have fun. As long as you're a good boy. Maybe even if you're not."

Lucy giggles. "Oh Harry, you're such a tease."

"I know! Come on, Doctor, where's that smile?"

"I left it with my appetite," the Doctor retorts. "Are you going to punish me for that?"

"Of course not. What do you think I am, some sort of monster?" The Master's grin is particularly toothy. "I enjoy our witty repartee. Witty on my end, anyway. No, I want you to be your stubborn, human-loving self. Challenge me, Doctor. Keep things interesting. Let us take care of you. Lucy's very good at that, aren't you dear?"

"Isn't he wonderful?" Lucy says to the Doctor.

"You're our guest," the Master says. "Consider it a vacation. Kick up your feet, read a few books. Enjoy the food. Only the best for us." He raises his wine glass. "A toast to us."

The Doctor declines to raise his glass. He holds the Master's gaze as he and Lucy clink glasses and drink.

The Doctor's instinct is to get up from the table and go back to his room, refuse to eat. But he's already been down that path and he knows it won't do any good. He forces himself to eat, to drink. His body needs the energy, the proteins, the nutrients. It doesn't matter that he's too angry to taste it.

He hates feeling trapped. Always has. It's why he left Gallifrey. It's why he spent all that time with UNIT half out of his mind with impatience. It's why he can never stop moving. Except now he's stuck, he's trapped. He wants to rip off the cuffs and throw them in the Master's face, but he's powerless and he hates it.

It was bad enough when the Master used Jack to keep him in line. Now the whole Earth is at stake. And even though it'll all be reversed with the paradox, he couldn't live with himself if he was responsible for the kind of suffering and death the Master promises.

No, that's a lie. He already has to live with that kind of suffering and death on his conscience. But he refuses to add any more. It's already too terrible for words.

He's too wound up to deal with the Master's petty games tonight. He grits his teeth through the conversational evening and excuses himself early. The tension has worn him out anyway. But once he's under the blankets he finds he can't fall asleep no matter how hard he tries.

As he's lying in bed, he listens. He hears them talking, low murmurs through the wall. He hears the creak of the bed and then laughing gasps, and by the time Lucy is crying out rhythmically he realizes they're having sex.

Not again, he thinks, and covers his head with his pillow. It doesn't help. Damn the both of them for being so bloody noisy and... and inconsiderate. He thinks it's the petty evils that are the worst. The big stuff, that's easy. He can fight the big stuff. What's he supposed to do about this? Pound on the wall?

He turns over, thumps his pillow and huffs. He closes his eyes and tried to listen to the silence beneath the sounds, but finds himself straining to hear the Master. Lucy's rather loudly enthusiastic, but the Master... the Doctor finds it far too easy to picture him. That day in their bedroom...

He knows his recovery is speeding along. Otherwise he wouldn't have the energy to spare for arousal, even if only a simmer.

He'll have to give them credit for endurance, at least. He turns over again and tries counting asteroids.



The next day he wakes up feeling immediately tetchy. He's just not in the mood. He glowers out the window, glares at his breakfast, and stomps back to his room to read. There's a comfy chair and a reading lamp in the corner, and he takes advantage of them. Both Lucy and the Master have gone off to do something undoubtedly evil, and they're welcome to it. He's just glad he doesn't have to deal with them when he's in this much of a sulk.

By lunchtime he's sick of reading and decides to case the joint again. This time it's not so much about snooping as looking for any kind of weaknesses in the security of the place. He's not surprised to find a small camera embedded high in a wall in his room, pointed down at the bed. He makes a face into it and covers the lens with peanut butter.

When he tries to open the door out, it doesn't budge. He works at it with a butterknife for a half-hour and it clicks open. He has a second to savour his success, and then he finds himself staring at a rather muscular pair of thighs. He looks up to see two guards staring down at him, and a few of those deadly globes hovering menacingly behind them. Another four buzz past, on their way to who knows what. The ship must be swarming with them.

"I'll just..." he says, and closes the door, leans back against it. So much for that. Even if he snuck past that lot, he'd need more than a butterknife to make it to the TARDIS, much less inside. Still, he has plenty of time to improvise. Maybe he can figure out some signal to short out the Toclafane, broadcast it over the intercom. That'd be a nice trick. The ventilation ducts are, sadly, much too small to crawl through. Lucy's too mad and madly in love to be convinced to betray the Master. He could cling to the outside of the Valiant, break through to another floor and try to find Jack, the Joneses, but not unless he had a way to avoid being immediately zapped or sliced into pieces. Those bloody Toclafane. Without them, the Master could never have conquered Earth. He always has to go around making alliances, time after time. Typical.

He could set up a feedback amplification to short out the electrical grid of the ship. Unfortunately, that would probably send them all crashing to Earth to instant firey doom. And thanks to the TARDIS' sturdy exterior, it wouldn't even scratch the paradox, which is the heart of the problem.

What else, what else?

He could give the Master and Lucy food poisoning. Somehow he doubts that would do anything more than get him into trouble, and the Master seems to genuinely believe he's in charge. Well, technically he is, but threatening punishments? That is new. Well, not entirely new. Their rebellious games on Gallifrey did tend to have a certain... flavour to them. But that was a thousand years ago, and this doesn't feel like a game. The Master seemed far too focused for that.

No, for the moment he's stuck. This suite is his new cell, albeit a very comfortable one. He plops himself down on the Master's bed and fiddles with the cuff on his left ankle. The mechanism for the lock doesn't appear to be accessible. Probably keyed to the Master's touch or psychic command. Now that he takes a good look, the buckle is effectively decorative, either there to disguise the true nature of the cuffs or for aesthetic effect. Probably the latter. The Master has always loved the projection of power in any form, even a detail as small as this.

He wonders if Lucy wore these, since they were in that drawer. This regeneration has fairly thin wrists, so it's possible the cuffs would fit her as well. He looks askance at the dresser. He might as well have a peek. It's not like he has anything better to do, and he'll take his small rebellions where he can.

But when he opens the drawer, to his surprise he finds another set of cuffs. He picks one up and inspects it. Slightly smaller, and none of the high security nonsense in his. It's just that they look practically the same. It gives him a strange feeling and he doesn't know what to make of it.

He wonders which came first, then decides that isn't a helpful train of thought and puts the cuff back, shuts the drawer.

The thing is, the Master hasn't made any overtures towards him. Not really. But the Doctor can't shake the feeling that if he tilts the last two months until he sees the world as crookedly as the Master does...

No. Yes. Maybe...

His hearts beat ever so slightly faster. He forces them to slow. He goes back to his room for his book, but sits out in the living room to read it.




The Master comes in alone. The Doctor is fairly sure they have other private rooms on the ship, along with whatever residences the Master has on Earth. It's easy to forget in his relative isolation that messing with his head only takes up a small part of the Master's busy schedule. As for Lucy, she was disinclined to talk about her share of the conquering of Earth, but he doubts she sits around all day. Harry Saxon's perfect wife must surely have a stake in management.

The Doctor watches him carefully when he walks in, and notes that the Master's eyes linger on the cuffs. The Doctor rolled up his pyjama sleeves, curious to see what reaction he would get, and he's intrigued by the result. An easy excuse is that he's looking for a way to manipulate the Master, look for a weakness, but the truth is the both of them just enjoy getting reactions out of each other. That's what they do.

"You're going to finish that soon," the Master observes.

"I hope you haven't burned down all the libraries," the Doctor replies. "Otherwise I'm going to need something to entertain me once I read through all of your paltry collection."

"It's not paltry. It's selective." The Master goes to pour himself his customary glass, though he's moved from scotch to whisky for the time being. "Not that you have enough taste to know the difference."

The Master passes close as he walks to the couch, his finger tracing briefly over one cuff, almost an unnoticeable motion. The Doctor might have missed it if he hadn't been watching for it. The Master sprawls casually, facing him at an angle.

"So where's Lucy, then?" the Doctor asks.

"Oh, she won't be back tonight," the Master says. "She's found her niche."

"And what's that?"

"Executions," the Master says, with an air of pride. "There's nothing quite like madness for inspiration. I think every time it's like she's killing her father."

The Doctor feels a bit sick. "That's what she does?"

"Not all the time. But I let her have all the useless old men. It's only fair, seeing how I did what she never could." The Master takes a sip, savouring the whisky as it goes down. "You should be glad I aged you back down. She might have gone after you."

The Doctor shifts uncomfortably, then start to roll back down his sleeves.

"No," the Master says, quietly stern. "Leave it."

The Doctor looks at him defiantly. "And what if I don't?"

"I don't think your sleeves are worth the life of a small child," the Master warns. "Two, in fact. One for each sleeve."

The Doctor rolls his sleeve back up.

The Master smiles, pleased. "Good. Keep them that way from now on."

"So rolling up my sleeves counts under 'very bad Time Lord,' does it?" the Doctor says.

"No," the Master replies. "But being ashamed to be mine, that's quite terrible indeed."

"I'm not your property."

"I think we've had this conversation before," the Master says. "I know you're a slow learner, but really."

"Prisoner, yes," the Doctor concedes. "But that's all."

"I'll let that one pass," the Master says, calmly. "But don't do it again. Next time I won't be so lenient."

The Doctor glares at him, and then says with complete deliberation: "I am not. Your. Property."

The Master's anger seems to rise in a flash, then lower to a steady simmer. "I think you need a lesson," he says, slowly. "Roll up your sleeves to the elbow and your trousers to the knees. Argue with me and this will be so much worse."

The Doctor presses his lips together in a thin line and does as he's told.

The Master stands and walks to the bedroom. He comes back carrying the belt from his robe. The Doctor looks at it curiously but doesn't comment.

"Follow me," the Master says. "And don't bother trying anything stupid."

The Doctor follows him out of the suite. The metal grating is uncomfortable on his bare feet, and along with the guards there's Toclafane everywhere, bobbing playfully or zooming past with determined menace. Sick creatures, whatever they are.

To the Doctor's surprise, they end up in the main conference room, where President Winters was disintegrated. To his greater surprise, the Jones family has been gathered, and so has Jack. Jack looks relieved to see him, and for the Doctor it's mutual. Jack looks a bit dirty but otherwise unharmed, and he wishes that meant he actually was unharmed. The Joneses are quietly defiant, Francine and Tish dressed as servants and Clive in coveralls.

There's also a young girl standing in front of the stairs. Her clothes are ragged at the edges, layered for warmth. Dirt streaks her dark skin but her hair is in neat braids. She looks frightened but proud. She reminds him of Martha. That's probably why she's here.

"I love a good audience," the Master says, satisfied with the scene before him. "So glad you could come. Today, boys and girls, we're going to find out what happens when the Doctor doesn't behave. Stand over there, Doctor."

The Doctor walks over to a spot next to the windows, across from Jack and the Joneses and a short distance from the young girl.

"Doctor," Jack says, taking a half-step forward.

The Master tsks, shakes his head. "If you can't behave you'll have to leave."

Jack couldn't possibly look any unhappier about all this, but he steps back. Worry practically radiates off him when he looks at the Doctor, and anger when he looks at the Master.

"The gang's all here!" the Master says, clapping his hands together. "Well, almost, but who needs corpses stinking up the place?" He walks over to the girl, takes her by the chin. "Just look at that face. She's a real fighter. If she grew up, I bet she'd make all kinds of trouble."

"Don't do this," the Doctor says, half-warning and half-pleading.

"You had your chance," the Master says. He leaves the girl and walks over to the Doctor, takes him by the chin. "But you just don't know when to quit. You never did, as I recall. Always had to do things your way, always had to break the rules."

"So did you," the Doctor says, hoping he can appeal to the Master's nostalgia.

"That's where you're wrong, as always," the Master says, unmoved. "The thing about rules, Doctor, is they exist for a reason. Without them the universe is chaos. Just look at the mess you've left behind!" He waves at the air and the Doctor sees the tell-tale shimmer of fluid time, though they're the only two in the room that can perceive it. "Do you think I could have done all this if the Eye of Harmony still existed?"

"Tell me what the paradox is," the Doctor says, needing to know.

The Master ignores that. "Thanks to you, this is my universe now. My rules. And you will obey them."

"Or else what?" the Doctor says, defiant.

The Master takes a step back, his mouth curving in a cruel smile. "Or else this." He pulls the laser screwdriver from his jacket and aims it at the Doctor.

The Doctor screams. Howls in agony as he falls shuddering to the floor, his very molecules twisting and bending and turning back and back and back. He's aware of nothing but white, blinding, utter pain.

And then suddenly it's over. He's lying on the floor, lungs burning, muscles trembling. He whimpers and it sounds strange to his ears, his voice high and thin. He starts to push himself up and stops, stares at his hand. It's a child's hand. No.

"Doctor!" Jack cries.

The Doctor sits up, staring at his hands. The cuffs are loose, his pyjamas entirely too big. He touches his face, his body. He looks up and the Master seems so tall.

"Eight years old," the Master says, tilting his head as he looks down at him. "The age when learning begins. Induction into the Time Lord way of life. That's when it all went wrong for you, Doctor. You learned the wrong lessons. Fortunately for you, I'm a Professor."

"Age me back," the Doctor says, wishing his voice didn't tremble so much. In a child's body he has a child's mind, even if he has all his memories. A Time Lord is more than the sum of his timeline, he is flesh. He is change. The mind is the water and the body is the river, and the water takes the shape of the river. A hermit once taught him that, after he'd taught him the secret of life in a daisy.

The Master pockets the screwdriver and reaches down, grabs the cuffs. At his touch they contract, shrinking to fit his small wrists. He taps them against each other and lets go, and the Doctor finds them stuck fast. He struggles angrily, kicks with all his strength, but the Master does the same to the cuffs at his ankles. He stands and steps away.

"Let me go!" the Doctor screams, angry and afraid. "Let me go let me go!"

"I'm going to count to three," the Master says, exasperated. "If a certain mother doesn't shut up that child she's going to find herself without any daughters at all. One, two--"

Francine rushes across the room and pulls the Doctor into her arms, covering his mouth with her hand, muffling his screams. The Doctor struggles briefly and then stills, goes quiet. His eyes prickle with tears. He wants his TARDIS, he wants to go home.

"--three."

"It's all right," Francine hushes. "I've got you." She keeps her hand over his mouth, but with only the lightest pressure.

"Peace and quiet," the Master says, eyes closed and head tilted back. He sighs. Pulls the robe belt from his pocket and tosses it at the Doctor. It lands over his legs. "So his trousers don't fall down."

Francine takes the belt. She gently lays the Doctor on the floor and gives him a pleading look to be still and quiet as she ties it around his waist. The Doctor doesn't struggle, not wanting to risk Tish's life. It's bad enough that he's lost Martha, even though he knows she's still alive down there somewhere. She has to be.

The Doctor pushes himself up with his elbow until he's sitting. He looks at the young girl and realizes that she's eight. They're both eight, and she's never going to be nine. But she's looking at him with sympathy and pity.

"Doctor, meet Martha," the Master says, gesturing to one and then the other. "Not your Martha, of course, but the pickings are starting to get slim down there."

Please don't do this, the Doctor thinks, begging silently. Please don't. Please.

"Martha, can you be brave for that boy over there?"

Martha gives a determined nod.

"Isn't that sweet? Mini-Martha." The Master grins. "Do you know what, mini-Martha? I'm going to give you a sweet, just for being so brave."

A guard carries over a tray. On it there's a glass full of chocolate milk. The Master takes it and holds it out to her. "I bet you haven't had chocolate milk in months."

Martha shakes her head.

"Go on," the Master says. "It's your reward."

Martha looks nervously around, then takes the glass. She drinks it greedily, probably been half-starved until now.

Francine gives a small, choked sob. She looks away, unable to watch.

The Master takes the glass back, and Martha is giving him a crooked smile. Then her eyes go wide, wider. She starts to gasp and wheeze and clutches at her throat. The wheeze gets worse and worse until she can't breathe at all and she falls to her knees, lips turning blue, and she's so very scared.

The Doctor's eyes well with tears. His chin trembles. His small hands curl into fists. But he can't look away.

It doesn't take any time at all for Martha to die.

The Master walks over to the Doctor, towers over him. Doesn't say anything, just looks at him, a long, even, pointed look. Then he walks over to the table and puts down the glass.

The Doctor bursts into tears. Francine takes him into her arms again, holds him close. She glares up at the Master with a mother's fury. "You evil bastard," she hisses.

"Aww. Poor little Doctor. Don't you just want to eat him up?" the Master coos. His expression turns to a sneer, quick as mercury. "He always was a crybaby."

Jack runs full out at the Master, murder in his eyes, but a Toclafane shoots him dead on the spot. He drops to the floor with a thump.

"Look at this mess," the Master says, shaking his head. "Corpses everywhere. Someone clean them up before they start to stink."

The guards drag Jack away and carry Martha off. One back to prison and the other... The Doctor doesn't want to think about what will happen to her body. He swallows his sobs and wipes at his eyes with his bound hands.

"Stop it," the Doctor pleads, voice thick and young and shaking.

"Say please," the Master says, sternly.

"Please stop," the Doctor pleads.

"What's the magic word?" the Master says, in a sing-song voice.

The Doctor looks up at him. "Please stop, Master," he says, defiant and afraid and just wanting it all to stop. He'll do anything to make it stop.

The Master looks pleased. "There's hope for you yet. I think I'll keep you like this for a bit. See if we can't make this lesson stick."

The Doctor looks down, ashamed and angry and lost. Francine holds him tighter, but then the Master reaches down and takes his arm and pulls him away from her.

"No," she gasps, as he slips from her hands. "Oh god, no."

The Master releases the ankle cuffs with a touch and the Doctor finds his footing, but the Master's grip on his arm is like iron. He looks back at the Joneses one last time as he's dragged from the room. He trips on the grating, jamming his toes against the steel, but the Master doesn't slow down.

He's dragged all the way into the suite and then into the guest room. The Master drags him up onto the bed and then releases him, only to lock his ankles together again. He turns and reaches up and wipes the peanut butter off the camera lens with his thumb.

He leans over the Doctor. "Do you know what killed her? What I put into the chocolate milk?"

"You poisoned her!" the Doctor cries.

"Not at all. I gave her this." He holds his thumb over the Doctor's face. "She was allergic to peanuts. This killed her, Doctor. You killed her."

"No," the Doctor gasps, horrified, sick. His chin trembles. "No!" He starts to sob, to bawl. It's too awful, too terrible to bear.

The Master wipes his thumb on the Doctor's shirt. He stands, walks to the door. Looks back coldly, turns out the light, shuts the door behind him and locks it.

Hours later, Lucy visits him. When she turns on the light, the Doctor buries his face against the pillow. He's curled up in a tight ball and there's plenty of room on the bed for her to sit beside him.

"Poor dear," she says, stroking his hair. "Harry told me what happened. That device of his is really quite amazing. You're really a little child."

"'m not," the Doctor protests, but he sounds like a child, voice thin and hurt. It's also muffled by the pillow.

"Don't be rude, darling," she says. "Come on, let me see your face." Her hand coaxes him to face her. "There now. That's better." She gives a little laugh. "I didn't think your eyes could get any bigger."

The Doctor pouts. "It's not funny."

"Not even a little? Well, I think it is. And those oversized pyjamas..." She looks down on him with doting affection. "I had a child, once. I think he would have been as sweet as you. But I bled him out on the floor." Pain flashes across her face, and he can see the madness in her eyes. "My father wouldn't have let me keep him anyway."

"Lucy, please," the Doctor begs. "This has to stop. I need your help."

"You need to learn to behave," Lucy gently chides. "It's your own fault you're in trouble. If you'd been a good boy none of this would have happened."

"That's not true," the Doctor protests. "He killed a little girl. Can't you see how wrong that is?"

"She was like the rest of them," Lucy says, eerily calm. "He made it a quick death. That's better than most of them deserve."

"You can't mean that."

"Harry promised to end the world for me," she tells him. "I thought it would be quicker but... He knows best, you see. Even if it hurts, it's only for the best."

It's no good. He can't get through to her. He's not even sure there's anything to reach. Hopelessness overwhelms him and he struggles not to cry. He can't seem to control his emotions in this young body.

"There, there," Lucy hushes, and draws him into her arms. She cradles him against herself as she rocks him gently, and hums a broken lullaby.



The next day the Master comes into his room and releases his cuffs from their locked position. When the Master sits on the bed, the Doctor shuffles back against the headboard, as far away from the Master as he can manage. All he can see is poor little Martha, dead on the floor. Her lips blue, her eyes fixed and staring. Accusing.

"I don't want you to be afraid of me," the Master says, as if he's speaking to a child and not the Doctor in a child's body.

The Doctor looks at him in disbelief.

The Master quirks a smile. "Maybe I do. But it's a healthy fear. A good fear. I like to think of at as proper respect, and respect leads to obedience. That's all I ask for. Just do as I say, and no one gets hurt. Maybe not even you."

"Liar," the Doctor mutters.

The Master puts on a comically hurt expression. "You wound me, Doctor. Insults after everything I've done for you. And before you talk back, remember what happened the last time you misbehaved."

The Doctor presses his lips together tightly.

The Master gives him an approving look. "That's a start. I'm going to give you a chance to show you can learn. If you can behave yourself appropriately, I'll let you grow up. If you can't, there are so many eight year olds who'd love to meet their Master."

There's a long silence as that hangs in the air.

"I'll behave," the Doctor says, his voice catching.

The Master smiles. "I'm so glad to hear it. Now come over here." He pats the bed.

The Doctor hesitates, swallows. Forces himself away from the illusion of safety at the end of the bed and crawls over. Sits down. The Master pets his hair, then rests his hand on his shoulder.

"That's my boy," he says, proudly. "Now, first thing we'll do is get you something that fits. Lucy's going to run you a bath."

"Can I shower instead?" the Doctor asks, keeping his tone polite.

"You're too young," the Master says.



Bubbles. Lots of bubbles. The Doctor shapes them into a foamy tower, then flattens it. His hands plunk into the water below. He leans back against the tub and slides down, down, until his nose is just above the waterline.

He hasn't had much time for baths the past few bodies. He's always been in a rush, hurrying from one disaster to the next. The hot water feels good, soothing. He takes a deep breath and slides down the rest of the way, letting it close above his head.

He keeps his eyes closed tight so the soapy water doesn't sting them. It was bewildering enough to have to see himself when he undressed. Being young is far, far stranger than being old. It's been so long. He doesn't remember his first body ever being so gangly, all knees and elbows.

He rubs at the edge of one ankle cuff with his other foot. The blasted things are waterproof on top of everything else. What's he going to do, try to escape down the drain? He's not that skinny.

He doesn't like feeling small and weak, or the way his emotions seem so much wilder, his self-control so much less than his impulses. His brain isn't mature anymore. He can feel the Archangel threads but he can't seem to make any. He has the knowledge but it's like there should be a muscle and it isn't there. He needs the Master to age him back up as soon as possible which means he's going to have to swallow his pride. Go along with this madness. Long term survival, he reminds himself. That's what's important. At this point he hardly has any dignity left to lose.

He rises back to the surface, blinking as water drips down from his hair. There's a light knock on the door and Lucy walks inside, not waiting for a reply.

"I've brought you your clothes," she says, carrying in a small bundle and laying it on the counter. More pyjamas, miniature versions of his adult-size stripes. He's relieved that he's not going to be forced into anything with cartoon characters on it. Just because he's physically eight doesn't mean he's lost all his sense.

"Do you need anything?" she asks.

"I'm fine," he says, with as much politeness as he can muster. He's not feeling very charitable towards either of them at the moment. Worse than turning him into a child is treating him like one.

Lucy kneels down beside the tub and brushes the hair from his eyes. "I'm so glad you're feeling better. Harry's very pleased. It's like we're a family now."

The Doctor pities her. She's so damaged, so lost. Two days ago she was enthusiastically having sex while he was in the next room, and now she's on the verge of formally adopting him. He shudders to think what the inside of her mind must be like. But he can't forget that no matter how much of a deranged innocent she seems, she's a full partner in the devastation below.

"Don't be much longer," she says, and kisses him on the forehead.

Once she's gone, the Doctor scrubs at where her lips touched, and then dunks himself under. Girls, he thinks, petulantly.

He dries off in a towel that seems impossibly large and fluffy, then quickly slips on his clothes. It actually bothers him to be this young. It's such a brief phase of a long life that anything before initial physical maturity is embarrassing, something to be grown out of as quickly as possible. It's the time when one is supposed to be House-bound, learning the very basics of the arts and sciences and traditions in preparation for the Academy. There was little place for children in a society that long-lived in every sense of the word. Which is why at 250 he was proudly in display of wrinkles and grey hair. He thought it made him look distinguished. The human obsession with youth came as quite a shock to him, and was at least part of why Susan adapted so much better than he did.

It took him quite a few regenerations to get used to the idea of physical youth, and even more to properly embrace it. His fourth regeneration was the youngest to date and his outward appearance unsettled him to no end. But that was nothing compared to this.

He makes himself look in the mirror. A stranger looks back, a little boy he never was. He's more pop-eyed than ever, huge brown eyes peering over the countertop. At least his hair is the same, and his features are recognizable under his eerie youth. It's so strange, even for someone used to being surprised by his reflection.

When the Master aged him a hundred physical years, he still felt like himself, just weary and brittle. Aging is inevitable; if he didn't go through bodies so quickly, eventually he would feel that old, though it'd take centuries to reach anything near what the Master did to him in minutes. Regeneration into a child's body is unheard of, probably not even possible. What would be the point of becoming half-grown, undeveloped mentally and emotionally, too small and powerless to be of use? It would be like a butterfly willingly going back to being a caterpillar.

His youth imprisons him far more effectively than any cage, any shackles. And what next? More humiliation, more suffering, except so much worse because of his helplessness. He can't work on his plan to save the Earth, can't use the words that are his only weapon. He can't withdraw from the Master to reject him. He can't do anything. Whatever cruelties the Master plans on putting him through, he has to endure them. The alternative is the death of humanity, individually and then collectively.

He can't even die without someone else suffering as a result. But still he refuses to feel beaten.



"There you are," the Master says, as he walks into the kitchen.

"Yes," the Doctor says, with restrained terseness. He pulls out a chair and pushes himself up onto it. He's been on a few planet inhabited by giants and it's not dissimilar. For a body that ended up so tall, it started out awfully short.

"Grumpy, grumpy. Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed." The Master smirks as he refills his teacup.

The Doctor reaches for an empty cup, hesitates as the Master looks at his hand.

"Ah, you're catching on," the Master says. "What do we say?"

The Doctor tenses with anger but forces it down. "May I have a cup of tea, please?" he says, evenly. "Master."

"Yes, you may," the Master says, pleased.

The Doctor takes the cup, expending a great deal of effort in not throwing it at the Master's head. The Master fills it, then drops in three sugar cubes. "One extra for good behaviour," he says.

The Doctor concentrates on his tea because if he speaks he's going to say something he regrets, if only because of the consequences. Martha's sightless eyes haunt him.

"Speaking of good behaviour, what would you like for breakfast?"

"What happens if I ask for waffles?" the Doctor asks, bitterly. "Do you burn down Belgium?"

The Master laughs. "Of course not. This isn't a trick, Doctor. It's a reward."

The Doctor looks at him suspiciously.

"I know you've had a difficult time," the Master says, with mild condescension and breathtaking understatement. "Being polite and respectful isn't something you're used to. That's partly my own fault for encouraging all your worst behaviour the first time around. But we're starting fresh as of today, and so far you've done very well."

"And my reward is choosing my own breakfast?"

"My dear, I think he's got it," the Master says as Lucy walks in.

Lucy smiles at the Master and gracefully takes her seat. "I'm so glad," she says, and gives the Doctor's head an affectionate pat.

The Doctor ignores the pat in favour of being frankly amazed by the Master being considerate.

The Master presses a button on his watch, summoning one of his servants. "Waffles, was it?" he asks.

"No," the Doctor says, not wanting the decision taken away from him. "I want an English breakfast. Full. And orange juice." Then adds: "Please, Master."

The Master turns to Lucy. "Isn't he adorable? I should've turned him into a tot ages ago."

"He really is." Lucy looks at him warmly, but all the Doctor feels is a chill.



After breakfast he goes looking for his book, but finds it gone along with the rest of the Master's library. Panic and anger churn in his gut. That was the only thing he had left to do with himself, and he can't face endless weeks without even anything to read. Why does everything have to be taken away? Why can't there be one thing to hold on to?

He stands before the empty bookshelves and aches to have a proper tantrum, but if he gives in to his young body's emotions he might as well hand out the poisoned chocolate milk himself. His nails dig crescents into his palms as he forces himself to stay calm. The Master wants him to slip up, wants him to be the cause of more deaths. He's not going to give him the satisfaction.

He finds the Master on the couch, fiddling with the settings of his laser screwdriver. At the sight of it the Doctor stops cold, both afraid of and tempted by it. If he could get his hands on it, he might be able to age himself back to normal. At least then he'd have some defences, some chance of defeating the Master. He could even use it against the Toclafane. But the sight of it in the Master's hand means only pain.

The Master glances over at him, then back at the screwdriver. "Don't worry, I'm not going to use it."

The Doctor relaxes, but only just. "All the books are gone," he says.

"Mm-hmm," the Master says, distractedly.

The Doctor takes a breath, lets it out. "What did I do this time? Insult you in my sleep?"

"I didn't take them away to punish you," the Master says. "You're too young for them."

"I'm not actually eight," the Doctor says, unable to keep the annoyance from his tone. "And anyway, I was reading advanced philosophy when I was eight."

The Master smirks but doesn't bother to answer that. "Lucy will read to you before bedtime, as long as you've behaved for the day."

"Whatever it is, I can read it myself."

The Master gives him a look of mild warning. "Lucy will read to you," he repeats.

The Doctor backs down, gives a tight nod.

The Master looks at him consideringly, and then points the screwdriver at him. The Doctor flinches and cringes, but nothing happens.

"Here," the Master says, proffering it. "Take it."

"What?"

"Go on, take it."

The Doctor steps forward, wary and disbelieving. Reaches out and very slowly wraps his hand around it and lifts it from the Master's fingers.

He presses a button. Nothing happens.

"It won't work for you," the Master says. "Or anyone else for that matter. Isomorphic controls, just like your cuffs."

"Why are you telling me this?" the Doctor asks, genuinely confused.

"You are a child, Doctor. You will remain a child until I decide otherwise, so the best thing you can do for yourself is to stop fighting it. Is that understood?"

The Doctor's fist is tight around the screwdriver. He wants to be grown again, he'd give anything to be grown again. But once again the decision is taken away from him. With a heavy heart, he gives the Master back his screwdriver. It's useless to him anyway.

"Understood," he says, despondent.

"Now, now," the Master says, taking him by the arms. "It's not all bad. Now that we understand each other, I'm going to let you see your pet again."

"Jack?" the Doctor says, surprised.

"That's right. As long as you behave, I'll give you two hours a day. You can visit Jack and the Joneses as much as you like. I don't want you to feel cooped up. A boy needs to stretch his legs, run around."

The Doctor's so relieved at the prospect of escaping the suite every day that he doesn't care how demeaning the Master makes it sound.

The Master is looking at him expectantly. "I think you're supposed to say something now."

It takes a second for the Doctor to realize what he's talking about, but even that doesn't dent his mood. "Thank you, Master," he says, feeling genuinely grateful.

"You're welcome." The Master says, and ruffles his hair.




The Doctor had hoped to be allowed to see Jack today, but he's not that lucky. He needs to show he can conform to the Master's idea of 'good behaviour' for a whole day before he's earned that privilege. But even the hope of it is enough to carry him through the morning.

With the exception of yesterday's brief visit to the conference room, the Doctor's been holed up in the suite for a whole two weeks. Two weeks once would have been almost meaninglessly small to him, but now even a day has the potential to stretch on forever. There's nothing to do. There's no new planets or times or even the endless rooms of the TARDIS at his fingertips. When he was recovering from his hunger strike he didn't care all that much because he didn't have the energy to care, and besides he could at least read once he was up to it. Books have always been his second favourite form of escape.

By the afternoon his relief has worn off, and the seconds drag by like they've been dipped in molasses.

The Master and Lucy come and go from the suite, but the Doctor is stuck. He's bored. He's sick of the same set of walls. If anything, the possibility of leaving actually makes the wait harder. And of course that's just another test.

He ends up sitting on one of the chairs next to the window, staring out at the world he can't even reach, much less save. He rests his chin on his drawn-up knees and sighs.

He wonders how it's come to this. That the highlight of his week is being allowed out for two hours. How long is the Master going to keep him like this? As a child, as a prisoner? If he fails and Earth is destroyed, is he going to be held prisoner for the rest of his life? Is the Master just going to keep him?

The Doctor doesn't usually succumb to despair. He's always believed in hope, relied on it beyond the point where most would even think it healthy. But he's so trapped, boxed in on all sides. The Master keeps taking and taking and it's starting to feel like there's going to be nothing left of him in the end. If he'd only had the strength to kill the Master when he'd had the chance... but even now the thought of that is worse than all the torture, all the boredom. The thought of no longer being the last, no longer being alone, and then losing the Master... It'd be like losing the Time War all over again.

The Doctor is no stranger to making hard choices. But with the Master it isn't even a choice. The Master has to live. He needs him. Nothing else matters, not really, because the hope that when this is all over he'll save the Master is the hope he's relying on. Restoring the timeline, saving humanity, reversing the devastation below... those are all important, yes, but ultimately if he had to choose he's not sure it would be the choice that someone like Jack would approve of.

Ultimately being the Master's prisoner is better than not having the Master at all. And that realization both scares and comforts him.



When the Master and Lucy return for dinner, the Doctor is subdued. He's burned through all his restless boredom and now he's just relieved to have the company. Even listening to the Master talk about detention camps and factories is easier than the silence of the afternoon.

If he wants to be given anything from the table, he has to ask for it. 'Please, Master,' he says, politely, and 'thank you, Master.' He even feels like he means it, a little. He's grateful for having his glass filled with water to drink. He's grateful for being given roast chicken and vegetables. He's grateful for the salt and pepper shakers.

And the Master is pleased. He gives the Doctor approving glances from across the table, doesn't speak his approval aloud but it's undeniable. It makes the Doctor want to be more grateful because it's the first positive connection he's had with the Master in all this time.

Lucy is delighted by his new obedience. She lights up, smiling her slightly broken smile and alternately touching the Master's arm, the Doctor's shoulder. She wants them to be a family, and the Doctor finds himself in no position to deny her that. At least that way he can do something, make the world better in that tiny way, if only for poor damaged Lucy.

Because he was a good boy, he not only gets to have ice cream for dessert but hot fudge and a dollop of whipped cream. The Doctor eats it as Lucy sits beside him and strokes his hair and talks admiringly to the Master about how wonderful the evening is going, how much better it is now that they've sorted everything out. The ice cream would have been expensive back when there was still money on Earth, banks and shops and actual families and not this twisted mockery of one. Now it's the Master's property, like everything else. But it tastes sweet all the same.

He's allowed to sit with the Master and Lucy as long as he's quiet and still, and so he is. But it seems like all too soon when he's instructed to go wash up and prepare for bed. He doesn't want to be alone, to sleep. The thought makes his chest ache. But still he obeys, because that's all he can do. That's the only choice he has, if it can be called a choice. It's all there is, but at least it makes them happy. If they're happy he'll earn the small freedom he needs so badly.

Lucy tucks him into bed and sits down beside him. She cups his cheek with her hand and smiles down at him.

"Such a good boy," she says, happily. "My little darling. Would you like me to read to you?"

"Yes, please," the Doctor says, even as the lump in his throat makes it hard to talk. Shame and need and fear and hope are a jumble inside him, and just for now he feels like a child, feels the way he did a thousand years ago when he was a lonely little boy and his human mother was still alive. Even the looms couldn't squeeze out all of the human from him, not without making him non-viable. The last time he saw her was the day he was sent off to the Academy.

Humans are so fragile. They die so easily.

"Once when I was six I saw a magnificent picture in a book about the jungle, called True Stories," Lucy reads, in a lilting voice that travels up and down along the sentence. She has a copy of The Little Prince in her hands, and she shows him the pictures on each page.

The Doctor curls onto his side and listens, more to her voice than the words themselves. He can feel her human warmth through the blanket and it eases his weariness, makes him sleepy. His eyelids start to droop.

"My friend never explained anything. Perhaps he thought I was like himself. But I, unfortunately, cannot see a sheep through the sides of a crate. I may be a little like the grown-ups. I must have grown old." Lucy marks her place and closes the book. "That's enough for tonight. As long as you're good, there'll be more tomorrow. Won't that be lovely?"

The Doctor nods drowsily.

"Sleep now," Lucy says, gently. She leans down and kisses the side of his head, pulls up the blanket. The bed dips and rises as she stands. She walks gracefully out of the room and turns out the light, closes the door.

The Doctor closes his eyes and sleeps.

True to his word, after lunch the Master gives permission for the Doctor to visit Jack. He's even given slippers so the grating doesn't hurt his feet. He thanks the Master for both of these things, and then is taken from the suite by the guards.

He's not free. He's not remotely free, not a fraction more than he was in the suite. But he feels free, walking through the ship. It's an issue of relativity, he supposes. Even a few drops of water feel like a flood to something living in a desert.

Instead of a cell, he's brought to what looks to have originally been a room for politicians and high-ranking officers to sit around and chat. A sort of mini-officer's club, with comfortable chairs and a view. Out of habit the Doctor looks around for anything he can use to help Jack or even himself, but it's just a room. He spies a couple of the Master's ubiquitous cameras, but by this point he's resigned to being constantly watched. At least there are no Toclafane in here. Maybe that's another reward for his obedience.

He takes a seat on one of a pair of chairs and waits. A few minutes later, Jack is brought in. He's shackled and his clothes have seen better days, but there's no sign of the hunger that was so constant when they were sharing a cell. The Doctor is glad about that.

"Doctor!" Jack says, hurrying over. "Oh, god, I was so worried. Look at you, oh god!" He half-kneels and takes the Doctor by the arms, then pulls him into a hug. It's so tight that the Doctor feels squeezed like an orange.

"Good to see you too, Jack," the Doctor gasps.

The guards go outside and close the door behind them.

"I can't believe this," Jack says, releasing him only to stare at him. "We'll change you back, okay? We'll find a way to change you back. Oh god, Doctor." He cups the Doctor's cheek just like Lucy did, then hugs him again.

"Jack, please," the Doctor says, pushing him away. "I'm all right, really."

"He's not hurting you? Tell me he isn't..."

"He's not hurting me," the Doctor says, reassuringly. "Honestly. Just sit down, all right?"

Reluctantly, Jack sits down in the opposite chair. But he doesn't stop looking at the Doctor like he's a defenceless, vulnerable eight year old who needs protecting from the big bad Master. It's a bit irritating, if he's honest with himself.

"So how have you been?" the Doctor asks, desperate for a bit of normality.

Jack stares at him in disbelief, then shakes his head. "Same as always," he says. "Everyone's still reeling over what happened. Francine took it pretty hard."

"They're keeping you together?" the Doctor asks, a little surprised. The Master had said something like that when he'd taken Jack away, but the Doctor hadn't really believed him.

"Mostly," Jack shrugs. "They've got their own cell somewhere, but I see them during the day. They feed me."

"They bring you your meals?"

"No, they feed me." Jack looks chagrined and raises his wrists. "I'm chained up pretty much all the time."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," Jack says. "At least I'm not starving anymore, right?"

"That was the idea," the Doctor admits.

"It's not so bad. I spend most of the time worrying about you."

"You shouldn't," the Doctor says, crossing his arms in annoyance. He doesn't know why it bothers him so much, only that it does.

"Sorry, can't help it," Jack says, with some affection.

The Doctor gives him a peeved look, but that just seems to make it worse. "Stop thinking about how cute I am," he demands.

"Can't help that either," Jack says.

The Doctor points at himself. "This isn't me. It isn't real. It's just... temporary. What is it you humans call it? A phase."

"How long is it gonna last?"

The Doctor looks away. "I don't know. Until he's bored with it, maybe. I don't even know why he did it, except that he knew how much it would annoy me."

"He really likes his games, huh?"

"At least he's consistent. He's not hurting me, Jack. It'd be easier if he was."

"Then what's he doing?" Jack asks, concerned.

The Doctor's eyes narrow. "Treating me like a child."

The corner of Jack's mouth quirks upwards. "You have to admit..."

"No, I do not have to admit!" the Doctor says, straightening up and frowning. It's exactly the sort of body language that ought to chastise anyone, but it only makes Jack smile and look at him like he's just that much cuter. Which makes the Doctor scowl. "You're doing it too. Now stop it!"

"I can't help it!" Jack protests through his grin. "I feel like I should give you a lollipop or something."

The Doctor is entirely outraged by that. He gives a great huff of annoyance and stands and walks over to a window. "Then don't look at me at all," he says, sulkily.

"Aw, don't be like that," Jack says. "I'm sorry, okay?"

The Doctor looks at him askance. "Will you stop-- stop grinning at me?"

"I'll do my best, I promise," Jack says. "Cross my heart."

The Doctor suspects he's being mocked, but gives in anyway. He walks back to his seat and pushes himself up onto it. By the time he's settled into place, Jack is obviously fighting not to laugh.

"I know," Jack says, warding off his complaints. "I'm really trying. It's just been a hell of a time."

That finally sobers the both of them. The Doctor's anger evaporates as Jack's humour vanishes, and suddenly he thinks it's not so bad if Jack dotes on him a bit. It's better than the alternative.

"Sorry," the Doctor says. "Go ahead and laugh. I can take it."

"I'd never laugh at you," Jack says. "You're too damn adorable."

The Doctor sticks his tongue out, and that makes it all a bit more bearable.



Once they've caught up on the Master's abuses, there's not much to talk about. The Doctor doesn't want to go into detail about his life in the suite except to talk about how annoying everything is, and Jack is unusually restrained with any mention of the nastier side of the Master's treatment of them. Of course Jack wants to protect him. He'd do that even if the Doctor hadn't be turned into a child. But it rankles far more because he knows Jack would be more honest under normal circumstances.

Jack's supposed to treat him like an equal, or better like a superior. That's generally how they work, the Doctor in charge and Jack acting as his lieutenant, his right-hand man. Even going so far as to keep his right hand like some kind of demented trophy. But now it's the other way around, with Jack obviously thinking the Doctor incapable in mind because he's incapable in body. He isn't. He's the same as he ever was. Mostly.

At his normal age, he wouldn't want to stomp on Jack's toes and shout at him for talking down to him. Or if he did, it wouldn't be so hard to keep from indulging.

Predictably, they end up having an argument over -- what else? -- the Master.

"You're living with the guy," Jack says. "I just can't believe you can't take advantage of that somehow."

"What do you expect me to do, get on his good side?" the Doctor retorts.

"He doesn't have a good side."

"Exactly my point," the Doctor says, though he feels a twinge when he says it, the sort of twinge he usually only feels when he's lying. Maybe he just needs the Master to have a good side. He's certainly not going to admit that to Jack.

"Can't you sabotage him? Poison him? Don't tell me you're still refusing to kill him."

The Doctor really bristles at that. "That's exactly what I'm doing."

"He turned you into a child! He killed that little girl right in front of you! Are you going to just sit back and let him keep murdering people, day after day? You can't save him."

"Stop it!" the Doctor says, upset and his eyes prickling with tears. "You don't know anything! You're just a stupid human and you don't understand."

Jack leans back, looking at him in realization. "You like this."

"What are you talking about?"

"You like this," Jack repeats. "You like him keeping you like some twisted pet that he takes out and kicks around when he's bored."

"Of course I don't!"

"I can't believe this," Jack says, disbelieving. "You're losing yourself. Can't you see?"

"You're the one who can't see me," the Doctor retorts. "I don't want this and I'm not a child and I'm certainly not anyone's pet!"

"Then why are you sitting back and letting this happen?" Jack asks, genuine pain in his voice.

"I'm not!" the Doctor says, and then shuts his mouth. He keeps forgetting that Jack doesn't know about the Archangel plan. Of course he's frustrated, of course he thinks the Doctor has just rolled over and stopped fighting. But he can't tell him now any more than he could tell him on the day of their capture. He can't afford to have the Master find out, especially now that all it would take to ruin the plan would be to keep him as a child indefinitely. That would be the worst possible outcome.

The Doctor composes himself. Looks Jack in the eye. "I'm going to take care of everything. I'll find a way, I promise. But now is not the time."

"Then what is the time?"

"I don't know," the Doctor says, tersely. "Just be patient, all right? And if you can escape, then do it. I don't need you here. You can't help."

There's hurt in Jack's eyes, but as much as the Doctor regrets that he can't take it back. Jack can't help, and no matter what grand ideas he had about protecting the Doctor when he chose to stay, it's obviously only hurting the both of them now.

"If that's how you feel," Jack says, with an unpleasant calm. "Then fine. Go back to your Master. I think we're done here."

The Doctor looks away, unable to bear Jack's anger. "Fine," he says, and slides off the chair to his feet. "Sorry to have bothered you."

He walks towards the door. When he glances back, he sees regret in Jack's posture, on his face, but it's for the best that they fall out. Maybe Jack will stop worrying about him so much and save himself, save the Joneses. If he wasn't so stubbornly determined to save the Doctor, he probably already would have done just that.

He knocks on the door and the guards escort him back to the suite. He doesn't look back.



Lucy finds him lying on his bed, tracing the patterns of Gallifreyan numbers on the blanket. He was up to thirty thousand, two hundred and six. He was always rather good at the spiral digits, even if his penmanship was better than his 10th dimensional calculus.

"Harry told me you came back early," she says, alighting on the edge of the bed. "Is everything all right?"

"We had an argument," the Doctor admits. It isn't as if the Master hasn't heard every word of it anyway. Probably watched it in one of those fancy video formats humans always natter on about no matter what decade it is after the invention of television.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The Doctor glances up at her. As crazy as she is, Lucy does genuinely seem to care about him. Almost disturbingly so, but even that's reassuring in a way. And who else can he talk to? No one. He sighs. "Jack keeps trying to protect me."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." He frowns. He feels hurt that Jack doesn't trust him, upset that Jack suffers on his behalf, angry that Jack stayed for no good reason at all. He hates that Jack looks at him and sees a child, hates that his child's body makes every emotion so magnified, so hard to cope with. He hates that Jack might be right, if only a little bit, and that knowing doesn't make a difference. It doesn't help. Nothing helps.

"Oh, my poor darling," Lucy coos. She shifts back on the bed and pats her lap, and tugs on the Doctor's sleeve to guide him to rest his head there. It's easier not to resist.

He closes his eyes as she idly cards through his hair. Somehow it's different with her. Maybe it's because he knows it's not her fault, that she embraces his childness because of her failed pregnancy, her own broken childhood. She's too damaged for him to be angry with her. With Jack, they've always butted heads at the best of times, even when they were in step and the Doctor was tough and strong and had every inch the moral high ground. Lucy makes the Doctor feel cared for. Jack makes him feel looked down upon, makes him feel weak.

"I don't want to see Jack anymore," he says, quietly.

"You don't have to," she says, calm and soothing. "You can still see your other friends, if you like."

The Doctor considers this. He remembers Francine holding on to him, her anger at the Master. She'd be too much like Jack, unwilling to understand, too easily seeing only the surface of things. He's never really met Clive, Martha's father, and two hours in the company of a stranger isn't very tempting, even in the face of boredom. But Tish is different. She's very much Martha's younger sister, not as grown up but with much of the same personality. He got along well with her when they faced Professor Lazarus together. And as the youngest, she would understand his current condition far better than her parents or Jack, who must be around 200 by now.

"I want to see Tish next time," he says.

"I'll make sure Harry knows," Lucy says, reassuringly. "Don't worry about it anymore. I'll take care of everything."



It's fine with Lucy. Everything's fine with Lucy. But when the Master returns, the Doctor can't seem to stop himself from wanting to lash out at him. Maybe it's Jack's voice echoing in his head, asking why he's going along with what the Master is doing, why he isn't even trying to resist. Maybe he just feels too cranky and upset and awful to pretend that everything is all right.

When the Master tells Lucy to bring the Doctor in for dinner, the Doctor refuses to go.

"I'm not hungry," he says, petulantly.

"You need to eat," she insists. "Harry's waiting for us. He'll be very upset if you're trying to starve yourself again."

"I'm not," the Doctor insists. "I'm just not hungry."

But Lucy doesn't look convinced. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"All right, then." She walks out. He hears the low murmur of her voice from across the suite. Then footsteps.

The Master stands at the end of the bed, looking down at him with an air of annoyance. "Under other circumstances you would have already cost someone their life," he says, evenly. "My patience is very, very short. Stand up."

The Doctor climbs down off the bed and stands.

"So you can still behave. Good. Now go to the table and sit down."

The Doctor looks down as he walks past the Master and over to the kitchen. He keeps his eyes averted, feeling ashamed and worried and resentful. It chafes on him terribly to have so little choice about even something this small. He doesn't have enough wiggle room to even disobey, much less fight back. Jack didn't understand that, and now look what's happened. It's all Jack's fault.

Dinner is served. The Doctor's plate is piled with food.

"You're not allowed to refuse to eat," the Master tells him. "Not after what you did to yourself last time. And I expect you to thank me for all of that."

The Doctor thinks that it's his body, not the Master's, and if he wants to starve away to nothing then he bloody well will. He thinks that if the Master wants to feed people so much he can find some starving humans to give this to. He thinks that none of this is fair or right and he wants it to stop. He wants Jack back. He wants to cry, but he won't.

Instead he says quite calmly, "Thank you for the food, Master. I'm sorry I refused to eat. I won't do it again."

The Master softens. "You're welcome. Now eat up before it gets cold."

The Doctor eats, forces himself to eat. He stops only when he really can't manage any more, not with this small body's stomach. There's still enough left on his plate that he worries the Master might be annoyed about that, but it's not his fault they gave him too much.

"You disappointed me today, Doctor," the Master tells him, as he wipes his mouth. "I know what happened, and I'm not unnecessarily cruel. But there have to be consequences or this misbehaviour will keep happening."

"Yes, Master," the Doctor says.

"Your privileges for the next two days are revoked. In three days you will have one hour with Tish, not two. It's obvious that you didn't need the full time since you came back so early."

It feels like all the air is being sucked out of the room. The Doctor's little moments of freedom dashed almost completely away, just like that. But just in case he thought it couldn't get any worse, the Master isn't finished yet.

"Be grateful it's only that much," he continues. "If you'd hesitated any longer you would have caused another one of those little humans to die, and I know you don't want that."

There's a pause as the Master waits for a response. "Thank you, Master," the Doctor says, swallowing his bitterness.

"Tell me why."

"Thank you for being generous, Master," the Doctor says, forcing out the words.

"Better. Just to show you how generous I am, I'll allow you to listen to more of your book at bedtime. And I'll give you what you asked for. You won't see Jack anymore. Not until I've made sure he isn't going to upset you again."

The Doctor's chin trembles but he doesn't cry. He's not going to cry. Jack's going to be tortured because of him and the Doctor might never see him again even though he could have seen him every day if he'd only been good. None of this would have happened if he'd only been good.

"Now go wash up and get ready for bed."

It's all the Doctor can do not to run to the bathroom. He turns the tap on full and splashes the water with his hand, hoping it will mask the choked sobs he can't hold back.



He's red-eyed and silent as Lucy tucks him into bed. She's not angry like the Master, not angry like Jack. She's sad for him, but only out of sympathy. She's kind, she understands.

"How would you like it if I stayed with you tomorrow afternoon?" she asks.

The Doctor looks at her. "Is it against the rules?"

"Of course it isn't," she says, gently. "I would never get you into trouble, my darling. I don't like to see you unhappy."

The Doctor takes that in. Nods.

"Good. Now that's settled, let's see where we left off." She opens the book and starts to read. She reads for longer than before, past the point when the Doctor's eyes start to close of their own accord. The last thing he hears is this:

"'Of course I love you,' the flower told him. 'It was my fault you never knew. It doesn't matter. But you were just as silly as I was. Try to be happy...'"

Somewhere, Jack is screaming. Or refusing to scream or too dead to scream. Somewhere on Valiant, Jack is being tortured because of him.

He had to get out of bed when he was told it was time to get out of bed. He had to bathe and eat breakfast. But as soon as they left, as soon as he was alone, he went back to his room and curled up in the dark.

Every time he thinks he's found some new low of despair, he's driven deeper still. It's just as well he's not allowed to leave the suite because he doesn't think he could bear to face anyone. Not with the guilt heavy in his hearts.

Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry.

If only they hadn't fought. If only he hadn't said in a fit of pique that he didn't want to see Jack again. It's all his fault. The most terrible part of it all is that Jack has no choice but to survive it all, and that means as long as the Doctor survives he'll have to face Jack at the end of it, and he thinks this is worse than leaving Jack on the Gamestation.

Useless. Trapped. Stuck in a child's body, stuck in this suite, unable to so much as refuse a meal without having his tiny remaining freedoms whittled away, without someone's life being threatened to keep him in line. Maybe he would be better off dead. Maybe the world would be better off without him. Jack has more chance of stopping the Master than he does now, without even the ability to connect to Archangel. Jack has all the time he could ever need, all the way to the end of the universe. Even the Master can't live that long, and all it would take would be one chance to slip into the TARDIS and all of this would be undone.

And if the Doctor's body isn't anywhere near the TARDIS when the paradox reverses, all of this would be undone for him, too. It would never have happened. Back to kneeling on the conference room floor, or wherever his timeline snapped him back to. He wishes the thought wasn't as tempting as it is.

If there was just one thing he could cling to, one little piece of freedom, of hope, he might not feel like he was suffocating. Like he hadn't already failed. But if there is, he can't see it.

If he truly was alone, if he even had that sliver of privacy, he could stay this way and wallow. But the cameras watch his every move. If he doesn't go and eat lunch, the Master will know. Even his own body is no longer his own.

He forces himself out of bed, over to the kitchen. He wonders if this small body has the strength to break through the thick windows. That's what the Master said, after all. That he could always jump. He's fallen before, but he's never really thought of jumping. Not until the War, at least. But it wasn't until he ended the War that he gave it any serious consideration. There wasn't anyone left to fight for after he'd killed them all.

He doesn't try to kill himself. He has a sandwich instead, and some juice.

He's sitting at the table, slumped over an empty plate, when Lucy returns.

She only has to look at him to know what he's thinking. She sits in the chair beside him and pulls him into her arms. "Shh, it's all right," she says. "It's all right. I'm here."

The Doctor's eyes suddenly well with tears. And then he's crying, sobbing in Lucy's arms. He can't make it stop, and even the gentle understanding she gives him only makes it worse. He cries and cries until there's nothing left, until he's empty and tired and hollow.

She picks him up and carries him into main bedroom and lays him down on the bed, lays beside him and holds him again. The Doctor has nothing left but sniffles, little hiccups of grief.

"I know you want to make it stop," Lucy says, as she wipes away his tears. "I know it hurts. I wish I could make it easier for you."

"I want my TARDIS," the Doctor says, plaintively. The TARDIS means home, means safety. It means making everything bad stop. If he can only get to his TARDIS, he can make it all stop. It hurts so badly that he can't.

"You can't have it, darling. But I'm here for you. We both are. I know Harry is strict with you, but it's for your own good."

"No," the Doctor whimpers.

"It is. I know it is. You're my perfect little boy. We'll be so happy once you accept that. It's only fighting it that makes it hurt."

"That's not true," he protests.

"Wasn't it so much better that first day? We were all happy. You had ice cream. It can be like that again."

The Doctor can only shake his head. It's all wrong, it's so wrong. He's not a child, he's not supposed to be doing this, he's supposed to be fighting. What Lucy's saying is madness. So why is it that all he wants to do is believe her?

If he could fight, he would pull himself from her arms and escape this prison of a suite. If he could fight, he would stop the Master, stop the Toclafane. He would save the world. Why can't he save the world? He's done it so many times before.

"I want my TARDIS," he says, weakly. He wants someone to save him. A glowing Rose, a determined Martha, anyone. He can't save the world if no one will save him.

But no one is coming.




When it's time for his hour with Tish, he has to force himself to go to see her. It's not that he doesn't want to, but that he's so ashamed of himself. He's also afraid that he's going to give the Master cause to hurt her the way he's hurting Jack. The Master has been away for three days now, and the longer he's gone the more the Doctor's imagination makes him shudder.

But he needs to get out of the suite. He needs to spend time with someone who isn't mad because he knows he's losing his own grip on reality. They're dragging him down with them and he doesn't want to go.

Tish is already there when they reach the suite. As soon as the guards are gone she hurries over and kneels down. Hesitates and then pulls him into a hug.

"We've been so worried," she says, and pulls back to look at him. "The way he dragged you off, god. And that poor little girl. Are you all right?"

No, the Doctor thinks. But he can't manage to admit it aloud. "I suppose," he says. "I'm so sorry about what happened."

"Don't say that. It's not your fault," she says. "Come on, let's sit down." She guides him over to the same set of chairs he and Jack used. "You know, if I hadn't seen it myself, I never would have believed it. He turned you into a kid! That's so weird."

"That sounds like something Martha would say," the Doctor says, with wry fondness and no small amount of longing.

"He said she's dead. Harold Saxon or the Master or whatever he's calling himself. Is it true?" She looks at him expectantly.

"I don't believe so," the Doctor says, wishing he could give her more than that. Wishing he could feel more certain. "She's safer down there than up here," he says, an edge of rawness in his voice.

"Maybe," Tish says, looking away. Then, after a pause: "Jack's gone. They took him away."

"Yes," the Doctor says, quietly. The reminder brings a fresh wave of despair and guilt, and he can't say any more because he knows he'll only start crying again and he's supposed to be stronger than this. He's supposed to be the one who keeps his head, who finds the answers when everyone around him is panicking. But he's not himself anymore. The Master took that away.

"I can't believe I helped him," Tish says, angrily. "I can't believe I voted for him."

"It's not your fault," he tells her, finding it easier to comfort her than himself. "Really, I'm all right."

"Even I can tell that's a lie," she says, not unkindly. "But I guess... at least you're not old anymore. Or some kind of giant monster." She shudders. "Now that would suck."

The Doctor finds himself smiling at that. "Yes, you have a point."

"Mum's been so pissed. I've never seen her so angry. She'll rip his throat out if he gives her the chance. At least she and Dad stopped fighting."

"Oh? That's good."

"Yeah, but now they're bonding or something. It's weird. I'm used to them fighting. They're not supposed to get along."

The Doctor refrains from saying that that reminds him of himself and the Master. He's fairly sure it wouldn't be appropriate.

"Stressful situations can bring people together," he offers. "Pretty drastic for marital therapy but..."

"If it means no more Annalise, they can bond all they want," Tish says, crossing her arms and leaning back. "He's got camera's in here, yeah? He's listening in."

The Doctor nods and points to the ones he found last time.

"God, he's creepy," Tish says. "Let him listen, I don't care." She gives a defiant glare at the room in general.

Her expression and posture remind him so much of Martha on New New Earth, demanding that he talk to her. Tish isn't Martha. She wouldn't understand the way Martha did, even if he wanted to talk. But somehow her presence makes him feel like Martha is here, if only in spirit. He knows what she would say if she was here now.

You're still you, right? Just because you're young doesn't change that.

He's the water and the river. The self and the body. He's had drastic regenerations before, going wrong more often than not and switching from one end of the scale to the other. The instability of his regeneration from spectrox poisoning. His amnesia after being dead for too long in a San Francisco morgue. Even after his biochemistry stabilizes there's still the whole battery of realizations as his new body's tastes, dislikes, and personality give him the universe anew. All those new neurons and nerves, firing like gangbusters, telling him that no, this is the way it is now, and you don't like broccoli or purple anymore. You don't want to wear those ugly old clothes, you want something with a ridiculously long scarf or pinstripes and a tie, and you don't know why except that it's true. The river bends and the water obeys.

But now the river is dammed up, trickled to a stream. He's the same as he was but not all of him can fit into this small body and immature brain. Everything's out of balance, the wrong chemistries, the missing neural networks, even the scale of things. What if without the backup of the Matrix he loses everything this body can't hold? What if he forgets?

That's why he needs the TARDIS more than anything right now. She's the only backup he has. If it all goes wrong, he needs her to save him. To restore him.

He thinks of John Smith, of Martha pleading with him to open the watch. He'd lost himself entirely, then, been a perfectly average human. John Smith didn't want to fight, he just wanted Joan Redfern to marry him. Such a small ambition from a mind smaller than even this child's mind. But even in his terror of death John Smith still found the courage to do what had to be done.

And right then, he decides that he will, too.



That evening, he finds it easier to bear the unrelenting narrowness of his life in the suite. He's still thinking about survival, yes, but not tinged with the desperation that made his moods so intolerable. He can't think about Jack without guilt, but he can think about Martha, who he believes -- no, knows is still alive. She never let him give up hope before, and he's not going to let her down now.

That's what he needs them for. His friends. So when he's down in that bottomless pit, he can believe in Rose. So when the power of a sun is burning him up inside, he can believe in Martha. They're his strength and his hope, and he doesn't need to be grown-up to know that.

Outwardly, he remains the same. As far as the Master knows, he's still trapped by his threats, still helpless. As far as Lucy knows, he's still vulnerable and in need of comfort. And it's not that any of that has changed. The truth is, he still feels all of that and more. But it doesn't matter how much he suffers if he can be there when it counts, and the only way he can do that is to endure.




After a few more long days of absolutely nothing and agonizing strictness, the Doctor is woken by a very excited Lucy.

"What is it?" he asks, groggily.

"Something wonderful," Lucy says, with a breathless grin. "You're coming down with us. To Earth."

The Doctor gapes at her. "What?"

"Harry needs to spend time in Japan because of the factories there. We discussed it last night, and since you've been so very good Harry's decided you can come along. That way we won't be apart at all. Now, I've brought you a fresh pair of pyjamas, so as soon as you've washed and had your breakfast we'll be flying down."

Hope wells in the Doctor's chest. Earth. Off this blasted ship and on the ground again. He can't believe his luck.

"That's wonderful, Lucy," he says, his smile genuine. "Thank you."

"My darling boy," Lucy says, and kisses him on the forehead. She gives him a hug. "Now hurry up. We need to leave in an hour."

The Doctor practically runs through his morning routine. Earth. Japan. Even though the planet is no less swarming with Toclafane, down there he actually has a chance at escaping. The Master can't keep him boxed in on all sides forever, and surely he wouldn't bring him down there only to lock him in another set of rooms.

He realizes almost immediately that this is his best shot. Today, during the transfer. Yes, the Master will have even more security for the trip. Yes, it's short notice. In fact, he'd wager it's such short notice because the Master didn't want to give him time to work out an escape plan. But the Doctor doesn't need time. He's not like the Master, planning endlessly in advance trying to anticipate every variable. He is the variable. He can improvise his way out of almost any situation. And for the first time, he sees his small body as an asset and not a prison.

Little legs run fast. They can weave and skip and most of all squeeze through tight places and hide. Tight places that big, tall grown-ups wouldn't even think about, wouldn't even notice, even one as detail-obsessed as the Master. It's a simple matter of perspective.

But he's not going to get his chance if he blows it now. He forces himself back to composure, back to the slump of defeat and the averted eyes. That's what the Master and Lucy expect of him, that he feels trapped and helpless. As long as they see that, their expectations are the only cover he needs. The rest he can do himself.



The flight is uneventful, and the Doctor passes the time keeping any sign of his growing excitement from being seen. The Master seems convinced by his performance, and Lucy is so happy that they're going down as a family that she takes his weak smiles at face value.

He recognizes the landscape as they come down through the cloud cover. The Kanto region, Tokyo, and then a slow circle around the Imperial Palace. The last time he was there was sometime in the 2200s... or was it the late 1800s... Either way, it won't be quite the same structures, since it was rebuilt and then rebuilt again between his visits.

What's really different is the skyline. The famous towers of the city are a shadow of their former selves. The tallest have been burnt or razed, whole sections levelled to build the Master's factories. The surrounding buildings have become tenements, and now that they're close enough to see the streets he can see few cars and none of the blinding neon that once coated the city. It's not a city at all anymore, just one massive slave quarters.

I'll make it better, he promises, silently. I'll put it all back. He thinks of the citizens of New New York's lower levels, living out their lives in their cars, singing hymns to keep up their spirits. It had angered him because it felt like they'd given up, but now he realizes that they were just holding on. They were surviving, enduring. He understands them better now, and he hopes those below have their hymns, too. But far better would be for them not to need them at all, and that's up to him, just like on New Earth.

Touchdown.

What once must have been a busy, broad highway has been converted to the Master's personal landing strip. As the jet rolls to a stop, he realizes with faint shock that the statue of Kusunoki Masashige has been knocked down and replaced with one of the Master. Oh, he's just dying to say something bitingly sarcastic about that, but this really isn't the time.

They disembark, and the Doctor tastes fresh air for the first time in over two months. It's delicious, invigorating. He breathes deep, almost giddy from it.

The Imperial Palace Plaza. And ahead, Nijubashi bridge. There are people around, which he hadn't quite expected, cordoned off from the runway but ah, now he sees the layout. Nijubashi for those paying homage to their Master, but Sakashita gate for the Master and his entourage.

As escape situations go, it's not ideal. Too much flat ground, too wide an area. There aren't a lot of escape points, and the best cover is the park full of trees. But he can't afford to be choosy. His best bet is to do what he does best, which is use the Master's ego against him and hide among the humans.

As soon as he escapes, he'll cobble together a perception filter. Track down Martha. Just because he's stuck as a child doesn't mean he's useless. He can still help, still plan. They can work out a new plan that doesn't depend on the psychic abilities his body is no longer mature enough for. The Master might even delay the destruction of Earth as long as the Doctor is somewhere on it, out of his grasp. For all that the Master has done to him, he still believes the Master wants him alive.

Which means the Toclafane won't try to stop him with their lasers. As far as he's seen, they only shoot to kill. He feels a thrill of hope. His hearts are beating fast.

They walk across the plaza, past the long row of squat concrete seats that form a loose fence. There are people all along it, watching them, a few even cheering, probably in hope that their Master will be generous. The sad truth is they'll probably die first.

One of them runs out and falls to his knees, pleading for the Master to spare his family. That's all the distraction the Doctor needs. He turns on a dime and runs back the way they came, full out.

"Don't you dare!" he hears the Master shout. "Stop it at once! Get back here!"

The Doctor doesn't listen. He's laughing as he runs, the wind in his hair, the pounding of feet behind him in hot pursuit. He's free and no one can stop him!

He weaves through the crowd, ducking around and between legs, leaving the guards in his dust as they struggle with the crowd. When they're trapped in the middle, the Doctor takes off in a new direction, out into the clear. He's looking back and grinning to himself at the sight of them yelling after him when turns towards Sakurada gate and slams into someone, sending them both tumbling to the ground. The Doctor frantically stumbles back to his feet, but just as he's apologizing and taking his first step back to his escape, he stops. Stares. Looks up at the frightened, determined face of a teenaged boy with enough plastic explosives under his coat to kill everyone on the Plaza.

"Don't do it," he gasps, horrified. "Please, it's not worth it. No!"

The teenager runs towards the crowd, a dead man's switch in his hand. If he dies, all those people are going to get caught in the blast. The Master! Oh god, no! If it's bad enough, he won't even regenerate!

The Doctor turns and runs back, screaming for them not to kill the teenager. "Don't shoot him! He's got a bomb! Don't shoot! Don't--"

A Toclafane fires. The teenager freezes, falls. The Doctor turns and runs the other way, because he's too close and no--

He sees the explosion a nanosecond before he hears it, and then it's lifting him up, a blast of hot air forcing him forward, his feet leaving the ground because he's so small and light. Heat and force and pain and then the snap of bones as he smacks down hard onto the concrete.

No, he thinks, weakly. So close. He was so close to freedom. He groans in frustration and whimpers in agony.

He clings to consciousness. He hears the pounding of feet, the barking of orders. Someone's over him, checking his body. He's turned onto his back and chokes in pain.

"Doctor," the Master says, voice full of fear. "Don't you dare die on me. Don't you dare!"

"An' I thought--" the Doctor coughs wetly, "--you didn't care." He coughs again, eyes tearing from the pain of his broken ribs.

"You don't get to die unless I kill you," the Master says, half-sneering and half-desperate with worry.

"Sorry," the Doctor mumbles, as his vision starts to fade. He's failed, he might even be dying for real, but it's nice to know that the Master really does need him. He hopes Martha can forgive him.

"Don't you dare!" the Master yells. "Doctor!"

The last thing the Doctor knows is the Master's arms scooping him up off the ground. One last spike of pain in his chest, and everything stops.

Beep-beep, beep-beep. Beep-beep, beep-beep.

The sound goes on and on, first faint and then louder, like an alarm clock. The Doctor wonders where he's heard it before. His mind is cloudy and vague, and he thinks distantly that he ought to hurt but doesn't. Instead he feels like every nerve is swaddled in cotton, his senses thick with numbness.

Anaesthesia.

He opens his eyes in horrified shock. The beeping is suddenly hummingbird fast. "Please, don't, Grace!" he tries to say, but it comes out muffled, garbled, and there's something in his throat. He tries to reach for it, pull it out, but he can't move his arms. Panic overwhelms him and he struggles blindly.

"Doctor," someone says, sharply but from far away. "Doctor! Stop struggling, you idiot."

That's not Grace. It's not Cheng-Lee. The Master.

Oh. Now he remembers.

His eyes close again as something drags him down, down, back into the muffled softness of unconsciousness. He falls.




Someone's calling his name. Over and over, with a sort of resigned irritation. There's only one being in the universe who sounds like that.

"Master," he croaks, and it's barely even a whisper. He coughs dryly. His eyes seem to be gummed shut. He feels a warm damp cloth wipe one and then the other, and he tries again. His eyes take a long time to focus, and when they do all he sees is a ceiling. It's very... ceilingy.

The Doctor looks slowly around. There's hospital machinery and an IV in his arm, feeding him water and nutrients. He seems to be bound to the bed, though probably to keep him from hurting himself rather than to keep him from escaping again. He's not sure he could even sit up on his own right now.

"Finally," the Master says. He's sitting in a chair next to the bed. Lucy is standing there with a cloth in her hand, wearing a black silk kimono. Her hair is done up with lacquered sticks.

"We've been so worried," she says, fine lines of concern on her pale face. "I was starting to think you'd never wake up."

The Doctor tries to recall the extent of his injuries, and touches base with the state of his body now. He's still in child form, no change there. There was a punctured lung, broken ribs, internal bleeding, burns on his back, and then a pain in one of his hearts... He doesn't doubt there was more. It's enough that he should have regenerated, or even failed if the internal damage was bad enough. Assuming his child's body is even capable of regeneration, which he very much doubts.

"I should be dead," he rasps.

"For some reason, I really don't know why, I decided to save your sorry life," the Master says, as if this is all rather tedious. Then he smiles. "Maybe I just wanted to hold your hearts in my hands. They actually stopped during the surgery. There was a hole this big." He holds up two fingers, just slightly apart. "I let Dr. Kobayashi handle the grunt work, but I got to cut the thread!"

The Doctor shudders at the thought of something as barbaric as surgery, body parts being cut apart and then sewed. It was bad enough when Grace and her fellow doctors killed him by accident. The Master knows how utterly primitive and backwards human technology is from this period. But without it, he would have died. The Master saved his life. It's a sobering thought.

"Guess I should be grateful," he rasps. He gives a short cough, and Lucy feeds him an ice chip.

"You tried to escape," the Master chides. "That was very, very naughty. But then you turned around and saved my life. It's quite a dilemma. What do you think, Doctor? Should I kiss you or kill you?"

"Don't care," the Doctor says, exhausted even though he's only been awake for a few minutes. He's not even sure how long he's been out. "Just wanna sleep."

"You're no fun like this," the Master frowns. "Stop being mostly dead so we can do something interesting. You're really boring when you're unconscious."

The Doctor gives a little snort of amusement. "Serves you right," he says, and manages to get the last word in mainly because he falls asleep a second later.



When he wakes up for a third time, he's relieved to find he's basically in one piece. Everything seems healed, if still achy. His throat is sore enough that he thinks there was a feeding tube in it at more than one point, and it's been two weeks since he was smeared across the Imperial Plaza.

A nurse comes in and sees that he's awake. She professionally checks him over, clearly versed enough on Gallifreyan anatomy to know what to expect. She's not exactly friendly, and even though she sees he's awake she leaves without a word.

A few minutes later, Lucy arrives, relieved and pleased.

"Oh, you look so much better," she says. "I've called Harry. He'll be here soon."

After a small cup of water, Lucy helps him sit up, tilting up the bed and fluffing his pillow. He's woozy from so long asleep, his body wrung out from yet another bout of extended healing. No doubt that explains the need for the feeding tube.

"Can you stay awake for a while?" she asks.

"Yeah, I should be all right," the Doctor says. "Can you..." He tugs at his limbs, which are secured to the bed frame.

Lucy shakes her head. "Only Harry can. I'm sorry, darling. He didn't want you running off again."

"Right. Makes sense." The Doctor's still as much a prisoner as before, which is no great surprise. The Master really doesn't want to let him go, to the point of resorting to human medical procedures. It's oddly reassuring.

If one good thing came out of all of this, it's that he doesn't have to guess anymore. He knows the Master needs him as much as he needs the Master. He also knows that he's not going to play the Master's little hostage game anymore. Even if the playing field isn't exactly level, he's going to give as good as he gets, at least when it comes to cutting remarks. Of course, in all likelihood the Master will probably enjoy that.

He's proved right when the Master arrives and he tells him just that.

"Just because you have me tied up doesn't mean I'm your prisoner," the Doctor says, on a roll now that he's finally venting his frustrations. "I absolutely refuse to let you control me anymore, especially with hostages. And forget this punishment nonsense, because you're a terrible authority figure anyway and I can't even believe I let you get to me as long as you did and it's only because I was all wonky from being turned into a child."

The Master blinks at him and looks amused. "I was wondering when you'd snap," he says, as if he was expecting this all along.

The Doctor narrows his eyes at him. "Don't push me. I'm not in the mood."

"You're so cute when you're angry," the Master says, and ruffles his hair just because he knows how irritating it is.

"And another thing. Stop treating me like a child," the Doctor insists. "I'm sorry, Lucy, but I'm not actually eight, and you are most definitely not my mother."

Lucy looks sad, but the Master slides his arm around her waist to comfort her. "Don't worry, darling," he tells her. "He's just cranky. Why don't you go and have the servants make him something to eat?"

Once she's gone, the Master frowns at the Doctor. "Don't upset her. She's very fragile."

"She's insane," the Doctor retorts.

"And isn't it wonderful?" the Master smiles. "Nevertheless. She is your mother, as far as the Earth is concerned." He picks up the chart from the end of the bed and holds it up for him to read. "John Saxon. Little Johnny, Lucy's pride and joy."

"Oh, you have got to be joking," the Doctor says. If he wasn't tied down, he would rest his head in his hands.

"We filed the paperwork while you were unconscious. I think it was the third happiest day of her life, after marrying me and helping me take over the world."

"Filed the-- there isn't anywhere left to file!"

"Details, details," the Master says. "Anyway, point is, I don't want you upsetting her. And as your father--"

"What?!"

"As your father, I'm telling you to behave."

"I think I was better off strewn across the pavement," the Doctor laments.

The Master turns suddenly serious. Deadly serious. "No," he says, firmly. "Here's what you need to understand. Unless you want to stay eight years old until I eventually get bored with you and kill you, you will do as I say. No hostages, no threats, just the plain simple fact that I hold your life in the palm of my hand. Is that understood?"

The Doctor stares at him. His sarcastic retorts die on his tongue. As much as it irks him to admit it, the Master has a point. Without the Lazarus technology, it'll be decades before he matures in this body, and he's not sure he can stand to live through adolescence all over again. It was bad enough the first time. "So what? I play the good son and you age me back?"

"Almost," the Master says. "You can talk back all you want. Frankly it was getting dull up there without your nattering. But you will treat Lucy with the respect she deserves, and you will never try to escape again. If you even think of escaping, all bets are off. Don't think I won't trap you in that body forever, because I very much can."

The Doctor fumes and pouts, but can't see any way around it. "Fine. Agreed. So how long until you do age me back?"

"Until I feel like it," the Master says.

"And I'm the immature one?" the Doctor mutters.

The Master chooses to ignore that. The Doctor likes to think it's because he couldn't think of a good enough comeback.

"Will you let me out of this bed, at least?"

"Say please," the Master says.

The Doctor gives him a look. "Let me out, please," he says, making sure to sound as annoyed as possible, which isn't difficult.

The Master lightly touches the join of each binding and they snap free from the cuffs, which are as secure as ever. Even being blown up didn't rid him of them. With the IV still in his hand, it's hard to maneuver himself to the edge of the bed, and he's very surprised when the Master sighs and helps him.

"You don't have to do that," the Doctor says, somehow irritated that the Master would be at all helpful and not, well, irritating.

"It was enough work putting you back together once," the Master says. "I really don't have the time to do it again."

"Not going to string me up and torture me again, then?"

The Master pretends to be offended. "I would never torture a cute little boy like you."

The Doctor glares at him and kicks him in the shin.

The Master glares back. "But I might change my mind. Oh, and don't expect to make any friends. All those tedious humans hate you as much as they hate me. I think it's rather sweet."

"Why would they hate me?"

"Because you're the Master's son," the Master says, as if it's obvious. "Which also, by the way, paints a gigantic target on your back. So unless you fancy using up those last few regenerations, you'll stick close."

"What if I tell them the truth?" the Doctor challenges.

"Why would anyone believe you? They'd just think it was a trick to set them up. I had lots of fun spreading stories about John Saxon's devious behaviour while you were lying there like a lump."

It actually hurts the Doctor to think that all the humans in the house hate him. It explains the rude nurse, though. He wishes he hadn't been out for so long; it would have given the Master less time to cover all the bases.

"Give me your hand," the Master says.

The Doctor hesitates, then give him the IV hand. The Master holds it gently as he carefully pulls out the needle. The Master covers the small hole with a Teletubbies band-aid. The Doctor frowns at it.

"Don't you like Tinky Winky?"

"I prefer Laa-Laa," the Doctor says, and rubs at his hand.




The Doctor finally has a moment to himself when he goes to the bathroom. After he's washed his hands he takes a look in the mirror. Yup, still eight. He opens his pyjamas and finds a fading line down his chest and stomach where the surgeons sliced him open. Barbaric, he thinks, shuddering again.

It's even eerier to think that the Master had his hands inside him. Even more surreal knowing that the Master saved his life, and with no small effort besides. It's not unprecedented, not by a long shot, but it's been a while since they were on good enough terms for that and he really didn't expect it.

What terms are they on, exactly?

He's already figured out that keeping him a child serves two purposes. One, it makes him easier to control. The Doctor has no way to age himself back to normal on his own, and to even have a chance at being himself again he has to stay on the Master's good side. Second, it's for Lucy. It's obvious that the Master is giving her the child she could never have. It just happens to be him. It would be sweet if it wasn't so completely disturbing. And that also helps keep him in line, because Lucy is, for all the blood already on her hands, almost innocent in her insanity. The Doctor already regrets lashing out at her, even though he knows feeding into her delusions can't be helpful or healthy.

And then there's the bonus of making him officially their son so the entire population of Tokyo has turned against him. Lovely.

It's a neat little trap, he has to admit. Very neat and complete and yet still baffling. He looks at the band-aid on the back of his hand. In all his centuries, he never expected the Master to be kind to him, even as they traded barbs. The Master wasn't all that kind when they were actually actual children. Oh, over the years they had sex and he copied off the Master's homework and they got into no end of trouble together, but their friendship wasn't the sort where they comforted each other. Commiserated, yes. But kindness never factored into it, not really. They might have been two against the world, but they were always one against the other as well, which is why they eventually fell out so spectacularly.

Insanity and tenderness. It's a strange pair of traits to gain from a regeneration. Yet he can't deny that it's there. It's the only explanation for Lucy and it's the only explanation for why he's alive. The Master, in a completely and utterly insane and sadistic way... cares. And that's almost more frightening than if he didn't.

He's relieved to be feeling himself again, even if in a strange way. Perhaps the best thing to do is to treat this body as if it's a whole separate regeneration, and the confusion that came with it as his usual regeneration sickness. Which makes the second time the Master has forced such a drastic change, third if he counts San Francisco, which was really the Master's fault for making his last request that the Doctor carry his ashes and then sabotaging the TARDIS. Trap after trap. The Master always wants something from him. The question is, what does he want now?

At least he wants him alive. That's nothing to sneeze at.

The Master also doesn't want him to escape. Emphatically. Which is... not surprising, but mostly interesting. Intriguing. The Master yelling at him not to die... it piques the Doctor's curiosity. He knows he could probably still find a way out, find a way to Martha, but it doesn't seem so urgent anymore. His original plan is still fine as long as he can get himself aged back in time, and this latest development has only strengthened his belief that the Master can be reached. That he wants more than simple destruction, that there's more to him than madness and death. If the Master truly cares about him, no matter how twisted that caring is, then there's hope.

A knot of fear he didn't even recognize was there suddenly releases. Hope. Not just for Earth, because rescuing Earth is almost inevitable, even if only in the long term, but for the Master and himself. Hope that they can be together, in mutual tolerance or friendship or anything, anything so that he's not the only one left and so alone. Hope that finally, at long last, there will be someone who understands. Who knows everything and knows him and... and might...

He can't say it, not even to himself. It could still all go wrong and he can't even think the words until hope has become something certain, something tangible. But oh, he sees it there, in the Master's smile, in those rare moments when it isn't cruel.



Lucy sits beside him as he eats, her hand resting on his shoulder with gentle possessiveness. He gives her a vaguely reassuring smile, and her returning grin is too broad to be classified as sane. He's not sure whether to be more disturbed or pitying, and he fights the urge to feel comforted by her doting. She's fully aware of the unnatural nature of his youth, but really doesn't seem to care. But awareness of the Master's evil has never stopped her from embracing its results. She wants the end of the world and a happy family. The Master has given her both, after a fashion.

"You know, I always wanted a son," the Master says. He's lounging in the chair opposite.

"You had one," the Doctor points out. "You disowned him when he joined the Presidential assembly."

"Which is why he doesn't count. Toadying little shit. I blame the mother."

Lucy giggles. "I don't think we have to worry about that with John."

"Must you call me that?" the Doctor says.

"Yes," the Master says. "That is who you are. John Saxon."

"What if I don't want to be John Saxon?"

The Master leans back in his chair, templing his fingers. "Then I turn you back into an old man and you spend the rest of your wretched existence screaming."

The Doctor meets his eyes, and knows that the Master will do precisely that if he refuses to play along. "Fine," he sighs. "What does John Saxon do, exactly? Torture fluffy animals? Sit around until his brains dribble out his ears?"

"That depends on you," the Master says.

"I'm listening."

"If you want to be a real boy someday, I have to know I can trust you," the Master says. "Do you think I can?"

"What sort of question is that?" the Doctor says, incredulous.

"Do you have any idea how much work it is to take over an entire planet?" the Master replies. "Especially when it's almost impossible find decent help that isn't globe-shaped. In a few years I'll have an empire to run and I want you at my side. Or at my feet." He grins. "A new Time Lord empire. Won't it be wonderful?"

"Built on how many trillions of lives?" the Doctor asks, angrily.

"That's up to you," the Master says. "Fight me and I'll make sure you won't have a chance of stopping me. Cooperate and I'll let you look after your favourite planet, and after that all the lower species you want. You can feed the hungry, clothe the freezing, all that tedious nonsense. Keep the huddled masses alive."

"You'll let me do anything I want?" the Doctor asks, cautiously.

"Up to a point, that point being how generous I'm feeling, which is largely a result of how cooperative you are. As long as it doesn't interfere with my plans, of course."

"Of course," the Doctor says. He frowns in thought, considering the choice before him, the possibilities offered. As an old man, he'd be able to access Archangel again, but he might well be in no condition to use it. On the other hand, if he plays along he has a chance to make things better on Earth now, and gain more freedom for himself which could lead to any number of alternatives to Archangel or even the chance to be restored to his normal physical age. But could he really cooperate with the Master? Will the Master actually trust him or is this only another game to string him along?

"I know you're planning something," the Master says, interrupting his thoughts. "And I don't care. Whatever your game is, I know I'll win. And I know you, so I know you think that you'll win and the paradox will be reversed. Am I right?"

"I know I'll win," the Doctor says, determined.

"Good!" the Master says, surprisingly pleased. "Then what's the harm? It'll all be undone, no one will remember. It's not real. It's a temporal dead-end."

"What's your point?"

"I know you have a martyr complex, but really. I'm giving you the opportunity to help. The only reason not to accept my offer is that during your most recent regeneration your masochism spiralled out of control. What happened, were you trapped with a sadist for months on end?"

"No, that would be now," the Doctor says, tartly. "It was the Daleks. Again."

"Again?"

"The Emperor survived. He saw me, he wanted revenge."

The Master shakes his head. "You were killed ending the Time War twice in a row?"

"And I'd rather not try for three out of three. There's still at least one out there. A leftover from the Cult of Skaro."

"I don't care if there's a whole battle fleet. No Dalek's going to touch you," the Master promises. "I won't let that happen. As long as you're mine, no one will hurt you. Except me, of course."

"How comforting," the Doctor says, but in a strange way it is. Isn't this what he wants? To no longer be alone, to have someone as intelligent and capable as himself to watch his back? Someone who knows him and doesn't need anything explained to him? That seems to be what the Master is offering. Companionship, protection, understanding. He can't bring himself to refuse it. And if all goes according to plan, the destruction will all be undone, and then he can make the Master play by his rules for a change.

"So is that a yes?"

The Doctor gives him a considering look. "All right," he relents. "I'll cooperate. Up to my own point."

"Of course," the Master says, with smug condescension. He looks to Lucy, who smiles.

Her fingers smooth through the Doctor's hair. "Wonderful," she says, and kisses the top of his head. "My darling boy. Our boy."

After dessert, the Doctor feels increasingly tired, and his tiredness makes him cranky. He blames his young body and the injuries that even the extended healing coma couldn't erase completely in two weeks. Normally with damage like that he would have regenerated, or if sufficient enough simply died. But the Master refused to let either happen, and now he has to take the slow path to health.

It's just as well that he woke up so late in the day; he doesn't have to worry about syncing himself up with the local population. Which currently consists of the Master and Lucy, since none of the servants will even meet his eyes and he's already caught them glaring resentfully at him when they think he isn't looking.

He's not usually in this position. In fact, most of the time he's only hated by the bad guys. When Daleks or Cybermen go after him he knows he's doing something right. His own people weren't exactly fans either, but that also only made him certain he was doing something right, because as far as he was concerned they were a bunch of stuffy, xenophobic hypocrites who were more interested in giving themselves longer titles and polishing their dust collections than involving themselves in the universe. They all met each other will equal enmity.

But not humans. Not the oppressed. Certainly there've been misunderstandings, often there's been initial hostility. He's tread on a few toes, toppled a few governments that not everyone wanted toppled. But generally, by the time he leaves they're grateful for his help. They like him, sometimes even adore him. It does very nice things for his ego, he'll admit, but it's not why he does it. Yet the idea of being hated by the people he's working to save makes him... uncomfortable. Especially when he's in no position to do anything about it.

To the world, or at least the Tokyo area, he's John Saxon, the Master's boy. Even if John Saxon was the sweetest, kindest boy on Earth, the humans here would still only see the son of a totalitarian mass murderer. They probably think he kicks puppies for fun.

The Doctor wishes he could hate the Master, but he can't. It's simply not in him. No matter how great the crime, how terrible the destruction, it still gives the Doctor a thrill to be near him, to test himself against him. Their connection goes too deep, too far back to be outweighed. Even the mess with Logopolis wasn't enough to change that.

And now... now he wonders if there'll be any crime great enough to rival his own. The destruction of their home and their people, the destabilizing of the timeline through the loss of the Eye of Harmony. He even destroyed the closest thing they had to an afterlife. When they die, the Matrix won't be on the other side. They'll die for good. From a human perspective, he killed God and destroyed heaven, and he knew exactly what he was doing when he pushed the button. Even the accidental destruction of a quarter of the universe can't compare to that.

He'll forgive the Master anything, he suspects. But the real question is: will the Master ever forgive him? He honestly doesn't know, but the chance, the hope, the possibility... it's what he yearns for, deep down, because he can't forgive himself and no one else is qualified to judge. It's just the two of them. No one else, because he killed them.

The Master understands what it's like to kill, too. Face to face and from a distance, single lives and the deaths of millions. Maybe those deaths don't haunt him, but that doesn't matter.

Maybe the humans here would see more than what the Master wants them to see, but the Doctor knows what they should see. And it's worse than the Master's stories could ever be.




He's not allowed to stray from Lucy or the Master's sight except to use the bathroom, but he manages a look around before bedtime. The palace is decorated in the Master's modern sleekness, in combination with the height of Japanese luxury, both classic and modern, and just a touch of Lucy's British upper class tendencies here and there. Overall it's an aesthetically appealing blend, largely dominated by shades of black. He sees the dining room, a study, a library, several sitting rooms, and a rather grand bedroom, but the rest seems to be functional, like the room with the hospital equipment, or for the servants.

"I hope you're not expecting me to sleep on the floor," the Doctor says, arms crossed in irritation.

"Of course not," the Master says.

The Doctor looks around. "I suppose the sofa will do," he says, already resigning himself to it. At least he's so short it won't be uncomfortable.

"Don't be silly," Lucy says. "You're sleeping with us."

"What?" the Doctor says, startled.

"It's not safe for you to be on your own," she tells him.

"And you did try to escape once already," the Master adds. "This way you can't sneak off in the middle of the night."

The Doctor looks at the bed warily. "At this point I've given up on asking myself if you're joking, because the answer is always no."

The Master snorts and Lucy laughs. They're both dressed for bed, him in black silk pyjamas and her in a matching silk nightgown. "Come here," she says, patting the bed.

The Doctor walks over. Lucy picks him up and puts him down at the centre of the bed, then slides in beside him.

"We just want to keep you safe," she says, and rests her hand gently against his cheek. "You're very important. Very precious. You almost died once already." Grief flashes across her features. "You're such a good boy. I couldn't bear it if I lost you."

The Doctor feels a pang of sympathy. He looks at Lucy's face and knows he can't deny her. He's begun to feel oddly responsible for her, even though she clearly sees it as her taking care of him. He nods in acquiescence.

The bed shifts as the Master slides in on his right. "Lie down," he says.

The Doctor does, though it feels very strange. The Master reaches down, and the Doctor thinks he's going to actually tuck him in, but then his ankles are pressed together and he finds them stuck fast. His eyes widen and he shuffles back against the headboard, trying not to feel panicked. "What are you doing?" he exclaims.

Lucy hushes him. "It's all right. It's just for a while."

"A while?"

"Until we can trust you not to run," the Master says, reasonably. "Put out your wrists."

"I don't want to," the Doctor says. "I can't sleep when I'm tied up."

"I think we both know that's a lie," the Master says, more amused than anything else. "Put out your wrists."

The Doctor crosses his arms and pouts. "It's not fair. This wasn't part of our agreement."

"I didn't say you wouldn't be tied up," the Master says. "And the more you resist, the longer it will take before I can trust you not to try anything. Put out your wrists."

The Doctor huffs and pouts, but finally gives in and puts out his wrists. At least they won't be bound behind his back. That would be uncomfortable.

"That's better," Lucy coos, and helps him lie back down again. "You can wake us up if you need anything." She yawns.

It's a roomy bed, but they hardly keep their distance from him. And when Lucy has settled down beside him, she turns him onto his side so she can wrap her arm around him and hold him for the night. At first the Doctor prickles in defiance, but he soon finds himself appreciating the comfort she offers. He's also more comfortable on his side, and the position means he can watch the Master.

The Master turns out the bedside light. He leans over the Doctor to give Lucy a passionate kiss goodnight, and then falls asleep in minutes.

He's so close. In his tiredness, his half-asleep state, the Doctor yearns to reach out to him. Instead he falls asleep to the steady rhythm of Lucy's heartbeat.




He wakes to find the Master and Lucy already up. He's moved in the night so that he's curled against Lucy's side, and her hand plays idly on his shoulder and neck as she drinks her morning tea.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she says, when she sees he's awake. She sets aside her tea and bends to kiss the top of his head. "Feeling better?"

The Doctor feels an odd mix of annoyance and gratitude, but because of Lucy the gratitude wins out. "Mm," he hums, giving in to the desire not to move, even though he ought to be yelling at the Master and demanding he be freed. Which he will, of course, but he doesn't feel like struggling just yet. He's too comfortable, too warm and cosy.

He closes his eyes and drifts for a bit, but eventually he's roused by the Master's hand on his back.

"Can't stay tied up all day," the Master says, amused.

The Doctor gives a sleepy grumble and turns onto his back. He reaches up his hands to rub at his eyes and the Master catches his wrists. A touch and they separate, the cuffs detached from each other. The same to his ankles and he can move freely again. He stretches widely and then flops limply on the bed, limbs spread.

"Oh, that's better," he mumbles.

Lucy giggles. "Darling, do you know how simply adorable you are?"

"'m not adorable," the Doctor mutters. "I'm old and cranky."

"Of course you are, dear," Lucy says.

She's unashamedly affectionate, touching his cheek and his chest, kissing his forehead. I'm not your child, he thinks, but doesn't protest. Her love might be breathtakingly twisted, but it's harmless. No one's hurt by it. And after everything he's been through the past months, the past years, why refuse affection when refusal would only hurt himself, hurt her, and maybe even hurt others? It's not even a romantic affection, which would be quite intolerable in his current condition; it's chaste, undemanding. It's oddly safe. He hasn't had anything that felt safe since the Master took away his TARDIS at the end of the universe.

Breakfast is brought in on two trays.

"Sit up, darling," Lucy says, guiding him up and back into the crook of her arm. She holds him lightly against her, as if unwilling to let him out of her reach. One tray is placed across her lap, the other across the Master's. He sees what must be his food split between their trays, next to their adult-sized portions.

He reaches for the small orange juice on the Master's tray and then hesitates automatically. He looks at the Master, not sure if the old rules still apply. The Master looks pleased.

"I'm glad to see you haven't lost all your manners," he says, and looks at him expectantly.

"Can I have my juice, please?" the Doctor asks, with a faint air of resignation.

"Of course," the Master says, gesturing at the glass.

The Doctor takes it and drinks greedily. It's only once he tastes it that he realizes part of his lethargy is due to hunger. He requests the rolled omelette and bowl of strawberries from Lucy's tray, and then the rice and salmon from the Master's, and frankly he's too eager to eat to be upset about the politeness hoops he has to jump through each time. They're even more harmless than indulging Lucy's doting, and he'd rather eat than get into another pointless round of 'punishments.' If the Master wants to hurt him he'll have to find a more creative excuse.

When he goes to wash up after breakfast, he's surprised to find a new set of pyjamas waiting for him. Instead of the familiar pinstripes, it's a sort of modern jinbei. As he puts it on, he examines himself in the mirror. It's obviously tailored, made of a fine grey silk with black piping, bearing a small golden circle: the chrysanthemum of the imperial family -- the same as on the Master and Lucy's robes. The wide arms reach halfway down his forearms and the shorts end just below the knee, exposing his cuffs. He actually looks... good, which is surreal because he thinks he might be getting used to the sight of himself in the mirror. His hair's on the long side, which wasn't really apparent until he had something nicer to wear.

When he steps out of the bathroom, clean and neat, Lucy notices it, too. She pronounces that he needs a trim. Having changed already, she escorts him out of the bedroom and out onto the veranda, where a servant is already setting up a chair and the necessary implements.

The morning heat and humidity of a Tokyo September soak into the Doctor's bones. This isn't the endlessly recirculated air of the Valiant or the air-conditioned palace. It's fresh and alive and pleasantly breezy.

"I want to stay outside," he says, suddenly.

"We can go out to the garden after this," Lucy says, looking out at the surrounding greenery. "Would you like that?"

The Doctor nods, and then takes his seat. An apron is spread over him and the servant damps his hair with a spray. Lucy oversees the cut.

"Don't cut it too short," he says. "I like it the way it usually is."

"Don't worry," Lucy says.

The Doctor listens to the rasp of the scissors. He must admit, if only to himself, that the morning has been rather surreal. More like a vacation than an imprisonment. It's a far cry from that bleak little cell he shared with Jack for weeks on end, or even the Master's suite. And despite the fact that outside of the immediate view there's devastation and oppression, the palace seems to be surrounded by a peaceful bubble. There are even birds, squirrels in the branches of the trees.

No threats from the Master, no punishments. No boredom or oppressive restrictions. They're going to let him outside. All he has to do, it seems, is let them dote on him, and that's remarkably easy. As long as he's stuck as a child, he might as well get something out of it.



The moment his feet hit the grass, he breaks into a run. He's not trying to escape. It just feels good to move. He bounds across the garden, hearts pumping, jumping over flowerbeds and around thick trunks, his short legs carrying him at speed. He sees a low branch of a tree and leaps, catches it, and laughs as he swings up and over.

He stops and catches his breath, then climbs up, up. Looks out from the high branches and surveys his surroundings.

Lucy is watching him. She's settled onto the blanket that was waiting for them when they left the palace, and she's protected from the sun by the shade of another tree, its branches high and broad and thick with leaves. The Doctor turns and sees the dots of Toclafane moving through the Tokyo sky, patrolling the borders of the palace and beyond. He sees the wide expanse of the gardens, the other palace buildings, a glimpse of the river that surrounds the palace, and the human patrols that protect the bridges and banks. There's a wall around the palace that wasn't there before, high and thick. He thinks that he could make it out of the garden, maybe even swim out the river, but the wall would be more difficult. He files the information away.

He sees a bird at the very top of the tree he's in. It looks at him curiously, pecks at the branch, and then flies away with a high twitter.

He drops to the ground and runs after it, and startles a squirrel. When he's done chasing the bird he chases a squirrel, a different squirrel, and he can tell because this one has a fluffier tail and a bit out of one ear. He stubs his toe on the rough bark when he follows it up a pine.

He's used to hanging from flying cars and running for his life on a regular basis, and he's missed that more than anything. It feels good to move, good to run and jump and breathe. It's not exactly freedom but it's more than he's had in so long that he doesn't care.

But even though this young body is full of energy, it sputters out after an hour. He's yawning as he trods over to the blanket and plops down next to Lucy. She sets aside her book and brushes pine needles and bits of twig from his clothes and hair.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" she asks, and tuts at the dirt on his feet and hands.

The Doctor nods. He yawns again.

Lucy shifts, then pats her lap. "Lie down, darling. You need to rest. Come on."

The Doctor briefly resists, then sighs and gives in. He curls up next to her with his head on her lap. She cards through his hair, a soothing repetition that he's growing accustomed to. He thinks he rather likes it. He rubs his cheek against the smooth silk of her dress and closes his eyes.

When he wakes from his nap, the Master has joined them and the servants are setting up a picnic lunch.

The Doctor keeps still and looks through his lashes at the Master. He's out of his suit, dressed in a more relaxed Japanese affair, though still black of course. The sun has moved and it casts onto his face, lightening his blond hair. Golden light and golden hair. The Master had red hair after his first regeneration. He was ginger.

The Master turns to him and his mouth curves in a half-smile. "Did you have a good nap?"

The Doctor sits up, rubs the drool from the corner of his mouth. "It was fine," he says, shaking off the cobwebs. "At least I didn't have my limbs pinned together."

The Master's smile widens, but he doesn't respond. The Doctor stands and straightens his clothes, walks out onto the grass. The midday sun soaks into his skin.

This feels like a dream. Maybe he's still on the Valiant, dreaming he's a boy or a butterfly. But he wouldn't dream of almost dying, of the Master's hands on his hearts. It's real, except that ultimately it isn't.

He looks around. When all this is over, he'll never have been here. It's hardly the first time his personal timeline contradicted the linear flow, but he usually doesn't know quite so much in advance.

Unreal. Surreal. The grass beneath his feet, the breeze on his skin. The memory of Lucy's fingers in his hair, her thigh against his cheek. The sun in the Master's hair like a halo, gold turning to red in his mind. The air is rich with the smells of flowers, tea, food. His stomach rumbles.

He turns and walks back to the blanket and sits down, and a servant places a cup of green tea on a tray before him. The Doctor quietly thanks him and sips. It's fine and hot and the china cup is warm in his hands.

"Did you do something to me?" he asks, suddenly.

"What do you mean?" the Master asks.

"When you cut me open," he says. He meets the Master's eyes. "Did you?"

"You mean besides saving your life?" the Master says. "Of course not."

"I feel strange," the Doctor says.

"You feel like yourself," the Master corrects. "You just forgot what that was."

The Doctor takes that in. Maybe that's what it is. Maybe he's finally adjusting. When he nods, the Master gives him an approving look.

"After lunch, I'll let you pick out some books from the library," he says.

The Doctor blinks at him. "Really?"

The Master nods. "You've earned them. Good behaviour earns rewards."

The Doctor feels a bit glad when he says that, and has to remind himself that the last thing he should be doing is seeking the Master's approval about anything. Except that cooperation means approval means the Master agreeing to age him back up, not to mention the opportunities to help the humans. So maybe approval isn't a bad thing as long as he remembers what it's for. Why it's important. Not for itself, but for where it will lead: victory.

The agreement was that he play along, and he will. It's not the oppressive strictness of the Valiant but a reasoned understanding. Besides, there's no point in wasting energy on something as insignificant as fighting the Master over table manners or sleeping arrangements. Long-term priorities are what count.

"Thank you, Master," he says, and he knows that's why it feels easy. It's only that. They're his own victories, even if the Master thinks it's the other way around.



The cool air inside the palace drives off some of his afternoon lethargy. He's allowed two books from the library and settles in with them on one of the sofas. The Master sits across from him with a sheaf of papers, and the Doctor glimpses some calculations but goes back to his book.

By the time he's finished the first book, he's feeling drowsy again, and slides down the cushions and falls asleep, the book closed in his arms. He wakes up to find it on the table and a blanket tucked around him. He pushes it off as he sits up.

"I'm tired of sleeping," he says, vaguely cranky.

"That's generally how it works," the Master replies, dryly. "You're still healing. Maybe you shouldn't have climbed so many trees this morning."

"I wanted to climb them," the Doctor replies, almost daring the Master to refuse him. That's what he did before, after all. Denied him what he wanted, again and again. Made it clear that he had all the power and the Doctor was nothing more than a prisoner.

But that's not how it is now, it seems. The Master watches as he stands up and walks over to the window.

"Come here," the Master says, calmly.

The Doctor looks at him, naturally suspicious. "Why?" he asks.

The Master sets aside his papers, placing them into a folder and tying it closed. He leans back. "Because I asked you nicely. That should be enough."

The Doctor frowns at him but walks over. Stops in front of him and crosses his arms.

"You've had a lot to adjust to," the Master says. "You're doing very well. I won't be angry with you because you enjoyed yourself."

"Why are you being so..." The Doctor struggles for the right word. "So nice. Again."

"I told you why," the Master says. "I want us to trust each other. You're hardly going to trust me if I don't respect your choices."

"What if my choice is that I don't want to be a child anymore?"

"Then I'll respect that," the Master says. "But you have to earn my trust for that to happen."

"And what will that take?"

"That's a very good question." The Master gives him a considering look. "Trust is like art, Doctor. You know it when you see it."

"That is possibly the vaguest answer ever," the Doctor says, tartly.

The Master laughs. "All right. You can stop being a child when you learn how to beg."

"Excuse me?" the Doctor says, affronted.

"When you beg for me and mean it, I'll turn you back into an adult. Not an old man, not a teenager. Your normal age. But not until then."

The Doctor stares at him for a long time. Then he grits his teeth and says, evenly, "Please turn me back, Master."

The Master laughs again, highly amused. "You're going to have to try a lot harder than that. It has to be genuine. I have to know you really, really want it. That you're willing to get down on your knees and plead. We both know you're not prepared to do that yet. It's going to take time."

"How much time?"

"As much as you need," the Master says. He touches the Doctor's cheek. "The more you cooperate, the easier this will be. It's up to you."

If the Doctor had been in his older body, any of his bodies, he might have felt a different response. But in this child's body he looks up at the Master and doesn't feel angry. Doesn't pull away from his hand. The instinctive agreement that implies disturbs him. Yet he knows that for the long term, on a purely logical basis, agreeing makes sense. After all, it's only so that he can stop the Master in the end. So he can make all of this stop.

"Tell me, Doctor," the Master says, voice like silk over steel. "Will you be a good boy for me?"

The Master's hand slides down, tilts up his jaw. His eyes are clear and probing. The Doctor can't look away.

"Tell me you'll be a good boy," the Master says, an edge of insistence in his voice. It's an order, not a question.

The Doctor breathes shallowly. His mouth feels dry. He opens his mouth, hesitates. The Master's fingers curl along his jaw, delicately pressing. Fingers that were inside him, that saved his life. Fingers that turned his TARDIS into a paradox machine. The Master looks down at him, expectant. Waiting.

"All right," he says, almost breathing out the words.

"Say it properly," the Master says.

"I'll be a good boy," the Doctor says, some indefinable twist of emotion catching in his throat.

The Master smiles benevolently. He leans forward and kisses the Doctor on the forehead. "Very good," he says, warmly. "Now why don't you get your book and sit with me. Won't that be nice?"

The Doctor gives a distant nod. Almost automatically he steps back and turns, picks up the second book from the table. He turns back and the Master pats the cushion beside him. The Doctor stares at it, then climbs up. Sits down. The Master puts his arm around his back and encourages him to lean against him. It doesn't feel wrong to go along, to let it happen. It feels natural. It's how a child feels.

His second childhood proves far more idyllic than his first. Well, as long as he squints and doesn't think about everything up to the past two weeks. If he keeps to what's happening now, it's really quite lovely.

During his first childhood he was often lonely, both before the Academy and after induction. He was too different, too odd, too interested in the world, when his peers and mentors thought the world merely something to get through on the way to the next ceremony. And even when he'd tried harder to fit in, he was looked down upon as a genetic aberration. A Time Lord who wasn't full-blood Gallifreyan. Scandals like his parentage never faded on Gallifrey. They became solid, fixed, more permanent than his face. All the way up to the Time War, people looked at him and thought: There's that troublesome boy. Always knew he'd come to no good. Poor marks, stealing a TARDIS, hanging about with lower species and always meddling. He shouldn't have been brought to the loom.

Here there's no one whispering about him behind his back or even in front of him. He's never lonely. He's either with Lucy or the Master or both of them. He doesn't get bored because they always make sure he has something to do, letting him run outside or read or play games. He naps with his head on Lucy's lap, or near the Master as he works. Every day he feels a little stronger, a little healthier.

He's getting used to having his cuffs bound at bedtime. It's not really uncomfortable, especially because Lucy holds him at night. She's always there for him, doting and gentle. He likes the way he can make her smile, the cascading tinkle of her laugh. Once when he was napping outside and it started to rain, she took him into her arms and carried him inside. She sat down with him and he slept that way, curled in her lap. She was so happy after that.

That evening, after dinner, the Master had to bind him and leave him lying on one of the sofas for a few hours. He was told to keep still and quiet, and he did. He could hear them having sex for what seemed like forever, and nodded off on the sofa. He woke up between them in bed the next morning, just as always.

Time Lord healing is mostly about sleep. The body's systems can take care of all the repairs, but only as long as there aren't any other demands. But the scar on his front is gone now, which is a good sign. It means the inside-scars are fading, too. Like the hole in his heart, the stitches dissolved and the muscle mended.

He's not the same man as he was on Valiant, or even those first days as a boy. As soon as he stopped fighting this body's instincts the world became an easier place. Smaller, perhaps, but in all the right ways. This body is what he is. He sees through a child's eyes, thinks with a child's mind, and only the Master can change that. And the Master will keep him this way until he gets what he wants.

So the Doctor has settled into himself, and that's good. He knows it's good. That's what it has to be, because as far as his options go he doesn't have any options. It will all work out in the end, but for now... for now he's stopped fighting. And it's such a relief that he can't really bring himself to be upset.




"The same thing happened to me," the Master tells him later that day, when the Doctor is reading quietly while the Master works out the physics of universal domination. "I was turned into a child. Professor Yana really was found on the Silver Devastation. It wasn't a false memory."

"You turned yourself into a child?" the Doctor says, somehow surprised. He can't imagine the Master intentionally making himself weak. But as disguises go, there are few better, and the Master was always good at disguises.

"A human child," the Master says. "You've used the chameleon arch yourself. Do you think it hurt more than the Lazarus technology, or less?"

The Doctor considers the question. "Lazarus hurt more," he decides.

The Master nods. For a few minutes, the only sound is of his pen scratching against paper. The Doctor is about to go back to his book when the Master looks over at him.

"Now that you've been one, what do you really think of humans?"

"I think they're amazing," the Doctor says.

"Why?"

The Doctor bites at his lip as he considers this. "Because they have so much potential. Because they're brave and resourceful. They made it all the way to the end of the universe."

"That is true," the Master says, thoughtful. "When I was one of them, I was desperate to save them. I didn't want my species to die. I was even willing to sacrifice myself for them. And they were so grateful."

"But you're destroying them now," the Doctor says, trying not to resent the intrusion of reality.

But the Master just smiles. "I still want my species to survive. It's just the right one this time."

The Doctor looks away. "I was a rubbish human," he says, remembering Martha's words.

"You were also a rubbish Time Lord," the Master says.

"Was?" the Doctor asks, curious about the use of past tense.

The Master gives him an indulgent look. "Things are different now. We're doing things my way, not theirs."

"I'm hardly going to turn evil," the Doctor says.

"This isn't about evil," the Master says, calmly. "It's about survival. Isn't that what you want? I'm back now, Doctor. You don't have to be the last."

It's so much what the Doctor has been longing to hear that he can only stare. Of course he knows the Master knows it's what he wants to hear, so he doesn't entirely believe it, but that doesn't stop the sudden tightness in his chest, the wave of relief.

The Master sets down his pen and turns to face him. "I think it's appropriate. We're the ones they wanted the least. Gallifrey had no time for us, Doctor. And despite what you may think, I'm not destroying humanity. I'm saving it."

"What do you mean?" the Doctor asks, brow furrowed.

The Master shakes his head. "Not yet. When you're ready, and not before. You're still trying to save the past, but it's the future that matters. Our future."

"I don't understand," the Doctor says.

"You will," the Master promises.




Two days later, the Master presents him with a gift. A wide, flat box tied with a single ribbon. The Doctor takes it with a mixture of intense curiosity and wariness born from experience.

"Go on," the Master encourages.

The Doctor pulls open the bow and lifts the lid. Stares in amazement, then looks up. "Querency sticks," he gasps. He selects one of the polished, dark wood sticks and holds it up, turning it in the afternoon light. The silver engraving reveals itself as a six-petaled orchid, the Flower of Remembrance; it buds, blossoms, and fades with the turn, in miniature perfection. Overwhelmed, he puts it back and selects another: a Singing Fish that ripples as it swims. Another: the wax and wane of their moon, Pazithi Gallifreya.

"I thought I was supposed to look forward, not back," the Doctor says, at a loss.

"Don't be so linear," the Master says. "If you can't even handle a children's game, maybe I should take it back." He reaches for the box, but the Doctor pulls away, holds it close to his chest.

"It's mine," he says, and then realizes with a shock that it really is his. He stares down at the set and looks for the sovereign stick and finds his mark carved on it. He traces the thin lines with his thumb. "How..."

"If you didn't insist on collecting rooms like you collect humans, you might actually visit some of them. That granddaughter of yours must have brought it aboard, if you didn't."

"Susan," the Doctor breathes. He thinks of her last day on Gallifrey, how she must have had them in her bag when they hurriedly packed. He'd given the set to her when it was her turn for induction but he thought she'd left it behind. He'd never seen her use them during their travels, and he'd been too crotchety for games.

She'd brought it with her. Oh, Susan.

"Just like you to give me something that's already mine," the Doctor says, but he can't tear his eyes away. Can't stop running his fingers over the sticks. He gathers them up and holds them all in his fist, has to use both hands to keep them together. He closes his eyes and concentrates, and he can feel the faint hum of resonance.

Eight million years before this set was carved, there was an accident. A disaster that left miles and miles of land uninhabitable, soaked in huon and artron particles, the hearts of imploded TARDISes. The radiation soaked into the earth and ever so slowly decayed, until after four million years a forest grew. No ordinary forest, even for Gallifrey with its silver Kadenwood trees. These trees moved with the flow of time, reaching for it like the sun.

The heads of the great Houses ordered their wood turned into nursery toys. Children's games. What better way to teach young Gallifreyans to master their abilities to observe time, to feel it, to follow its flow? Once cut the wood was dead, no longer moving with time, but the toys resonated with it like tuning forks, tugged at it like magnets.

The Master reaches for the bundle of sticks, and the Doctor pulls them back, protective, possessive.

The Master gives him a tolerant look. "I'm not going to take them. Don't you want to play? Or did you forget how?"

That pricks at the Doctor's pride. "Of course I know how."

"Prove it," the Master says, holding out his hands.

The Doctor hesitates. "Harmony, Rassilon's War, or Arcana?"

"Your choice."

"Harmony," the Doctor decides. "I'll sort them." He shifts over and lays the sticks down on the table, then sorts them into two groups. It has been a very long time since he used these, but he remembers. All the carvings contain change, and in change there is life and death with the passing of a second. But there are two types of change: rebirth, which enables life to thrive, and decay, which appears as cycles or stasis only to those without true perspective. And then there is the sovereign stick which bears a carving of a Time Lord's regeneration, containing both rebirth and decay. Order and entropy. Regeneration and degeneration. The sovereign stick is set aside for now.

The Master sits across from him and holds out his hands. The Doctor places one bundle into each, and together they hold them, points down. The Master's hands look awfully large next to his own.

"We have to say the words," the Doctor insists.

The Master rolls his eyes.

"It won't work unless we do it properly," the Doctor says, with the sternness of a child. "Or have you forgotten how to play?"

"Hardly," the Master drawls.

"Then close your eyes." The Doctor waits until the Master has done so, and then closes his own. He takes in a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and finds his centre. Concentrates on the subtle resonance already present in the wood and the greater ripples of time that surround them. There's a pattern to it and the sticks want to follow it. All they need is help to get there. Their help.

"Time that flows and time that's still," they begin, faltering at first as the words are pull out of the haze of memory. "Crooked and entwined. Time that sings its endless song,
in this wood we bind."

The resonance grows stronger. They say the words again, their artron energies mingling in the wood, synchronizing, charging it like batteries. Then the third and final time, and the sticks are practically vibrating in their grips.

"In this wood we bind," they finish, and open their hands. There's a clatter of sound as the sticks hit the table. They open their eyes.

The Doctor looks at the chaotic mess in dismay. "You did it wrong," he says, dismayed.

"I don't think so," the Master says, giving him a look. "A child's game like this? I could do it in my sleep."

"Well, it wasn't my fault," the Doctor insists. The sticks should have arranged themselves in a flowing pattern. They should reveal the natural flow of time in the immediate area. He picks up the sovereign stick and runs it over the pile. There's an immediate pull, and he frowns. "That can't be the pattern."

The Master takes the sovereign stick and tests the pattern himself. He tuts. "You have made a mess of things."

"Me? You're the one who made a bloody paradox."

"Does this look like a paradox to you?" the Master asks, raising his eyebrows.

The Doctor stares at the chaos. A paradox would look completely different, orderly but inverted. "Not especially," he admits.

"No more Eye of Harmony," the Master sing-songs.

"Shut up," the Doctor says, crossing his arms. That mess is what's become of the timestream without the anchoring Eye and the Time Lords to keep order. He really didn't need the reminder, which is no doubt why he got it.

The Master gives a satisfied smirk. "Ready for something more challenging?"

"There's nothing wrong with Harmony."

"If you're eight," the Master says.

"I am ei--" the Doctor begins, then shuts his mouth with a click of teeth. How long has he been aged down? Forty days? No, forty one. Long enough, apparently.

"I always liked Rassilon's War best, myself," the Master says, breaking the pattern with the sovereign stick and sorting the sticks back into two sets.

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"Sore loser already?"

"I won that just as much as you," the Doctor retorts.

"Maybe against those weak-minded fools we called classmates," the Master says.

"Just because you made one paradox doesn't mean you can rewrite all of history."

"I don't need to rewrite that. I kept count."

The Doctor gives him a look. "Do you even know how obsessive that makes you?"

"Only about the important things."

The Doctor quietly tells himself not to take that as a compliment. He does anyway. "Well, you're not going to win this time."

"Your delusions are endlessly entertaining."

"I'm not a child anymore," the Doctor says, pointedly. "You haven't won since we left Gallifrey."

"Until now."

"A temporary victory, I assure you," the Doctor replies.

"All your victories have been temporary. The last is the only one that counts."

"Are we going to play or are you just going to blow hot air at me until bedtime?"

The Master's eyes narrow. "Shall we make it three thousand, five hundred and seventy six to one thousand, four hundred and seven?"

"Was it only that many?"

"I'd be happy to beat you as many times as you're willing to lose," the Master offers. "And even if you're not."

"I always thought we'd made an even five thousand."

"Need I bring up your grades in pure mathematics?"

"Please don't. I had enough of that from Romana."

The Master makes a face. "I won't, so long as you never compare me to Madame President again."

"Deal."

"And this time, I insist we say the words."

The Doctor scrunches his nose. "I always thought it was so... arrogant."

"You used to like arrogant," the Master says. "In fact--"

"Can we not go there?" the Doctor says, half-plead and half-whine. "At least until my voice drops."

The Master laughs, then holds up the sticks the way the Doctor did before. The Doctor leans forward, takes hold of the bottom halves, and shuts his eyes.

There's still a charge left from Harmony, but that doesn't matter. Rassilon's War doesn't depend on anything external. It's a test of wills, and the winner is the one whose will is dominant enough to force the sticks to fall into the pattern of their mark. The Master's stylized K might have formed more often than the Doctor's slashed circle, but it was always a close result. The Doctor's stubborn pride was always a match for the Master's arrogance, long before they took those names.

"As Rassilon held the universe, I hold this wood. I am a Time Lord. Bend to my will!"

The words are said only once; the rest is pure concentration. The Doctor's brow furrows and he grits his teeth as he focuses on the image of his mark, on pouring his will into the querency sticks. He can feel the push of the Master's mind against his own and struggles against it, determined to show him who's really in charge, despite his situation, his captivity, his youth. He's beaten the Master before, stopped him before, made the sticks fall into the pattern he demanded.

The human equivalent to the battle would be arm wrestling, but this is so far from that merely physical challenge. But as with that the War lasts as long as it has to, until one overpowers the other. The Doctor's palms grow damp with sweat as he grips the sticks for minutes on end, his will and the Master's pushing back and forth but never quite passing equilibrium. Neither of them is willing to lose. They never were. It's why they kept playing.

Five minutes. Ten. The Doctor's arms are trembling with effort now, and he curses this young body. If he was grown he could do this for thirty minutes, even an hour. He makes frustrated sound as he feels the balance tip against him, the Master's mind pressing his own down and out of the sticks. His whole body coils with tension as he strains for one last burst of strength, but it's not enough. He lets go of the sticks and so does the Master, and they clatter to the table and into three lines: the Master's stylised K.

The Doctor falls back against the couch, breathing fast. He wipes at his forehead with a trembling hand. The Master leans back in his chair, looking satisfied.

"Yes, three thousand, five hundred and seventy six. Want to try again? Only another twenty three to go, and then I'll have a nice round number."

"I don't want to," the Doctor pouts, cranky and tired. He's childishly angry at the Master for winning, but he's aware of it enough not to end up in an outright tantrum. No matter how much this body aches for a good kick and scream.

"All right," the Master says, tolerantly. "Since you've made Harmony impossible, and you don't want to play War, how about Arcana? Don't you want to know your future?"

"It's not written yet," the Doctor says, disinterested.

"Not anymore," the Master says. "Gallifrey's gone."

The Doctor looks at him, curiosity winning out over crankiness. "No more restrictions on our own futures."

"Exactly," the Master says. He breaks the pattern again and gathers up the sticks. "Besides, it worked for us before."

"I suppose," the Doctor says.

"We both ended on the Flower of Remembrance," the Master points out. "And on the wane."

"The omen of disaster," the Doctor says. "I know. I never liked predictions. They have a tendency to self-fulfil."

"Excuses, excuses," the Master chides. "I'll go first."

Instead of the two standard sets, the Master holds all of the sticks together. The Doctor watches as he holds them silently for a minute, and then lets them fall. They seem to be in disarray but it's not for him to see the path. The Master takes up the sovereign stick and moves it slowly over the sticks, back and forth, searching.

"The mirror in front of me," he says, as the sovereign stick dips down. "The horizon before me. The stars above."

"What did you get?" the Doctor asks, leaning over the table.

"Hmm." The Master slowly smiles. "Mount Cadon, snowless. Victory is a lovely starting point, don't you agree? And undeniable evidence that the restrictions are gone."

The Doctor relents. "All right. What's the horizon?"

"A Venal snake, striking."

"Anger," the Doctor translates. "Not very promising."

"Only from your perspective," the Master says, unconcerned. "And the stars... a Kadenwood tree, in full leaf."

"Hmm. Transcendence? That's unexpected."

"Show me yours," the Master says.

The Doctor gathers up the sticks into a neat pile, then holds the bundle with both hands. Show me my future, he thinks, willing the sticks to obey, drawing on time to guide them. When he feels a sympathetic resonance, he lets them fall.

He takes the sovereign stick and waves it over the sticks, feeling for that same resonance. Only three sticks will still have it, his future condensed into them, waiting to be found.

"The mirror in front of me," he says. He feels a tug and the sovereign stick dips over the tide, pulled from the sea. He frowns, moves on. "The horizon before me," he says, and this time is pulled towards the Second Sun, burning bright. With relief he searches for the last. "The stars above," he says.

They both stare at the final stick.

"Well, well," the Master says. "Struggle and then empowerment. It sounds like you're going to be making me very angry, Doctor."

"The Kadenwood tree," the Doctor says, not caring about the rest when he sees that. "We have a final match. Again." He looks up at the Master in amazement. "Transcendence."

"You do remember what happened the last time we matched?" the Master says, pointedly.

"That was different," the Doctor insists. "That was disaster. This is... this is..." He searches for the right words.

"Confirmation," the Master says, smoothly. "I'm hardly going to be transcendent unless I win."

"It doesn't have to mean that," the Doctor says. "Transcendence could mean all sorts of things. It's interpretive. It just means a new state of being. Transformation." It means I save you, he thinks, and feels far more relieved about that than the power on his horizon. He doesn't care about winning, not in the traditional sense. He only wants them to be together. Now he knows they will, and his hearts swell with hope, with gladness.

The Master tilts his head. "But it makes you happy."

"Yes," the Doctor admits.

The Master gives a thoughtful nod, then gathers up the sticks. "I think we've had enough of this for today."

"Please let me keep them," the Doctor says, not wanting them taken away.

"You're not allowed to use them without me, is that understood?"

"I won't. Please. I just want to hold them." He looks at the Master pleadingly.

"Very well." The Master gives him the sticks.

The Doctor lovingly sorts them back into their slots in the box. They're his, truly his, and now they've given him back what they took from him, all those years ago. They've given him back the Master.

He closes the box and holds it against his chest.

One morning, when the Doctor is dressing for breakfast, he finds a pair of shoes laid out for him. He hasn't been allowed shoes in months, even as an adult. He stares at them in confusion before he realizes what they mean.

"We're going out?" he asks, when Lucy brings him into the dining room.

The Master is dressed in his suit instead of the more relaxed silk robes he's been partial to here. He puts down his glass. "We're going out," he confirms.

The Doctor walks over to the glass doors and stares out, his hand on the glass. It's the same view as always, the same gardens, the same skyline. Out, he thinks, hardly believing it.

"But not if you don't eat your breakfast," the Master says, a faint warning in his voice.

The Doctor tears himself away from the view and goes to his seat. "May I have my breakfast, please, Master?" he asks, eagerly.

The Master nods, and a servant brings over his food. The Doctor tucks into it, his mind already racing with expectation.

"Do I need to remind you of the rules?" the Master asks.

"I won't try to escape," the Doctor says, as if it's not even a consideration. And it isn't, really. This is where he's supposed to be. It's where he can do the most good.

Lucy gives him a warm smile. "Of course you won't, darling. What about the rest?"

"I'm not the Doctor. I'm John Saxon."

"Very good," the Master says. "And?"

"I have to stay with you or Lucy."

The Master gives a nod of approval. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you what will happen if you break any of those rules."

"I know. I won't," the Doctor says, not wanting to have breakfast spoiled with threats, much less the day.

"Promise us," Lucy says. "We don't want you to be hurt, like last time."

"I promise," the Doctor says. Never mind that he was only hurt because he was trying to save the Master's life. If it came down to it he'd do it again, run back to save him. Especially now. He knows what his priorities are.

They both look satisfied, at least for now. When breakfast is finished, Lucy takes his hand and leads him outside. A blast of hot, humid air hits him as they leave the palace. The dog days of August, he thinks.

The Master joins them, and they climb into the open-topped car that's idling patiently, flanked by security guards on motorbikes, buzzing Toclafane. The Doctor sits between them in the back. As they turn out of the drive and cross the bridge, he sees no sign of the explosion from the suicide bomber. It's as if it never happened.

"It's time for the world to meet John Saxon," the Master says, and rests his arm across the Doctor's small shoulders.



The further away from the palace they go, the more the city smells. It reminds the Doctor of the poorest parts of India, where things like basic sanitation amount to dumping everything into the river. He's never been terribly fond of places like that. The kinds of problems they have aren't the sort that can be solved by toppling a dictator or foiling an alien invasion. He's good with interspecies conflict, but native matters aren't generally his strong point. Too messy.

The similarities don't end with the smell. The humans in the streets are dour and dirty, many of them probably ill. The Doctor fights the urge to leap out of the car and help them. What they're really suffering from won't be fixed by pointless heroics like that. The root of the problem lies miles above them, locked inside a blue police box. And he's never going to reach it if he forgets what's important.

What's important is earning the Master's trust, so he can be aged back up and fulfil his side of the Archangel plan. What's important is connecting with the Master so he can help him, so he can save him. He has to save quite a lot of people. He's going to save them all. But he can't do any of that right now. Empowerment will be when he can. For now it's the struggle.

Struggles aren't supposed to be easy.

The Master sneers at humanity as they pass it by. "Animals," he says, tone dripping with contempt.

Lucy seems disturbed by the sight, but not on behalf of the city's residents. "I wish it would all end faster," she says, arms wrapped around herself. She looks less motherly and more bitter, brittle.

"All in good time," the Master assures her. "Tell me, John. What's early twenty-first century Tokyo famous for?"

"Culturally?"

"Technically."

The Doctor considers this. "Superconductors. Robotics. And engines, I think."

"Correct," the Master says, staring out at the street. "Most of humanity is good for nothing but enslavement, but there are a few that I've found useful."

The car turns down a street, and suddenly the streets are cleaner, the people better dressed. When the humans see them, instead of staring in anger or fear they give a respectful bow. The Master smiles benevolently.

"Worker's quarters?" the Doctor guesses.

"These are the ones smart enough to pledge their loyalty to me. I take care of my pets," the Master replies.

"Pets. Is that all they are to you?" the Doctor says, defensive on their behalf.

The Master gives him a look. "I wouldn't say that. A lower species is a lower species. But as you say, some of them have potential." He gives Lucy a doting smile.

"All of them do," the Doctor insists, unable to stop himself now that he's started. "What you're doing to them is wrong."

"Was it right to wipe Gallifrey from existence?" the Master counters.

"No," the Doctor says, pained.

"Then why do it?"

The Doctor stares blindly out at the street. "It was necessary."

The Master's hand comes to rest on his shoulder. "You've spent too much time away from your own," he says, with disturbing gentleness. "Necessary is what Time Lords do best."

"And this is necessary?" the Doctor asks, voice tight. "All this is necessary?"

"Yes."

The Doctor shakes his head. "It can't be. What possible good could come of it?"

"What good could come of drowning the Racnoss?" the Master counters.

The Doctor is surprised the Master knew about that. But then according to that Torchwood file he was already in London by then. "That was..."

"Necessary?" the Master says, knowingly.

"If those babies had reached the surface they would have done the same thing you're doing. Destroyed the Earth."

"But you stopped them. Are you still going to try to stop me?" The Master asks it lightly, but there's subtle menace in his tone.

"Yes," the Doctor says. "I am."

"Do you know who stopped the Queen?" the Master asks. "While you were busy drowning babies with the Thames, Harry Saxon ordered the Christmas star shot down. We worked together that night, even if you didn't even know I was there. For the good of your precious humans."

The Doctor stares at him. "Are you suggesting that you're doing humanity some sort of favour?"

The Master chuckles. "Yes. And when you're ready, we'll help them together. You and me, side by side. It'll be just like old times. Don't tell me that isn't what you want."

"Not like this," the Doctor says, but in truth he's never felt so torn. Except... he remembers standing in Deffry Vale school, being offered the reality-bending powers of the Skasis Paradigm. The choice to become a god, to bring back what was lost, to save everyone, even stop the War... He doesn't regret turning down Brother Lassa because for all his promises, he could never trust the Krillitane. They were nothing but invaders, conquerors. The similarities to the Master are far from lost on him, but he knows the Master, and the Master is nothing like a Krillitane. The Master isn't a clutch of ravenous Racnoss. The Doctor keeps telling himself he's not the sort of man who gives second chances, but that's a lie. He helped a Dalek because it showed it could change. Surely the Master deserves as many chances as he can give.

The Master's fingers tap out a rhythm on the side of the car. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap. That blasted drumming. Even though the Master has stopped ranting about it, every so often there'll be that rhythmic tap-tap-tap-tap. The Doctor renews his determination to save him from whatever madness has gripped his mind. Even if he's in no position to do it now, he will be after he's reversed the paradox.

The car turns down another street, and there's a break in the skyline. The Doctor remembers seeing the city from above when they flew in, so he's not surprised when he sees the factory at the centre of the clearing. There's more activity here than anywhere else in the city, though to what end the Doctor can't tell.

The car stops at the main entrance, and they're greeted by the manager and a welcoming entourage. As the Master steps out of the car, they all bow deeply before him.

"His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor," announces a man. "Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress Lucy."

Lucy looks flattered and brushes at her hair.

"I love this country," the Master says. "They know how to show proper respect to their heavenly sovereign." He places a hand on the Doctor's back and urges him forward to meet the crowd.

"Citizens," the Master says, in a booming voice. "It is my great honour to introduce to you His Imperial Highness, the Crown Prince. Welcome him!"

The crowd suddenly sinks to their knees and bows flat on the ground. The Doctor is taken aback. "Tell them to stop," he whispers to the Master.

"Don't insult them," the Master chides, quietly. "You're the last in a very long line of descendents from their sun goddess." When the Doctor gives him a look, the Master says, "You're the one who wants to respect them."

A group of girls dressed in formal robes walks forward and presents him with a bouquet of zinnias and daffodils. They keep their gazes down, so as not to offend.

"Please accept these as a symbol of our loyalty and respect," the lead girl says.

The Doctor starts to protest, then sighs and gives up. "Thank you," he says, taking the flowers. "They're very beautiful."

The girls are visibly relieved and they bow deeply to him. As they walk away, the Master coos, "Aww, how sweet."

"Do you want them?" the Doctor asks, offering him the flowers with an arched eyebrow.

"No, no," the Master says. "I want you to keep them. As a gesture of respect for your subjects."

"Fine," the Doctor says. They are very nice, anyway. He cradles the large bouquet against his arm and the Master's hand once again guides him forward, past the bowed heads and into the factory.

It's big and it's busy. It must have been adapted from an existing factory or even several, because there's no way the Master did all this in barely four months. Of course, the hands of a few million slaves make light work. He probably had the area razed, then the new structure built and the machinery brought in from all over the city. The Doctor wonders what the rest of the world looks like, what else the Master's domination has wrought.

"Time for an inspection tour," the Master says.

They make their way slowly through the factory floor and then to the laboratories, accompanied by the factory manager and his assistants. At every room the Master casts a critical eye over the production line, the prototypes and the schematics. All the humans they meet bow low and then desperately show their work. A few are even rewarded, given the chance to ask for a family member to be saved from the labour camps outside the city or medical care for their sick child. It's clear that they're working under the knowledge that success means survival.

What's less clear is exactly what the factory makes. There's enough visible in production for the Doctor to observe what look like rocket parts, miniature robotics, microchips, superconductive magnets, and powerful aircraft engines, but even tagging along with the Master isn't enough to allow him access to the important data. When they're in a sensitive area, he has to stand back with Lucy, and his height is a distinct disadvantage to peering over tall adult shoulders. It wouldn't surprise him if most of the plans are for weapons, especially ones that could be used outside of Earth's atmosphere. There are probably factories elsewhere dedicated to things like rocket fuel and spacecraft, probably in America or Europe.

The inspection takes the rest of the morning, and his thwarted curiosity means the Doctor is glad for it to end. He hates having more questions than answers, and every room only brings more of the former and very few of the latter. He keeps thinking about what he would do if he wasn't physically eight years old, if he wasn't always within arm's reach of Lucy or the Master, if his ability to save the Earth didn't depend on being cooperative, if there weren't armed guards and Toclafane at every corner.

They're taken to a meeting room for lunch, but the Doctor is restless with frustration. When he fidgets, the Master casts him a warning look until he stills. He hasn't felt so trapped since the suite on the Valiant.

He wants to save humanity now. These people shouldn't be slaves, they should be free. They shouldn't be prostrating themselves just for the slim chance that the Master will grant them some boon. He thinks about the humans on Malcassairo, striving for survival against all odds, and finds himself mildly resentful that these humans here aren't as brave and resourceful. That they gave in when they should have fought. It's wrong to blame them, he knows; he's hardly in a position himself to lecture anyone for not eagerly leaping towards certain death. But at times like this he wishes they could save themselves and didn't need him so badly. They're capable of so much more than this and he wishes they would live up to their descendant's determination.

Of course, a planet full of Marthas wouldn't give him nearly as much to do when he isn't a prisoner. He's always suspected one of the reasons he likes this period of Earth history so much is that they're smart enough to have a conversation with, but dumb enough that he can show off and save the day. It's hard to say the same thing about the stuffier species out there, much less the ones who haven't learned how to make a decent cup of tea.

After lunch the Master has a long meeting with the heads of the factory and the Doctor has to wait outside the room with Lucy. His flowers are damp at the bottom from being placed in water during lunch, and he plays idly with the petals. Lucy reads a magazine, but the Doctor just wants to go home. He'd rather be free to play in the garden or the library than be stuck in this waiting room, filled with questions he can't get the answers to and with nothing but old magazines to read. The most recent ones are dated RokuGatsu -- June. There aren't going to be any new ones published until he wins.

There's a window that overlooks the factory floor. He rests his forearms on the ledge and stares out, partly to try to figure out what they're making but mostly just to watch. He's lulled by the repetitive cycles of the assembly line, the milling of workers back and forth.

It's a break in the rhythm that finally catches his eye. Half a dozen Toclafane swarm down around a worker, diving at him but then backing off. They're taunting him, he realizes, and then his eyes widen in horror as one Toclafane extends a blade and starts cruelly poking at the man. The man swats at them and cowers in fear.

Before he can even think about what he's doing, the Doctor has flung himself out of the room and down the long staircase to the floor. He hears Lucy shouting after him and then calling for Harry, but that doesn't matter because he can't do anything for the Earth but he can at least make this cruelty stop. His fist is tight around the bouquet as he runs to where the man stands, bleeding from shallow wounds.

"Leave him alone!" he yells at the Toclafane, swatting at them with the flowers. "Stop it! I'm telling you to stop!"

One of the Toclafane stops swarming around the man and swarms around him instead. "You're not the Mister Master," it burbles.

"No, but I'm... I'm his son, so you have to listen to me," the Doctor says. "I order you to leave this man alone!"

The Toclafane giggles and swoops. "You're not very nice," it says, as another two glide down from the air and surround him. "We don't like you."

"I don't care," the Doctor says. Then there's the slide of steel against steel as the Toclafane around him extend their blades, and he thinks maybe he does care, just a little. He brandishes the bouquet like a shield, turning as the Toclafane circle.

The worker cries out as he's sliced at the thigh and arm.

"I'm telling you to stop!" the Doctor cries. "Listen to me!"

"We only listen to people we like, and we don't like you," another Toclafane says. "He's naughty. We kill all the naughty ones. It's so much fun!"

"Are you a naughty one?" a third asks, in chillingly childish tones. "A naughty little boy?"

The Doctor ducks down and closes the distance between himself and the worker. He presses his back against him in a vain attempt to shield him. Shield what? he thinks absurdly. His legs?

"He's a very naughty little boy," the first Toclafane says, though it's hard to tell them apart. They all have the same cruel, mocking tone, the same cold perfection to their gleaming globes. The same sharp blades, points edged with human blood.

One of the Toclafane flips in the air, giving a gleeful cry, and then dives at the Doctor. The Doctor gasps and smacks at it with the flowers, dives to the ground, but it still manages to catch him across the shoulder. He clutches at the wound, the flowers battered and abandoned on the floor, and stares in horror as one of them prepares to dive at him again.

"Stop!" the Master's voice rings out.

Everyone freezes, even the Toclafane. The Master marches forward, eyes blazing with anger. Lucy is close on his heels, her eyes wide with worry.

"Blades in," the Master orders, and with a loud snick the dozen Toclafane around them retract their blades. He glares at them with cold fury. "You do not touch him. You do not hurt him. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Mister Master," the Toclafane burble, petulantly. "We're sorry, Master. He was bad. We can kill the bad ones."

The Master bends down and looks the Doctor over. "Is it only the shoulder?"

The Doctor nods, eyes flicking back and forth between the globes and the Master.

"Take care of him," the Master says over his shoulder.

Lucy kneels down beside him, presses a cloth against his bleeding shoulder. She coaxes him to stand with her and press close to her side.

"They were going to kill him," the Doctor says, his voice tight with anger and pain.

The Master gives him a considering look, then turns to the bleeding worker. "What did you do?" he asks.

"It was an accident," the worker says, bowing and cringing at the same time. "I dropped a component. My hands slipped. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, I beg your mercy, heavenly Master, your Majesty, please have mercy!"

The Master stares down at him for a long, tense minute. He looks back to the Doctor. "You were willing to die to save him?" he asks.

"Yes," the Doctor says. Not that he was thinking that far ahead, but if it came to it, yes.

The Master looks back at the worker, then up at the Toclafane. "This one is forgiven," he tells them. "Now go."

The globes swoop away. The worker falls to the floor, tearful with gratitude, thanking the Master over and over. The Master nods and another worker is allowed over with a first aid kit.

"What are they?" the Doctor demands, relieved and shaken. "What are the Toclafane? Tell me what they are."

"I think it's time for you to learn the truth," the Master says. "But first we need to get you patched up."

He's taken up to the offices and his shoulder is cleaned, stitched, and bandaged. Lucy frets over his shoulder, but the wound is more long than deep.

"You shouldn't have done that," she says, more upset than anything else. "You promised not to run. You promised not to leave me."

"I had to stop them," he says, wishing she would understand.

"You're so important to us, my darling," she says, stroking lightly at his bandaged shoulder. "None of them matter. You mustn't put yourself in danger."

There's nothing the Doctor can answer that with. He's silent as she holds him tight, rubbing his back. Then she takes his hand and holds it firmly as they follow the Master deeper into the factory, into a secure area they didn't visit that morning.

They enter a room where a few workers are hunched over workbenches covered with an array of equipment, some of it medical. On one of them is a Toclafane, sitting silent, its lights glowing dully. The only way to describe it is ill-looking.

The Doctor frowns. "They're alive?"

"Oh yes," the Master says. "Very alive." He gestures for the worker to leave and pats at the stool. "Have a seat."

Lucy helps the Doctor up. He looks at the faceless globe with undisguised curiosity.

"You called the Toclafane bogeymen," the Master says, reaching for the globe. "Time for you to see what they really are." He presses the point of a tool at one of its interface panels and pops open like a blossoming flower. But inside is nothing so beautiful.

The Doctor recoils in horror at the sleeping head wired into the globe, barely recognizable as humanoid. He's never heard of a species that did anything so horrific to itself. That reduced itself to a shrivelled lump of flesh inside a killing machine. Nothing except the Daleks, the Cybermen, the true bogeymen of the universe.

"Tell me what this is."

"It's human," the Master says, calmly. "In fact, you might have even met this one."

"What are you talking about?"

"Does 'the Utopia Project' ring a bell?"

The Doctor turns back to the head, stares at it. "No. No no no, it can't be."

"Oh, but it is," the Master says.

"But Professor Yana..." The Doctor's horror shifts to anger. "You did this to them. Set some sort of trap, forced them into it."

The Master laughs. "They did this all by themselves. You keep going on about human potential. Now you get to see it! You're looking at pure humanity, Doctor. Pure human potential. How does it feel?"

"You're lying."

The Master shakes his head. "You saw how desperate they were to survive. Clinging to every last hope they could find. So brave, so determined. They knew they had to be strong to survive the end of the universe, so they turned themselves into this."

"He's telling the truth," Lucy says, her grip tight on his uninjured shoulder. "Harry showed me. He took me to the end of the universe. The end of everything. And I saw... I saw what they'd become. What humanity became."

"And you brought them here?" the Doctor says, outraged and sickened.

"Where else could I bring them? They begged me to save them," the Master says, close beside him. "Save them from the darkness. The terrible, terrible cold. And I did. I saved the poor, defenceless humans. But you locked the coordinates. The only place I could take them was here."

"No," the Doctor whispers, hoarsely. "Anywhere else..."

"There wasn't anywhere else. And when they found out they could return to Earth, they were so happy, so excited. Their long-lost home."

"You tricked them," the Doctor insists, desperately. "You made them do this. Destroy their own ancestors."

"If I wasn't here to control them, they would have done far more than this. The only thing they want is to survive."

"They're killing themselves."

"That's what humans do," the Master says, not unkindly. "You know that better than anyone. Civil wars. Genocide. They kill and kill and kill each other, over superstition and greed and scraps of land. That's human nature, Doctor. That's your precious humanity."

"No," the Doctor says, weakly, but the most horrible part of it all is that it's true. The dark side of human nature is always something he's struggled against. Sometimes he's despaired, rejected them entirely. He'd hoped so much that in the end their good side would win out, that they would evolve beyond the violence they find so easy, but now he knows he was wrong. He knows how they end. It's little wonder the Time Lords never looked that far into the future. There was nothing there to see.

"So you see, Doctor, we're on the same side. I saved humanity, just like you do. Helped them fulfil their true potential. Saved them from the darkness. Just like you. And who deserves to live more? Those who cower in fear or those who fight against it? The fighters aren't those pathetic humans out there, who shove their faces in the dirt. The fighters are right in front of you."

The Toclafane opens its eyes, revealing grey irises, clouded and blind. It's a human that doesn't see with its eyes anymore. It sees with sensors, cameras. "Master," it says, weakly.

"I'm here," the Master says, and strokes his thumb along the pallid flesh of its brow. "Your Master is here."

The Toclafane makes a happy sound and its cheeks draw up around its mouthplate in a deathly parody of a smile.




When they return to the palace, all the Doctor wants is to be alone, but he's not allowed that solace. The Master stays with him, working contentedly while the Doctor sits as far away from him as he can, on the floor in the corner with his knees drawn up and his arms around his legs. He's beyond horrified and simply numb with grief.

This isn't an alien invasion. It isn't a single bad egg, an external oppressor. It's human against human, six billion of the future against six billion of the present. The worst civil war in human history, and the future is winning by a landslide. Even knowing that it will all be undone, that the Toclafane will be sent back to where they came from, does nothing to console him. Those bright, hopeful faces of the refugees on Malcassairo haunt him. The cheerful boy that Martha spoke with, the young man Jack flirted with, the countless families that lined the corridors. All those good, wonderful people turned themselves into six billion monsters. And eventually, all those humans he's fighting to save will do it, too. Because they're the same. And there's nothing he can do to stop it.

The Master was right. The truth did break his hearts.

Lucy finally comes to him and takes him from the Master, from the window where he can see the Toclafane flying through the sky. She takes him to her favourite room, with the vases full of flowers and a rocking chair and a view of the gardens. She sits him down on the overstuffed sofa and stands looking out at the trees.

"The leaves are going to change soon," she says. "Today is the first day of autumn. And then winter. I've always hated winter."

He looks up at her, and the bright summer sun is low in the sky, silhouetting her against its reddening light. She turns to him.

"When I saw them. When I saw the end of it all. I think it drove me quite mad."

The Doctor meets her eyes and sees the spark of sanity beneath the madness. That tiny part of Lucy Saxon that was never broken by her father, by the Master, by the cruelties and horrors of her life.

"I'd never seen such endless nothing," she continues, haunted. "I'd always known that it would end, but to see it..." Her voice trembles, and she looks away. "You talk about humanity. You say it like it's a wonderful thing, but it isn't. Humanity is cruel and cold and it deserves to end. They deserve to die. The universe will be better without them."

"You're human," the Doctor says, sadly. "You don't deserve to die."

"I do," Lucy says, proud yet so broken. "I tried to die but no one let me. They wouldn't let me make it all go away. So now I'm making them go away. It's for the best, really. Better for everyone." She wipes at her eyes, sniffs delicately. "And when they're all gone, when I'm ready, Harry will kill me."

"What?" the Doctor gasps, shocked.

"Harry promised," Lucy says, her spark of sanity once again smothered. "Before everything else, before 'for better or for worse'. When I'd helped him all I could. He promised."

There's a long silence, and then the Doctor says, "I don't want you to die."

Lucy smiles sadly. "I know, darling. With you here... I think I want to live, so we can be together. My darling boy."

The Doctor pushes himself off the chair and goes to her. Lucy looks down at him, and he holds up his arms. She bends and picks him up and holds him tight, and he holds her back.

"Don't die, Lucy," he says, burying his face against the crook of her neck. "I don't want you to die. Please."

Lucy hushes him. She carries him over to the rocking chair and sits down and rocks him gently. His eyes prick with tears and he blinks at them; they slide down his face and dampen her shoulder.

No matter how much she wants to be, Lucy isn't his mother. She's not his mother but it makes her happy to pretend, and he wants to make her happy. His real mother was a human, and when he was really eight years old it was the last time he saw her. His real mother is a distant figure, a faint memory of perfume and an unknown lullaby, and if there's any more than that he can recall it sleeps very deep in his mind.

She's not his mother and he's not her son. But they can comfort each other all the same.

After visiting the factory, the Doctor and Lucy are inseparable. He barely leaves her side, and he lets her dote on him even more than she usually does without rolling his eyes even once. They play cards and checkers together, human games that Lucy likes, and they play outside in the gardens, and when the weather turns from sun to cloud they go inside and he reads with his head in her lap.

Lucy is happier. The Doctor is happier. Even the Master is pleased, if somewhat bemused.

"I'm not sure if she adopted you or the other way around," he says.

"I think you're jealous," the Doctor declares.

The Master laughs at that. "Never. I don't need to be. I'm glad you're getting along. It makes things much easier."

They barely see him for days after that, as he spends almost all his time out of the palace, probably at the factory or on some other project. He comes home after dark, after dinner, when the Doctor and Lucy are already curled up together in bed.

The first time he comes home late he does something surprising. He doesn't lock the Doctor's cuffs together for the night.

"You're not binding them?" the Doctor asks, rather startled by the development.

"Not unless you want it," the Master says, an amused glint in his eyes.

"No, this is fine," the Doctor says, not wanting him to change his mind. He rather likes being able to stretch his limbs.

"I think I can trust you not to try to leave," the Master says. He rests the back of his fingers against the Doctor's cheek. "You wouldn't hurt Lucy by running away."

"Of course not," the Doctor says, and Lucy gives him a squeeze that makes him smile.

"And I know you wouldn't betray my trust. You've behaved yourself, so you've earned something in return." He gives the Doctor an expectant look.

"Thank you, Master," the Doctor says, knowing the appropriate response.

The Master looks pleased. "You're welcome," he says.

The Doctor curls himself around Lucy, happy to be able to hold her back, and they settle in to sleep.

For a whole week, everything is lovely. It can't last, so the Doctor isn't entirely surprised when it doesn't. One morning after his bath, he comes out to find Lucy sitting on the bed and looking very sad.

She holds out her arms. "Come here, darling."

The Doctor goes to her and sits in her lap as she holds him tight. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"I have to go away for a little while," she says, sadly. "A week, maybe two. I wish I could take you with me."

"Lucy, no," the Doctor whispers, upset. "No, you can't leave." He buries his face against her.

"I'm afraid I have to," she says, kissing the top of his head. "I'll try to finish the work as soon as I can."

The Master walks back into the room, sits beside them. "Oh, it's not that bad, is it?" he says.

"I'm afraid so," Lucy says, sympathetically.

"If there was anyone else I could trust with it..." the Master says.

"Why can't you go instead?" the Doctor asks, plaintively.

The Master gives him a stern look. "I know you don't mean that."

The Doctor looks down. "I'm sorry, Master."

"That's all right," the Master says, resting a hand on his back. "I know you're upset. But Lucy won't be gone long, and until then we'll have all day together. Won't that be fun?"

"I suppose," the Doctor says, reluctantly.

"If you're good, we'll do something nice for the humans. How about that?"

That perks the Doctor up a bit. "Really?"

"Really," the Master says, nodding.

"Anything I want?"

The Master smiles. "Within reason. But yes, you can pick."

The Doctor makes an effort to smile.

It's hard saying goodbye to Lucy. Harder than he expected, and far harder than he would have imagined when they first met. But humans have a way of growing on him and Lucy is no exception. At least he knows he'll see her again, even if not for a while. But his hearts still break a little when she walks out the door.

"Come on," the Master says, "it's time for breakfast."



Without Lucy, the Doctor has to stay with the Master at all times. It's an adjustment to say the least. He's used to her devotion, to her warmth and eagerness to play, to hold him, to comfort him. He's used to her needing him. He's used to the way she loves him.

The Master has never been what he would describe as cuddly.

When the Doctor mopes through lunch and into the afternoon, the Master says, "Really, Doctor. If my presence is that much of a burden to you..."

"It's not," the Doctor protests. "Really. I'm sorry. I just... I miss her."

"I know," the Master says, not unkindly. "But you'll see her again soon. And I thought you'd enjoy having some time together, since I've been away most of the week."

"What were you working on?" the Doctor asks, curious.

"Something important," the Master says. "I wouldn't leave for anything that wasn't."

That somehow manages to ease the ache in the Doctor's chest. He makes an effort to shake off his melancholy. "You said we could do something for the humans," he says, hopeful.

"That's right. Have you thought about what you want?"

"Yes," the Doctor says, certain. "I want them to have a free hospital."

The Master chuckles. "How appropriate. Very well, I don't see why not."

The Doctor's hearts feel suddenly light. "A proper hospital, too. Not just some little clinic. Please?"

The Master hesitates, then relents. "A proper hospital it is," he agrees.

The Doctor grins. "Thank you," he says, happily.

"You've earned it," the Master says, pleased. "Now read your book while I make some calls to get it started."

"Yes, Master," the Doctor says, and squirms with pleasure.



One of the benefits of an absolute dictatorship is that nothing has to wait for committee. Within a day an appropriate building has been selected and cleared out, medical professionals pulled from the slave camps and factories, and equipment dusted off and installed. By the second day the first shipment of medicine is being put into the stockroom. By the third day the first patients are allowed in, and the Master brings the Doctor out to see it.

At first the humans are understandably wary. But when the first few cautiously enter and come out again patched up and unharmed, word spreads quickly, and the Doctor watches from the safety of the Master's side as a queue forms out the entrance.

"It's wonderful," he says, enthralled. He sees a little girl walk out with her broken arm in a cast and a lollipop in her hand. A pregnant woman who's just had her first checkup in months coming out with her husband, an ultrasound printout held between them and smiles on their faces. The humans all look so relieved that he knows this was the right choice. That he did something that will help all of them.

"Thank you," he says to the Master, terribly grateful. He steps forward to hug him, out of habit of hugging Lucy, then stops himself.

The Master gives him an amused, fond look. "Go ahead. I know you want to."

The Doctor grins and hugs him, then steps back, feeling rather embarrassed about it all, yet glad all the same. He shakes his jumbled feelings off and goes back to watching how he's made everyone better.




The next morning an explosion thunders through the city, startling everyone awake. The Master jumps out of bed, dragging the Doctor after him and into his study. The Doctor rubs his eyes and looks out the window and sees smoke rising from the city. Fear twists inside him, and it grows steadily as he hears the Master's angry tones as he talks on the phone.

"They bombed the hospital," the Master says, seething. "Ungrateful little shits."

"No," the Doctor gasps. "Is it bad? Was there anyone inside?"

"Yes," the Master says, tersely.

Tears well in the Doctor's eyes, and he makes no attempt to stop them. "How could they? They needed it. It was helping. All those people..."

"I know," the Master says, gently. He gestures for the Doctor to come to him and pulls him into his arms. The Doctor tenses, then relaxes, burying his face against his chest. "They'd already admitted fifty patients. And all those doctors, nurses. It will be hard to replace them."

The Doctor's chin trembles and he starts to cry.

"Shh," the Master hushes. "Do you want me to make another one?"

The Doctor sniffs. "What if they just blow that one up? What if no one goes because they're scared?"

"That's possible," the Master says. "It's hard to help people who don't want to be helped."

The Doctor nods, rubbing his cheek against the Master's silk pyjamas. It's damp from his tears.

"How about this," the Master says. "I'll have the group responsible dealt with, and while that's being done I'll order them to start preparing another hospital. It will take longer to build, but if it's important to you..."

The Doctor nods again.

"Then that's what we'll do," the Master says.




That night the Doctor can't sleep. If Lucy was here he would feel safe in her arms. She would know just how to make him feel better. But without her the bed feels too big and he feels terribly lonely. He looks at the Master and wonders if it would be too much... if just this once, he could...

The Master opens his eyes, apparently not asleep after all. "Trouble sleeping?" he asks.

"Yes," the Doctor says, quietly.

"Come here," the Master says.

The Doctor shuffles over. He hesitates, but the Master raises his arm welcomingly, and he finds himself unable to refuse, unable to even want to refuse. He slides into the Master's arms and clings to him just as he would have clung to Lucy, and the Master holds him. The Doctor lets out a sigh of relief.

"Better?"

"Yes, Master," the Doctor says, grateful. "Thank you."

"Good boy," the Master murmurs. "Now go to sleep."

The Doctor feels a warm glow in his chest and relaxes. He closes his eyes, and it's so easy to fall asleep.




The Master has a lot of work to do, especially in dealing with the hospitals, so it's not surprising he needs to stay in his study all day. But the Doctor aches to go outside and play in the garden. He's bored and restless and needs to move and run or he'll go mad.

"Is it entirely impossible for you to sit still?" the Master asks, archly.

"Can we please go outside? I'm bored."

The Master sighs. "I don't have time to play with you. Why don't you go on your own?"

The Doctor stares at him. "What?"

"You're not going to try to run away, correct?"

"No, but--"

"And I can trust you to behave yourself?"

"Yes, but--"

"Then I don't see any reason why you can't go out and play for an hour or two." He looks at his watch. "I'd like you back by four o'clock, is that clear?"

The Doctor can't believe it. "Yes, Master," he says, stunned.

"Good. Now go on, I need to work in peace and quiet without you fidgeting all over the place."

"Yes, Master!" The Doctor grins and practically runs from the study and outside. He stands on the grass in his bare feet and breathes deep, then out, and then tears across the garden in a galloping, delighted run.

No one watching over him. No one babysitting him or watching his every move. There are still the usual guards and such, but they don't matter. He's outside and it's wonderful, and even more wonderful is that the Master trusts him. The Master is... the Master is good to him. His chest tightens with emotion and then releases again, and he hurries to find a tree to climb so he can think about that and nothing more fraught with emotional landmines.



After that, the Master is increasingly generous with the Doctor's freedom. He allows him out of his sight for up to two hours at a time, and he can go anywhere in the palace or the gardens. The sudden freedom is intoxicating, but the Doctor keeps a careful eye on the time. He doesn't want to come back late and disappoint the Master. That's the last thing he wants.

Still, the Doctor is eager to return to his side when he's done running about, and the Master is pleased to have his company. Even though he misses Lucy terribly, it is rather wonderful now that it's just the two of them together. Just him and the Master.

"How would you like to go to America?" the Master asks one day.

"What's in America?"

"Another project of mine," the Master replies. "There are some items that need my personal attention. I can't leave you here all by yourself."

"That's all right. I want to stay with you. Where in America are we going?"

"The west," the Master says. "Outside of Salt Lake City. Have you been there?"

"Around there, probably," the Doctor says. "It's a rather large country. It just keeps going."

The Master chuckles. "That it does. If you're ready, we'll leave after lunch. It's a long flight."

Anywhere with you, the Doctor thinks.




Leaving the palace is easy when there's no one there to say goodbye to. He doesn't even have anything to pack except for the querency sticks, his only possession. But still the Doctor will miss it. "How long will we be gone? Are we coming back?"

"We'll see," the Master says, and shoos him up the ramp.

Ten minutes later, the Doctor is pressed back into his seat as they take off and leave Japan behind.

It's a long flight, very long. After dinner he nods off with his head against the Master's arm and a blanket tucked around him. When he wakes up, they're still flying.

"Are we almost there?" he asks, sleepily.

"Almost," the Master says, closing his laptop. "Did you sleep well?"

"Uh-huh," the Doctor says and stretches, rubs his eyes.

"Good." The Master snaps his fingers and a servant comes over with a breakfast tray, complete with steaming tea. The Doctor takes it gratefully and blows at the tea to cool it down.

They arrive around noon on an airstrip in a bright Utah desert. There's some turbulence as the plane rides a blustery wind, but it touches down smoothly. There's a brief taxi to the end of the strip, and then the stairs are brought over so they can disembark.

The Doctor squints as they step outside. He has to shield his eyes against the sandy wind, and it blows his hair this way and that. His loose silk clothes billow around him.

"Come here," the Master says, and the Doctor goes to him to be protected from the wind by his body. The Master covers his head with the wing of his jacket and guides him across the flat ground to an outbuilding. Once inside they brush themselves off and blink their eyes clear.

"I think I liked Tokyo better," the Doctor says, peering through a window at the sandy, stony landscape.

"Agreed," the Master says. "Well, this shouldn't take long, and then we'll go somewhere more pleasant. I have a place in Salt Lake City waiting for us."

"That should be nice," the Doctor says, tearing his eyes away from the view. "So what's here?"

"Geocomtex," the Master says. "The company's private bunker. Humans can't seem to get enough of anything alien, and most of the time they don't even care what it is. They just want to have it. Come along."

The Doctor obediently follows, and they walk into a long hallway, flanked by their entourage. Something about the place jogs at the Doctor's memory, but he can't quite place it.

"Remember that obnoxious bore of a President the Americans had?" the Master asks, conversationally. "The head of this company was the idiot who rigged the election for him. And he created a mildly advanced broadcast medium for the internet using alien technology. I don't like it when people steal my ideas. Especially when they use them first!"

The Doctor gives a nervous laugh. He's only half-listening. Something feels wrong about this place, terribly wrong. He stays close to the Master's side.

"So they collected alien weapons?" the Doctor asks, thinking of Torchwood. It wouldn't surprise him if the Americans had their own equivalent. Except the Master said this was a private company...

"Weapons, toys, musical instruments. It's one big boot sale down there. Most of it's useless junk, but packrats like this always manage to get their hands on the good stuff, even when they have no idea what they're dealing with. It's a miracle they don't blow themselves up straight away."

They take the elevator down, down. There are a lot of floors. Fifty three of them. The bad feeling grows into dread.

"This place," he says, nervously. "I think I've been here before."

"Really?" the Master says, interested.

"What was his name? The head of the company, what was his name?"

The doors open on floor fifty-three. The Master ushers him out of the elevator. They turn a corner and the Doctor's dread turns into horror.

"Henry Van Statten," the Master says.

"No, no, no," the Doctor says, backing away, hearts racing. "No, we can't be here. We can't."

The Master tilts his head. "And why not?"

The Doctor's back hits the wall. "Because it's here. It's too soon. It's still here."

The Master steps forward. "When were you here, Doctor?"

"2012," the Doctor says, voice tight with fear.

The Master stops in front of him. Crouches down to meet him at eye-level. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. You met a little something that good old Henry bought at auction three years ago. Something that's been on this planet for over forty years. Something they called a 'Metaltron.' Am I right?"

The Doctor nods.

"Tell me what it's really called, Doctor. Tell me its name."

The Doctor's eyes break from the Master's magnetic gaze and stare at the hall beyond, at the door that he remembers walking into, oblivious to what was inside. He'd had no idea, no idea. But he knows now. His blood runs cold.

"Tell me," the Master says, voice low and silken. "I want to hear you say it."

"Dalek," the Doctor chokes out, and stares and stares.

The last time he was here, two hundred people died. And that was one of the less unpleasant parts of the day.

They always survive, while I lose everything. It runs through his head over and over like a mantra. It's not fair. It's not fair that he should be here, that he should have to face this Dalek again.

"Why?" he asks, distraught. "Why did you have to bring me here?"

"It's not going to hurt you," the Master says, in a calming tone. "Is this the one? The last of the Cult of Skaro?"

"No. That was a different one."

"Just an ordinary Dalek, then. It certainly doesn't look like much."

"Don't touch it," the Doctor says, urgently.

"I'm not a human, Doctor. I know better. Tell me what happened in 2012."

The Doctor closes his eyes, opens them. "It self-destructed. It couldn't live with itself. It was infected with humanity."

"That does seem to be going around," the Master says, dryly. He stands and holds out his hand. The Doctor stares at it. "Take it," the Master says, firmly.

The Doctor takes his hand. The Master's grip is strong but not painful. It's almost reassuring. Except that the Master starts walking towards that room and taking the Doctor along with him.

"I don't want to," the Doctor protests, pulling away. The Master's grip tightens.

"I don't recall giving you a choice," the Master replies. "Do you really think we can trust some human to deal with what's in there?"

The Doctor shakes his head. Two hundred humans couldn't stop one Dalek, after one human let it free. Oh, Rose, you stupid girl. I thought it killed you, and it made me hate.

"Time Lords and Daleks, Doctor. This is your mess we're cleaning up. Lucky for you, I'm here to make sure it's done right."

The Master pushes open the door and they walk inside. The far end of the room is in darkness, but the Doctor knows what's waiting there, silently lurking. He remembers walking in and thinking Van Statten's pet would be something he could save, something that didn't deserve to be locked up in a tiny little room and tortured. And then that voice. He hates that voice so much.

"Wakey-wakey," the Master sing-songs. He releases the Doctor's hand as he walks closer.

The dull blue light of the Dalek's eye flicks on, but the creature remains silent.

"Humph," the Master says, dismissively. "How did we end up with the one Dalek that isn't incapable of shutting its trap? Usually it's all blah blah blah, exterminate, exterminate, exterminate." On the last word he lunges forward, growling it at the Dalek, then laughs mockingly. "Pathetic. Come here, Doctor. This wreck is no threat to anyone."

"Doc-tor?" the Dalek groans. "The Doctor?"

The Master jumps back as the Dalek springs to life, the posts surrounding it suddenly illuminating. It rears forward, just like it did the first time, four years from now. The Doctor stumbles back and back. He never realized how tall they could seem, looming over him like a tank.

"Exterminate! Exterminate! Exterminate!" the Dalek screeches, waving its arms frantically, lights flashing like strobes.

"There you are," the Master says, shaken underneath his bravado. He suddenly breaks into a crazed grin. "See how you like it. All chained up and nowhere to go! Should we put you on trial, hmm? I know, we'll make this an act of Dalek Restitution. If only precious Romana was here to see it."

"Identify yourself!" the Dalek screeches. "Identify!"

"My name is the Master," the Master says, proudly.

"The Master! The Doctor! Time Lords! You are enemies of the Daleks! You must be destroyed!"

"Ohh no," the Master says. "Not this time. This time you're the one who's going to die. Beg for your life, Dalek. Beg for your Master!"

"Master," the Doctor breathes, staring. "Please, stop this."

The Master whirls around, eyes flaring. "No!" he shouts, furious. "It's time for a little revenge. Maybe a lot. I haven't decided yet. But you're going to help me, Doctor. You owe me that for what you did." He runs over and slams the door shut, the automatic lock trapping them inside.

"No!" the Doctor cries, and pounds at the door. The Master grabs his arm with bruising force and flings him back to the centre of the room. The Doctor lands hard, the breath knocked out of him.

The Master suddenly stops, takes a deep breath and lets it out with a shuddering exhalation. His furious madness settles down to a simmer.

"Tell me, Doctor," he says, voice tight with the effort of controlling himself. "You were the one who ended it. I want to know what it felt like when you made the Daleks burn."

"You lie!" the Dalek screeches, frantically. "The Daleks are supreme!"

"The Daleks are dead!" the Master snarls. "All except you, and you're as far from supreme as it's possible to get. I'd be more intimidated by a worm. But then that's what you are inside. A blobby little worm in a can. I should rip you open and make you crawl."

"The Time Lords are inferior! The Time Lords will die!"

"Never!" the Master snarls. He rounds on the Doctor. "Tell that thing what you did. Tell it!"

The Doctor staggers to his feet. "I ended the War," he says, feeling lightheaded. "I stopped you."

"Again. Louder."

"I made the Daleks burn," the Doctor says, staring at what he once thought was the last Dalek in existence, and now is only the second to last. "I wiped you out. Ten million ships on fire."

"Liar!" the Dalek screeches.

"Again."

"I made you burn," the Doctor spits, staring right into that unblinking blue eye. "The end of the last great Time War. The Oncoming Storm. I killed everyone. I made it happen."

"An almighty civilisation, burning," the Master says, with breathy awe. "And how did it feel? How did it feel to stop them once and for all?"

"Good," the Doctor chokes, rounding on him. "Is that what you want to hear? I was glad. All that death, all that horror. It had to end. I had to end it. I didn't have a choice."

"You had a choice," the Master says, certain. "You chose to survive."

"I chose to die with them!" the Doctor cries. "I wasn't supposed to survive!"

The Master suddenly crouches down before him, takes him by the arms. "Yes, you were. You survived for me, Doctor. You survived for this. Because those who have the strength to do what we have done are gods." He pulls something from the inside of his jacket.

The Doctor's eyes widen. "Where did you get that?"

"Torchwood," the Master says, and twirls the Dalek gun in his hand. "Humans have such a fetish for alien technology, but aliens? They made a whole organization just for the purpose of making your life hell. Doesn't that just warm your hearts?"

"It wasn't like that," the Doctor protests, but defending Torchwood doesn't come naturally to him. He thinks it's a travesty, a disaster waiting to happen over and over.

"No, you have a point," the Master says. "Their purpose is killing anything that visits their xenophobic little world and stealing their technology. Weapons. All so they can find new and better ways to kill each other. To kill any species that gets in their way. Just like our friends the Toclafane. The pinnacle of humanity, the summation of millennia of breeding and destruction. Monsters in a can, just like that." He points the gun at the Dalek.

The Dalek slides backwards until the chains catch tight. "No! The Dalek race must survive!"

"Why?" the Master demands.

"We are superior! You will be destroyed!"

"No, you will be destroyed!" the Master growls. He looks back at the Doctor. "Canary Wharf. Now that was a battle."

"What?" the Doctor gasps, startled.

"One Time Lord defeated how many Daleks? You do have a knack for it. And the Sycorax. Brilliant. Shame about the hand. And the Prime Minister. But I was going to have her assassinated, so you probably did her a favour."

"Master, please. You're not making any sense."

"Listen," the Master says, insistent. "Listen." He cocks his head. "The drums, Doctor. They never stop."

"Tell me about them," the Doctor asks, trying to find some way to reach him.

The Master brings the gun about and raps the tip against the Doctor's chest in time with the beats. Tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap. "On and on," he murmurs. "Do you know what they want?"

"What?" the Doctor asks, almost whispering.

"An end," the Master says, eyes distant. "An end to everything. Everything I see has to die except you. I wonder why that is."

The Doctor clings to that as a hopeful sign, a way out of the Master's madness. "It means I can help you. Can't you see? They want me to help you."

The Master is suddenly furious. "Don't you dare speak like that to me." He raises the gun as if to strike the Doctor with it, then stops. "No," he says. "Take it." He holds it out.

The Doctor stares at him in astonishment, but slowly reaches out and takes it. It feels strange in his hand, far too big for a child, far too deadly.

"Yes," the Master says, as if this is all making sense now, all coming together for him. "I'm going to give you a choice. You like choices. Free will, all that nonsense."

"What choice?"

"One death," the Master says, eerily calm after all his ravings. "One little death, after so many. There are three of us. I'm going to let you pick."

"You're mad," the Doctor says, so far beyond astonishment that he's run out of adjectives.

"Kill me," the Master says. "Kill yourself. Or kill that thing, that oh-so-defenceless, crippled thing that calls itself a Dalek."

"Why?"

"Because you're a Time Lord, and Time Lords do what the universe needs. Do you think the universe needs the Daleks? You did once."

Realization dawns. "Is that what this is about? Skaro?"

"Yes," the Master hisses. "That's what this is about. We can sit in here for weeks while you moralize your way out of the dirty work, but all you'll do is cause three deaths instead of one. Would that make you feel better? Did it make you feel pure and righteous to let the Daleks live? Or did you just want to rack up a higher body count after the Daleks wanted revenge?"

"I never wanted any of it."

"That's the problem with your precious free will. It's amazing how not free it is."

The Doctor stares at the gun. He stares at the Dalek. "Van Statten was having it tortured." he says. "He locked me in here with it, and I made it scream."

"That's what it deserves."

"I thought they were monsters for torturing it. But it felt so good..." The Doctor shivers at the memory of his rage, his malicious gladness as the Dalek screamed and screamed. The way it felt good to drown the Racnoss, the way it felt achingly good to damn the Family of Blood to one eternal punishment after another. Like the relief when he pushed that final button and the Time War stopped forever. Like the acceptance on his tongue when the Skasis Paradigm was offered to him on a platter.

He felt powerful and strong. He felt like a god. He felt like a Time Lord.

"Ten million ships," the Master says. "What's that, twenty-five billion Daleks?" He whistles. "What's one more?"

"Nothing," the Doctor says, quietly. "It's nothing. And it's everything."

"Aww. Every life is precious?" the Master says, mockingly.

"What if I kill myself?" he asks.

"You won't," the Master says.

"All right. What if I kill you?"

"You won't," the Master says, smiling.

"Damn you," the Doctor says, but without heat.

"Oh, it's far too late for that."

"What if I destroy the gun?" he threatens.

"Then I'll make you do it with your bare hands. And don't even think about breaking out. I've left orders to have you shot dead if you manage it." The Master gives him a fond look. "If I can't have you, no one will."

"You don't have me," the Doctor points out.

The Master chuckles. He reaches out and cups the Doctor's face. "Yes, I do," he says, without a trace of doubt. "And the truth is there's nothing you can do about it. My Doctor."

The Doctor finds himself leaning into his touch, and he forces himself to pull away. "I thought leaving you was a clear enough message."

"Except that I've always liked it when you play hard to get," the Master replies with a smirk. "Now be a good boy and kill the nasty Dalek."

"You can't expect me to just kill it. It's defenceless."

"Tell me, Doctor," the Master says, with deliberate patience. "Before this Dalek self-destructed, what did it do?"

The Doctor looks away. "It slaughtered two hundred people."

"And if we were to let it go free, what do you think it would do?"

"Make more Daleks," the Doctor says, voice catching with honesty. "Start killing again."

"Exterminate," the Master breathes. "That's what it will do. And then what do you think will happen?"

"I'll have to stop it," the Doctor says, roughly. Remembering Skaro, remembering the moment he realized the consequences of his mercy. The moment when he truly realized what he'd done. That it was his fault, and his responsibility, and he had to end it, whatever the cost.

He was ready to kill the Daleks on the Gamestation. He was so ready to kill them and die with them. But he couldn't sacrifice the Earth.

"There's a fourth option," he says, quietly. "I could rewire the gun to explode and kill us all." He's done it before. It would be the end of the Time War all over again.

The Master just looks at him. "You won't," he says, so certain. "Because then who would break the paradox? Who would stop the Toclafane? You need both of us to live and you need to rid the universe of one more Dalek. Just one shot, Doctor. That's all it takes. Payment for all the pain they've caused you. All the people they've taken from you. From us. It's time for you to take something back." He lifts the Doctor's hand to point the gun at the Dalek. "Do what's necessary. Do this for us. Kill it."

"Have pity!" the Dalek pleads, in that intolerable voice. "I must survive! The Daleks must survive!"

"The Daleks have to die," the Doctor says, shakily. "You have to die because it's the only way you'll ever stop."

The Dalek rushes forward, flings itself against its chains. "You are the enemy! You will be destroyed! Exterminate! Exterminate!"

The Doctor steps back, hearts jumping with fear. And then he's angry because he's sick of being afraid of these creatures, sick of their screeching yell, their faceless rage, the sheer relentlessness of their genocides. He's faced them over and over and he's sick of it, he's sick of them. "I hate you!" he sneers. "I hate you I hate you!" And before he can stop himself, he fires.

The Dalek sparks and screeches and then goes still. The blue light dies. The Doctor drops the gun, letting it clatter to the floor. His hearts are racing. He's shaking.

"That's it," the Master says, gently. "Come here. Shh."

The Doctor falls into his arms.




The worst of it all, the absolute worst, is how much it doesn't bother him. How much of a relief it is to know that it's dead, that he stopped it. That he stopped it. Even after the adrenaline wears off he feels glad, and that unsettles him far more than any amount of guilt.

After the Master checks to make sure the Dalek is well and truly dead, he presses a button on his watch and the door opens. They walk out and the Doctor feels free in more ways than any open door could explain. He doesn't know what to make of his own feelings.

He remembers when Rose stopped him from killing it in 2012. He'd been so ready for it to die, so eager for it, and she'd stopped him. He'd been both relieved and resentful. She was just some little girl who had no idea what she was facing. If she'd had the merest conception of what that monster was capable of, she wouldn't have been blindly trusting, wouldn't have pitied it. But he knows that the same rules applied to him. If she knew the truth about him, the blood on his hands, she would have stopped pitying him and run as fast as she could. And he wouldn't have stopped her.

And the funny thing is that Rose's pity killed the Dalek, and then Rose's love killed him. That blind sympathy destroyed even as it saved. So what to make of this? That refusing to kill and choosing to kill meant the same thing in the end? Isn't that the lesson he learned from the Time War? Or tried to learn. No second chances. Not where it counts.

If he could save everyone he would. Maybe that makes him a coward, and if so he's proud to be a coward. But the Master is right. Sometimes refusing that responsibility only makes things worse. And making the right choice feels good.

The right choice was killing the Daleks. The right choice is saving the Master. The right choice is saving the Earth. Life and death in his hands, and even inaction is a choice. Everything is a choice. He made the choice not to kill the Daleks in their cradle, and then made the choice to kill the Daleks when they were twenty-five billion strong. Would it have been more moral to kill the infant than the soldier and save countless innocent lives in the process? To do what he was sent to do, all those years ago, instead of talking himself out of it?

Yes. It would have. Just as killing this single Dalek saved all the lives it would have taken, had it escaped. He saw with his own eyes exactly what it would have done. Death after death after death, with the promise of more to come. It was necessary to stop it.

It was necessary.

They go back to the plane and fly away from Van Statten's bunker. The Doctor watches through the window until the clouds are a blanket beneath them.

If the worst part was how little it bothered him, the strangest part is how he feels as if he's somehow grown from the experience. He finds himself sitting straighter. Less of his usual casual slump and more like... more like a Time Lord.

"You did very well," the Master says, approvingly. "I'm proud of you."

The Doctor looks at him. It's such a strange thing for him to say, yet it feels perfectly natural. The corner of the Doctor's mouth quirks once, twice, and he finds himself smiling up at the Master.

"It was the right choice," he says, calmly.

"It was," the Master confirms. He cups the Doctor's cheek with his hand. "Such a good boy," he murmurs.

The Doctor leans into his hand, this time without hesitation, without doubt. Yes, he thinks.

"You might be ready to grow up soon," the Master continues. "Would you like that?"

The Doctor's eyes open wide. "Really?"

The Master nods. "Really. I might not even make you beg. Well, not much."

The Doctor can't believe it. He'll be an adult again. He'll be able to work on Archangel again. No more childhood. He feels a pang of regret but mostly relief and anticipation. It feels like he's been a child forever.

"Lucy," he says, thinking suddenly of her.

"Don't worry about Lucy," the Master says, fondly. "She'll be just as happy to see you when you're grown."

"Not so sure about that," the Doctor says, but despite his uncertainty he knows she loves him. She was kind to him before he was a child, after all. But it won't be the same.

"Come here," the Master says, patting his lap.

The Doctor climbs from his seat and settles into the Master's lap, resting against his chest. The Master's arms hold him. He sighs in contentment. When he's grown they won't do this anymore. It won't feel right the way it does now. There'll be too much in the way. It's going to be a little like losing the Master for the first time all over again, that break from which they never recovered. But he knows things have to change. He's responsible for stopping the Master as much as he is for stopping the Daleks. But not right now. Not just yet.

"I'll miss this," he says, and then feels his cheeks warm with embarrassment. But that fades, and the happiness of the moment stays.

"I know," the Master says, gently. "But don't worry. You'll still be mine. I promise."

"All right," the Doctor says. He rests his head against the Master's shoulder and decides, just for now, not to worry about anything at all.

It would be hard for the Master to have found a place more different than Salt Lake City is to Tokyo without leaving the planet. It's arid and flat, more brown than lushly green though nothing like the stony desert they left behind. It's a much smaller city, yet it spreads out without the density of Tokyo, with its tall buildings and tightly packed streets. There's also comparatively little damage, and it feels less like a slave camp and more like a place where people live, albeit under Toclafane occupation.

When they reach the Master's 'place' the Doctor just shakes his head. "Don't tell me."

The Master grins. "Where would be the fun in that? They're calling it the Second Revelation."

"Calling what, exactly?"

"The return of the Golden Plates," the Master says, entirely pleased with himself. "Edited by yours truly, of course."

"Of course. Are you going to co-opt all of Earth's religions?"

"Everyone needs a hobby."

The Doctor snorts.

"Americans love an apocalypse," the Master says. "They're obsessed with it. They were practically begging for it. Who am I to deny them?"

"Never mind that you assassinated their president on live television."

"They didn't like him anyway," the Master says. "He didn't care about the needs of the people. The good, honest folk of the heartland. Half of them didn't even vote for him. Well, actually half of them didn't even vote, and Van Statten took care of the recount. It's amazing how easy it is to control people. You just tell them what they want to hear."

"I'm sure mass hypnosis has nothing to do with your amazing powers of persuasion," the Doctor says, dryly.

"The broadcasts keep them docile. Persuasion requires finesse."

They walk into the Salt Lake City Temple and he follows the Master into the building. When they reach the Assembly Hall, the Doctor is surprised to see a full congregation waiting for them.

The president of the congregation is reading from his holy book. "'And the end shall come, and the heaven and the earth shall be consumed and pass away, and there shall be a new heaven and a new earth.'"

"What's going on?" he asks, peering in from the doorway.

"You are, John," the Master says. "I have to introduce my son to the Church."

"I hope you're not going to keep calling me John Saxon when I'm grown."

"You're not grown yet," the Master says. "And if you insist on making trouble..." He lets the threat hang in the air.

In other words, if he doesn't stay cooperative, if he doesn't play along, then he might lose the chance to become an adult again for another two or three months, maybe longer. He can't afford to lose that much time on the threads. It's going to be tight enough as it is. He sighs. "Fine."

"Good boy," the Master says, taking his hand. "It's time for your baptism."

"What? Why?" the Doctor asks, baffled and frankly uncomfortable with the idea. "The last time you even bothered with religion it was to harvest psychokinetic energy. You can't possibly believe in any of this."

"I'm a man of science, Doctor," the Master says. "I don't worship. But ritual... I like ritual. I like power. This particular bunch of superstitious apes happens to believe in family almost as much as they believe in their god. I want their belief and you're going to give that to me."

"And what will their belief give you?" the Doctor asks, but he already knows the answer.

"Their obedience," the Master says. "And once I have that... 'To do my will shall be the whole of the law.'" There's a distant look in his eyes, as if he's anticipating the submission of all those in the Assembly Hall. Anticipating what he'll do with it, though power is generally its own end with the Master.

The Doctor feels like he's still catching his breath from their morning fifty-three floors below ground, and now this. It's not enough to dominate the globe through the Toclafane. It's not enough to do it with the Archangel network. The Master has to rule through might and through fear and even through love. It's breathtaking in its scope, far beyond the petty plans he often made. And with all that power, he'll reach out into the universe and do it all over again, planet by planet, until the whole universe bends to his will.

"Master," he breathes. He says it in awe and despair and determination, but it sounds like a prayer, the way it did at the end of the universe.

The Master closes his eyes in elation. When he opens them again, they're full of frightening clarity. His grip on the Doctor's hand tightens and he walks forward into the Hall.

As they make their way to the altar, everyone stands in respect and bows their heads. The Doctor aches to tell them to stop, to run, but stays silent. The president of the congregation steps aside. The Master turns to his congregation and gestures for them to sit.

"'If ye are prepared ye shall not fear,'" the Master quotes. "These are the last days of humanity. The time when the wicked shall be removed from the Earth. The righteous resurrected and saved. And to that end I have brought you the source of your salvation. I have brought you the Golden Plates so that the righteous among you shall be brought into the Celestial Kingdom. I have cast down your false leaders and shown you the way. Be willing to receive the truth, for the truth comes from me, and the truth is that I am your Master and the master of heaven and Earth!"

The words echo through the cavernous room. The eyes of the congregation are fixed on the Master, slightly glazed but mostly full of faith and awe. There's a hum of psychic energy that makes the Doctor's ganglions tingle with awareness. He remembers that feeling from Devil's End. Multiply it by a million, two million, and it's the power that's going to punch into him like a bomb when that countdown ends. It's an eerie prelude to feel it now, when the name that resounds in the energy is the Master's and not his own.

"But even in these latter days, our work is not done. More must be saved. The children must be saved. The family is the heart, it is the strength. To be strong we must help them to rise into immortal glory. And to that end I have brought to you my only son."

The Master reaches out for the Doctor and gestures him to his side. The Master takes his hand and holds it up, gripping it tightly.

"With his salvation, our family will continue into eternity. We will have the glory, authority, majesty, power and the dominion over all things. He will be baptised and sealed and today you will all stand as witnesses."

The psychic energy spikes and the Doctor starts. It's obvious that the Master is saying exactly what these people want to hear, and it's giving the Master exactly the response he desires. The Doctor just wishes he wasn't the one stuck in between.

The congregation president rejoins them. "'This is my gospel -- repentance and baptism by water, and then cometh the baptism of fire and the Holy Ghost.' Now rise in submission to your Redeemer."

The congregation rises and again bows their heads. The Master turns from the crowd and leads the Doctor out and into an anteroom, then shuts the door behind them.

"Get changed," the Master says, pointing to a bundle of cloth on a small table.

"Do you even know how mad this is?" the Doctor asks, even as he takes the bundle. He shakes it out to reveal a white, plainly cut cotton robe.

"That's what makes it so interesting," the Master says. "Do you have any idea how many apocalyptic religions there are in North America alone?"

"Are we counting overall theologies or individual denominations?" The Doctor takes off his shirt and brushes the sand off his body. He pulls the robe over his head and the Master helps him with the rest.

"Humans do love that old-time religion," the Master says, then gives a slow, satisfied smile. "It's like they were waiting to worship me."

"Your ego knows no bounds," the Doctor says, tartly.

"And the rest," the Master says, pointing to the discarded shirt.

The Doctor rolls his eyes, but strips off the rest of his clothes from beneath the robe. Just for a moment, he can feel the passing of another phase of what his life has become, then shakes it off. "I get the manipulation. I do. But why baptism? It's so... so native."

"I have my reasons," the Master says. He crouches down and looks the Doctor over, then neatens his robe, brushes at his hair. "There. Presentable, at least."

"I was never much for religion," the Doctor says, crossing his arms. "The universe is a rational place. I don't know why everyone has to bring belief into it."

"They have their reasons," the Master says. "They can't see what we can. Reality scares them."

"So they open themselves up to any passing psychic entity that wants a snack," the Doctor replies. "Brilliant. Gold star for effort."

"Why Doctor, anyone would think you didn't like humans."

The Doctor gives him a look. "I like them fine. I never said they were perfect. So now what? We go back out and you pour water on my head and everyone's happy?"

"Something like that," the Master says, standing up. "Do you believe in coincidence, Doctor?"

"Depends on the coincidence," the Doctor says.

"Eight years old. That's the age of initiation for Time Lords. For this gaggle of humans it's considered the age of 'accountability.'"

"And what's that when it's at home?"

"Sin," the Master says. "And repentance." He holds out his hand.

The Doctor takes it. As he follows the Master out through a different door, he wonders.

The Baptistery is smaller than the Hall, but it seems as if the whole congregation has squeezed itself in around the font. The room is warm with body heat and the air charged with a low psychic hum. The president stands next to the font, waiting for them.

Together they walk up the short flight of stairs. The Master steps down into the deep font first, then picks the Doctor up under the arms and carries him into the water. It's tepid and comes up to his chest and makes his robe float around his legs.

The Master looks out at his audience. Their faces are expectant, wide-eyed. The Master gave them back their holiest relic, he confirmed all their certainties about their place in the world, about their end of days. Even without the Archangel network to influence them they would probably follow him anywhere. The room is thick with their belief in him.

The Master solemnly raises his right hand. "Today is a new holy day. Today is a day of union. Of family. Today you stand witness as a covenant is formed, as the spirit of your Lord and Master is poured out into this child. He shall be raised, he shall be redeemed, and he shall be brought forth into eternal life."

The Master takes the Doctor's wrists with his left hand, shifts close against him. The Doctor's existing Archangel threads start to hum with energy as the excitement in the room rises higher and higher.

The Master looks down at him. "Are you prepared to accept?" he asks, his tone demanding agreement.

"Yes," the Doctor says, though he thinks No. He suddenly wishes he was back in that bunker, back in Tokyo, anywhere but here, as anxiety grips him. This is wrong, it's wrong and something's going to happen and he doesn't want it.

"By my authority, I baptize you. I seal you to your Master for time and all eternity, as an heir as though you were born in this new and everlasting covenant. Amen."

A sharp intake of breath and the Master plunges the Doctor backwards into the water. The Doctor knows what should happen, he's seen baptisms of a hundred faiths. But the Master keeps holding him down, and the Doctor finds to his horror that he can't move, can't breathe. He's paralyzed. What have you done to me? he cries, the words trapped silent in his mind.

The psychic energy. That's what he's using, that's how he's doing it. The Master is using it to hold him still, to drown him. But why?

A wave of heat and then pain. The Doctor can't even choke, can't even flinch. The Master's hand grips the back of his neck and it's feels as though the water should boil but it's his blood that sings in his veins. He stares up through the shimmering surface of the water and sees the Master staring down at him, a victorious grin on his face, wavering and distorted.

His body burns in the water. Something is being done to him and he can feel his cells twisting in rejection of it. Even though he can't move his eyes, they start to roll back involuntarily as the pain overwhelms him. Something is being forced into him and the white-hot agony of it makes his mind scream and scream and scream.

When he finally passes out, it's a mercy.




The Doctor opens his eyes and finds himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. His body aches in a distant, unnatural way, but he's breathing. He's not paralyzed.

He takes stock of himself and finds that he's dry and wearing new clothes, and covered in blankets on a wide bed. He carefully pushes himself up and sits back against the pillows. He feels like he's been out for an hour, maybe two.

The Master is sitting in a chair across from him, his feet resting on the end of the bed. His fingers are laced together, his elbows resting on the chair arms, and he's staring at him with narrow, contented eyes.

"What did you do to me?" the Doctor says, angrily.

"I sealed you to me," the Master says. "For all time and eternity, as an heir."

"Which means?"

The Master's mouth curls at the corners. "I poured my spirit into your body. I infused your biodata with my own."

The Doctor gapes. "You did what?" He wraps his arms around himself. That's... it's so far beyond a violation that he can't even find a word for it. "Take it out," he gasps. "Take it out!"

"Does 'for all time and eternity' ring a bell?"

"Oh no. No no no." Panic fills the Doctor and he paws at himself, as if he could brush off the Master's biodata like brushing off sand, like sloughing skin. If there was any concept of blasphemy on Gallifrey this would be it.

"Calm down," the Master says, faintly annoyed.

"Calm down? Calm down?!"

Biodata is more than genetic code. It's more than strands of DNA. It's the very essence of a Time Lord's life, even containing his personal timeline. Everything the Doctor ever has been or will be is in his biodata, and the Master forced in his own. What will that do to him? Is he already changing? Will his timeline mutate, will his body alter? Will he lose his mind, his memories, will they be subsumed into the Master's life? His flesh crawls in horror.

"It's not active," the Master says.

"What?"

"It's not active. It's dormant. If I changed your active biodata you wouldn't even exist as yourself anymore to worry about not being yourself. And strange as it may seem, I don't actually want to erase you."

Panic fades, replaced with confusion. "But... then why? Why do this?"

"The Matrix is gone, Doctor. You destroyed it. I thought it appropriate that you act as its replacement."

"You've turned me into your backup?" the Doctor says, disbelieving.

"That's a crude way to put it," the Master chides. "I prefer 'whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven.'"

The Doctor scowls at him. "You can drop the act."

The Master stands and walks over, sits beside him on the bed, facing him. "Do you think this is an act?" he asks, head tilted in thought.

The Doctor looks at him, looks away, then back again to meet his eyes. "I find it hard to believe that you genuinely care about anyone but yourself, anything but your own survival and power and pain. My pain."

"You wound me," the Master says, hand on his chest.

"I wound you?"

The Master's eyes flash with anger, then cool. "I don't think we need to go through exactly how you've wounded me," he says, reasonably. "I have no interest in torturing you for a week to remind you. At least not right now." He takes hold of the Doctor's chin and tilts his face up. "You always were an ungrateful child. An ungrateful adult. Always running away, always selfish. I've put a stop to that. You are never going to leave me again. And now even if you try, you'll always have a part of me inside you, for all time and eternity. So you see, Doctor, this is very, very far from an act."

It would be madness if it wasn't so coldly sane. The Master has put his mark on him, inside him, the way he's put his mark on the universe. And without the Matrix the Doctor doesn't have a backup of his own to overwrite the corrupted version inside him. Except for the hand. If he can get hold of his spare hand he could use the biodata extract from that. But that's another thing he'll only be able to do once he's grown, once he wins.

"'If the hearts of the child and the father are not turned to each other...'" the Master says, quoting airily.

"I don't want to be a child anymore," the Doctor says, emotion tight in his throat. "I'm sick of this twisted game. I want you to change me back."

"Really?" the Master asks, interested. "Well, you know what you have to do to convince me."

"You want me to beg."

"I want you to mean it," the Master corrects. "I want you to go down on your knees and swear yourself to me. I want you to swallow that stubborn pride and accept the truth."

"And what's that?"

The Master gives a thin smile and tilts the Doctor's head back even further, his fingers digging into the bone of his jaw. "That you're mine. That you'll always be mine, no matter how old I allow you to be."

The Doctor's breath catches as he struggles with that. To at least pretend so he can tell the Master what he wants to hear. "I'm yours," he says, but it's unconvincing even to his own ears. "I'll be good. Just change me back, please."

"I don't think so," the Master says, unimpressed.

Desperation wells in the Doctor's chest. "Please," he begs. "Change me back, please. I'm yours, I swear. I swear, please."

The Master releases his chin and takes him into his arms. "Shh. You're not ready. It will come when you're ready."

The Doctor struggles against him, thumps at his chest. All at once everything catches up to him. Leaving Tokyo, seeing the Dalek, killing it, the Master promising they'll be together, the church, the water, the pain. His need for the Master and his need for escape, his fear of being alone and his fear of losing himself to the Master's games. It's all too much, far too much for his child's mind and emotions to cope with. He starts to cry and kick, lashing wildly at the Master, a dozen emotions pouring out of him at once. The Master tries to pin him down and that makes him struggle harder, makes him claw at him and scream wordlessly and sob until he's blinded by his own tears.

When one of his wild blows catches the Master hard on the chin, the Master rears back and slaps him. The blow is hard enough to leave the Doctor stunned, lying trembling on the bed.

"Enough," the Master says. He pulls down the blankets and roughly locks the Doctor's ankle cuffs together. Then he takes the Doctor's wrists and pulls them behind his back and locks those as well.

The Doctor starts to struggle but the Master wraps a hand firmly around his neck and pushes, pinning him down and stilling him. His breath hitches in his chest and tears streak across his already wet face.

"You've had a very long day," the Master says, tersely. "But that understanding is as far as my patience extends. If you apologize for your wretched behaviour right now then I won't need to take your punishment any further than it's already going to go."

"I'm sorry," the Doctor says, thickly, unhesitating. "I'm sorry, Master. I'm sorry."

The Master's cold expression softens. "Better. I'm going to let go now. I expect you to be still."

Slowly the pressure on the Doctor's neck eases. The Master's hand releases, pulls away. The Doctor swallows a whimper as his emotions well up sharply, making more hot tears.

"You haven't entirely lost my trust," the Master says, straightening his suit. "But it may be some time before I consider letting you beg again. For now your punishment is to sleep alone."

No, the Doctor thinks, a sharp ache in his chest at the rejection. His chin wobbles, threatening another bawl. He wants to take it back, wants another chance to beg, to show the Master that he can trust him, that he won't be bad. But if he even tries to talk he's going to cry. He misses Lucy, he wants Lucy back.

The Master opens the door and waves in two Toclafane. The Doctor flinches at the sight of them. Now he knows what's in those metal shells, the monsters inside. The final survivors of the human race.

"Watch him," he tells them. "If he tries to leave the bed, stop him. But don't hurt him. If he bleeds I will be very angry."

"Yes, Mister Master," one of them chirps.

The Master comes back and pulls the blankets back over him, tucks him in. He wipes the tears from the Doctor's cheeks.

"You'll feel better in the morning," he says, gently.

Don't go. Don't leave me with them. Don't leave me, the Doctor silently pleads.

But the Master doesn't hear his thoughts. He turns and walks away. Shuts the light and then shuts the door, locking him inside with those things. Alone in the darkness.

It takes the Doctor hours to stop staring at the flickering lights of the Toclafane. He's certain it will be impossible to sleep with them there, without the Master or Lucy to hold him, with his emotions so raw and overwhelming. But in the end exhaustion drags him down.

The Doctor doesn't feel better in the morning. It feels like his sleep did him no good at all, maybe even made things worse. He feels washed out, empty, and still aches in his bones from the biodata infusion.

Infusion. A quaint euphemism for genetic rape. For risking overwriting his timeline and wiping him neatly from existence, the same way he wiped out the entire timeline of Gallifrey. Part of him thinks he deserves that fate. It was supposed to be his as well as Gallifrey's, after all. He's often wondered why he survived but he doesn't have an answer. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe the Master is right and he survived only so that the sole remaining Time Lord in existence, the only one qualified to judge his crimes, could punish him for them.

The Master's never going to age him back up. He can see that now. He struggles not to feel hopeless. It's all one big game, just stringing him along endlessly. The Master is going to keep him stuck as a child until it's too late for him to use Archangel. There's no point to letting himself be manipulated over and over again. He just wants to make it all stop. But he can't even do that.

When the Master comes to unlock his cuffs, he's silent, sullen. He washes and dresses himself mechanically. Gone are the luxurious grey silks that reminded him of the palace, the gardens, Lucy. They've been replaced by layers of simple white cotton, not dissimilar to his baptismal robes. They're not uncomfortable but he hates them anyway. He hates everything.

He meets the Master for breakfast in a small, luxurious room high in the temple towers. Even though they're mere stories from the ground, it feels as though they might as well be back on the Valiant, so high and distant from the destruction below.

"Sit down," the Master orders. "It's time for breakfast."

"I don't want any," the Doctor says, staring out the window at the sprawling city below. "I'm not hungry."

"I don't recall giving you a choice," the Master says, his tone warning. "You almost killed yourself by refusing to eat. Someone needs to make sure you're taken care of properly, and it's obviously not you."

The Doctor turns to him. "What you did to me yesterday, do you call that taking care of me? Because I certainly don't."

The Master's eyes narrow. "Are you saying you don't want my biodata to be preserved?"

"Of course I do, but--"

"But nothing. Either you want me or you don't, Doctor. It's not a multiple choice question."

"That's not fair!"

"Nothing's fair," the Master retorts. "Fair is as real as Utopia, and we both know how that worked out. If you want fair then how about this: you destroyed the Matrix, so it's only fair that you take its place."

"That's obscene," the Doctor says, fists clenched at his sides.

"Then you don't want it?" the Master asks.

"Of course I don't want it!" the Doctor says, angrily.

"And you're still determined to stop me? Reverse the paradox?"

"Of course I am!"

"I see." The Master steeples his fingers and looks thoughtful. "You're willing to save humans but not me."

"That's not what I said."

"That's what you meant," the Master replies, coldly. "I don't know why I'm surprised. That's what you always do, isn't it? Run away. Turn your back. Hurt your own kind for the sake of lesser beings. Destroy."

That stings. "Stop it," the Doctor demands. "Stop twisting things."

"I don't need to twist them. It's the truth." The Master picks up his napkin, refolds it and sets it on the table. "Very well. If you don't want my company anymore, if all you care about is your precious humans, then that's what you're going to get."

"What do you mean?" the Doctor asks, suddenly worried.

"I had great hope for us, doctor. I thought we were making progress, but clearly not. I'm leaving this evening and you're staying here."

"What?" the Doctor says, stunned. "For how long?"

The Master just looks at him.

A cold feeling comes over the Doctor. "You're... you can't just leave me here."

"Humanity has a little over seven months to live," the Master says. "And now that you've chosen them, so do you."

The Doctor stares, stunned. "What about your biodata?"

"I'll find another way to preserve it. Make another backup, as you put it. If it's so repulsive to you I wouldn't want to burden you with the task of surviving on my behalf."

"But... you said... and Lucy..."

The Master presses his lips together in a thin line. "No. You've made your feelings quite clear. I'll arrange for you to be kept in the temple. Between the Toclafane and the church elders, humanity will keep you from trying any last-minute heroics on their behalf."

It's like the ground has fallen away from under him. The Master isn't supposed to reject him. The Master never rejects him, always pursues, always demands, even if it's only to threaten to strangle him with his bare hands. He escapes, yes, but he doesn't leave just like that. And to leave him trapped here, a prisoner, doomed...

The Master stands. "It's not very nice, is it?" he says, coolly. "Being the one left behind. Being a prisoner of some mindless human institution. Do you remember when you did that to me, after I offered you the chance to come with me, to rule the universe by my side?" The Master walks towards the door. "If you have anything you want to say to me before I leave, I'll be finishing some business until seven. After that..." He trails off meaningfully. "Well, let's just say I won't have any need to visit Utah again."

"Is this revenge, then?" the Doctor asks, faintly.

"No. It's your last request."

And then he's gone, and the door is locked.

At first the Doctor is too stunned to react. He stares at the door like it's going to open at any minute, like the Master is going to come back and say that it's all been a cruel joke, just another way to torment him, but the joke's over and now they're going to go back to Tokyo and see Lucy again. But the door stays firmly closed and there are no footsteps in the hall. There aren't even any cameras. The Master has simply left him in this room, and intends to leave him trapped in this building until he kills him. And not even a personal death, one of revenge and thwarted passion and hate, but the distant, impersonal death of being abandoned to a used-up planet and then blown to bits with the remnants of the human race.

And then he realizes that no, this isn't impersonal. It's what he did. Destroyed a planet, wiped out a race. He even thought he'd destroyed the Master until Malcassairo. He had destroyed the Master's biodata in the Matrix, along with everyone else's. Along with his own.

It's not revenge, no. It's something far crueller than that. It's justice.



He's let out at lunchtime and taken to the Master, who's busy at his laptop. The Doctor is seated across the table from him. There's a half-eaten sandwich on the Master's plate. The Doctor was never given breakfast and his stomach grumbles for something to eat. But even though he expects to be brought something, he isn't.

"Are you going to start starving me again?" the Doctor asks, unable to hide the bitterness he's feeling.

"The humans will give you something after I've gone. You don't want my food." The Master says it simply, as if stating an obvious fact.

"What if I ask nicely?" the Doctor says, half-curious and half-sarcastic.

"It's too late for that," the Master replies.

"Right," the Doctor says, and sighs. He looks around the room, notices his box of querency sticks at the end of the table. He reaches over and takes the box, opens it. He was so certain they foresaw something more than this. But transformation could be death as well as life. A sea change into something rich and strange is still death, no matter how poetically described.

When the Doctor closes the box and looks up, the Master is looking expectantly at him.

"Give them to me."

"They're mine," the Doctor says, tightly. "You have no right to take them. You never did."

"I have every right," the Master says. "I already told you you're not allowed to use them without me, and I'm not going to be here. You're never going to see me again. That means these come with me."

"What if I refuse?"

"I don't see the point in that," the Master says. "You keep thinking you have options, Doctor. That's very foolish."

The Doctor's anger flares, overcoming him. In quick motions, before the Master can stop him, he pulls out the sticks and starts snapping them two at a time. The thin wood snaps and snaps, sending splinters flying, until the last querency set that ever was and ever will be is a halo of splinters all around him. He stares defiant at the Master, breathing hard, but the Master hasn't so much as twitched through it all.

"Go ahead," he dares, feeling like there's nothing left anyway, that nothing matters. "Punish me. String me up and beat me." He grabs the knife from next to the Master's plate and holds it up. "Just kill me and get it over with. Isn't that what you want? Isn't it?"

The Master plucks the knife from his hand and looks at it, then at the Doctor, who's trembling with anger, with despair, with loss. He puts the knife back next to his plate. "No," he says, calmly, and turns back to his laptop.

The Doctor stares at him. Scoops up a handful of broken wood and raises his hand to throw it at the Master's face. But the Master's eyes flick towards him with a glare so cold it hurts, and the splinters fall to the floor. The urge to cry rises up but he swallows it down.

He wants to believe that there's a way out of this, that he can still escape. But the Toclafane are tireless and the humans fanatically loyal to the Master, and it all feels so hopeless. Even escaping would do him no good. As a child he can't access Archangel. Trapped on Earth, there's no way to reach the TARDIS. And the Master has simply dismissed him like he's nothing, nothing at all. The last makes his chest hurt so much it's as if splinters of the querency sticks must have speared into his hearts.

He looks down at the floor, at the querency set broken beyond repair, and his eyes well with tears. His chin trembles as he climbs down off his chair and picks up one piece after another, gathering them up in his hands and putting them back into their box with heartbreaking care. Tears stream silently down his cheeks, and when he sees the carving of the sovereign stick a sob breaks in his throat.

One of the last pieces of his home, gone forever. All of it gone, lost because he broke it, he broke it all, he can't keep anything and it's all gone. Everything's gone. He sits down on the floor and tears burst out of him with a mourning wail.

"I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it," he sobs, his voice high and quivering. He holds the box of broken sticks to his chest and cries and no one comes to him, no one comforts him. No one is ever going to come ever again.

His sobs trickle off into sniffling hiccups. He wipes at his nose with the back of his sleeve.

"If you're quite finished," the Master says, nothing more than vaguely annoyed at the Doctor's hysterics. He points at the box.

"I've ruined them," the Doctor says, not understanding why the Master still wants them.

"That doesn't make them yours."

The Doctor holds the box tight, wishing he could hold on to one thing, just one thing, wishing that the universe didn't tear everything away, that he didn't lose everything he loved, again and again and again and wishing that it wasn't all his fault.

The Master closes his laptop. "Now, Doctor," he says, firmly. "I don't have all day."

The Doctor tries to make himself hand over the box, he really tries, but it's beyond him. He can't do it. Eventually the Master sighs and stands, walks over and simply plucks it from his arms. It feels like he's ripped one of the Doctor's hearts out along with it.

The Master places the box on the closed laptop and tucks them both under his arm.

"You're a mess. Go clean yourself up," he says, and then leaves the Doctor alone for the second time that day.




The Master's grip over the people of Salt Lake City is far different than his oppression of Tokyo. Here the people don't merely bow to him out of fear but actually worship him. He's the emissary of their god on Earth, the one who's found them in their city in the vast emptiness of the land.

The elders of the temple are the most fanatically devoted of them all, and they're to be the Doctor's keepers until the end of the world. They have no doubt who he is: John Saxon, the Master's adopted son, baptized and sealed in holy union. He's so important to them that they'll gladly make a prison of their most holy temple just to keep him. The Doctor tries not to take it personally. Between hypnotic suggestion and religious brainwashing, they don't have the self-awareness to realize that they're prisoners as much as he is.

"It's a lie," he tells them, in a last-ditch attempt at reaching them. "I'm not his son, I'm his prisoner. I was trying to stop him, to free the Earth. That's why he brought me here. Please, you have to listen."

"The Master is right. The poor child is touched," one of the elders says, shaking his head.

"We could try an exorcism," another offers.

"No. The Master commanded that he be left in peace. Food and water, nothing else."

"Until the end?"

"Yes."

The third man nods wisely. "'The Lord shall smite thee with madness, and blindness, and astonishment of heart,'" he quotes.

"Oh, never mind," the Doctor scowls, and walks away from the open door they're crowded around. He looks around at his latest prison cell and thinks it's just as well that he's too numb to feel how hopeless all this is, too empty for this latest defeat to register. It's just a room to him, four walls to stare at for the rest of his life.

There are small splinters in his palms. He doesn't pull them out. The last wood of Gallifrey will burn with him. He'd be hard pressed to think of a more fitting end.

It's funny, he thinks, that now the only thing he has left is the Master's biodata, still fused to his own. Even the Master couldn't undo that, couldn't take that away. But it's nothing he can hold. It's nothing that can save him, unless by saving him he means to write himself out of existence. But he isn't even worth the bother.

The men close the door and lock it and leave him. The Doctor lies down on his bed and stares at nothing. He curls his hands into tight fists as if to drive the splinters deeper, as if he could force them so deep his body wouldn't reject them.

It feels like part of him is dying, and he slowly realizes that it's his hope. And when that's dead, he truly will have nothing. A fate worse than death, and then maybe he'll be glad to burn. At least it will be over.

Hours later, they come for him. There doesn't seem any reason to move, but there's no reason to fight either, so he lets them take him from that place. Down the hall, down and down and then out, but the chill October night doesn't seem to reach anything in him. They put him in a car and he sits between his prison guards and looks down at his empty hands.

They drive him to the airstrip he and the Master arrived at. Was it really only a day ago? It feels like forever.

The Master's jet is waiting, preparing for takeoff, but the stairs are still attached. The Master himself is standing at the edge of the strip, watching as the car arrives. His long coat flaps in the breeze, showing glimpses of the red silk lining beneath all that black.

The Doctor is brought out to stand before him.

"This is goodbye," the Master says, looking down at him. "For the last time. We had a good run, I suppose."

The Doctor nods distantly, because it feels like he's supposed to nod.

"Shame, really," the Master says, squinting out into the darkness. "It didn't have to end this way. But you made your choice. Goodbye, Doctor."

"Bye," the Doctor says, faintly.

He stares numbly as the Master turns and walks away, across the strip and onto the stairs. It can't end this way, but there's nothing he can do. Nothing. The Master's parting words echo in his head, over and over. He made his choice. He made...

His choice.

A desperate sound wrenches out of him and he suddenly bolts for the plane.

"Master!" he cries, as the plane door starts to close. "Master, please, wait! Wait, please!" He stops at the foot of the stairs, breathing hard, the sudden hope seizing his hearts.

The door almost shuts, then stops with just an inch open. It holds there for an agonizingly long time, then opens fully. The Master steps out, expression cold and arrogant. He looks down at the Doctor like he's an ant that the Master has paused from stepping on, just out of curiosity. He says nothing, but his very bearing speaks volumes.

There's only one thing the Doctor can do. Only one choice. He bows his head.

"Please don't leave me," he begs, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry, Master. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I was wrong. Forgive me, please." He looks up, almost afraid of what he might see, but the Master is still there, he hasn't turned away, hasn't left. The Doctor tries to remember what the Master wanted to hear, what he wanted the Doctor to mean. The words that will save him.

"I'm yours," he swears, the words more heartfelt than any in recent memory. "I was always yours. I'll always be yours. Please, Master."

But the Master is silent, stone-faced. There's a whine as the plane's engines warm up. The Doctor feels the moment slipping away. Even if he had a TARDIS he'd never get these seconds back.

"I'm sorry I broke your sticks," he says, voice thick with unshed tears. "I'm sorry I wasn't grateful. You don't have to change me back. I'll be your son. I'll be whatever you want. I'll do anything you say. I won't--" his voice catches. "I won't undo the paradox."

But even that's not enough. He drops to his knees, to his hands, and bows his head.

"I'll be good," he swears, tears running down his cheeks. "I'll be good. Please don't leave me. Please." And then he can't beg anymore because he can't speak, because his throat is tight with fear, with the certainty that it's all too little too late.

He crouches down on the ground, huddling against the cold, against his tears. His forehead presses against the tarmac. Fresh despair washes over him.

Minutes pass. And then the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, down and then scraping against the rough tarmac. Stopping.

He looks up at the Master with reddened eyes, with wet cheeks. The Master looks down at him and then reaches out with one gloved hand and cups it against the Doctor's cheek. The Doctor leans against it and keens with relief.

"I'll be good, I'll be good," he babbles. "I promise, I'm yours, I'm your property, please, Master, Master."

The Master hushes him. "I believe you," he says, gently. "Now sit up."

The Doctor pushes himself up, sits back on the cold ground. Watches blankly as the Master takes each cuff in turn and loosens it until all four hang from his wrists and ankles. As the Master reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the laser screwdriver and taps it against his forehead as if blessing him.

The Doctor barely dares to breathe.

The Master straightens up, points the screwdriver at him, and flicks it on.

Instantly the Doctor falls back, spine arched as he screams in agony. Screams and screams and it hurts so much and he can feel his bones stretching, his skin tightening and then loosening, his hearts breaking rhythm as his body is pulled and twisted and grown. And then through the pain a tightness, his whole body being squeezed and squeezed until something rips and he thinks it's him but then there's cold, cold and pain and he's still screaming, he can't stop screaming.

And then it stops. And he's naked and shivering and the cuffs are tight again and he's so weak he can barely move.

The Master looks down at him, gives a single nod, and turns and walks back up the stairs. When he reached the top he turns, looks down at the Doctor, and says, simply:

"Come."

He disappears inside. The Doctor pushes himself up on trembling limbs, tries to stand but falls, badly scraping his elbows and one knee. Wincing, he crawls onto the stairs and drags himself up, shaking with cold and exhaustion and effort and most of all relief, such relief.

He staggers into the plane on all fours and sees the Master already seated, buckling himself in, back straight and chin high and imperious. He looks down at the Doctor and pats his thigh twice, and the Doctor crawls to him, every step an effort but it doesn't matter, he'd crawl over broken glass if that's what it took.

When he reaches the Master's feet he stops. The Master takes his coat and drapes it across the Doctor's shoulders, He presses at his back to make him sit, then guides his head to rest on his thigh. The Doctor rests his cheek there and shudders, but the Master's hand is in his hair, petting gently, and that's when he knows that everything will be all right.

"Good boy," the Master says, approvingly. "Now close your eyes. I'll wake you when we get there."

The Doctor can only obey.




When they arrive on the Valiant, the Master helps the Doctor put his arms into the sleeves of the coat and then buttons the front. The Doctor can stand now, but his body feels odd and awkward, too high and long. Everything feels different and strange. Everything except the Master.

The Master's hand is on the small of his back, guiding him as they walk through the ship. The Doctor is vaguely aware of people staring, recognizes Martha's father, her sister, but they don't matter. Nothing matters but the Master.

They reach the suite at last, and the Doctor's bare feet step from cold metal grating to the thick pile of the sitting room carpet, and then there's a waft of perfume and Lucy is there, oh Lucy, and she's holding him so tightly.

"My darling boy, oh my darling," she gasps. "Look at you."

The Doctor sobs and clings to her. "Lucy," he sobs.

"I'm here," she says, gently. "I've got you. Shh."

She takes him into the bedroom and unbuttons the Master's coat. The Master takes it off, leaving him naked before them. He doesn't know what to do. He's so lost. He can't think. But they know what to do; they always do. Lucy coaxes him onto the bed and lies down alongside him, just as she always did; she holds him, just the way he likes, and he clings to her.

A few minutes later, the Master turns off the light and slides in behind him, drawing up the blankets over the three of them. "Good boy," he says, stroking the Doctor's cheek, his shoulder. "Good Doctor. Tell me what you are."

"Yours," the Doctor whispers.

"And again."

"I'm yours. Your property." His hearts are still racing, still pounding.

"Very good. Very, very good." The Master's arm slides around his waist, and the Master's body presses close against his, silk against his bare skin. "Everything's going to be so much better now," he murmurs.

And the Doctor believes every word.

The Doctor dreams that he's a child dreaming he's a man, and when he wakes up he's no longer certain what he's become. But he knows that he's safe, that he's held. The Master is still holding on to him, one arm loose around his waist. He didn't let go, and neither did Lucy. Somehow that's all that matters.

He opens his eyes and Lucy is awake, watching him. She smiles in that way she has, so beautiful and sad. "My darling boy. I've missed you so much," she says, quietly. "While I was gone, I thought about you every day."

"Why did you have to leave?" the Doctor asks, his voice at once too young and too old.

"Because Harry needed my help. There's so much to do. But I'm here now." She kisses his forehead. "I want you to tell me what happened while I was away. You must have been a very good boy."

"I wasn't," the Doctor whispers, needing to confess. "I broke the querency set. The last one..." An irrevocable loss, done in a fit of pointless spite. He looks at his hand and sees the splinters embedded there in his palm, dark lines under the skin.

Lucy takes his hand, looks at it with concern. "You've hurt yourself." She pushes aside the blankets and sits up. "Stay right here."

She walks out of the room, and then a minute later returns with a needle and a pair of tweezers. She sits down beside him on the bed and rests his hand on her lap. She turns on the bedside lamp.

"Now hold still," she says.

The Doctor watches solemnly as she works, coaxing out each tiny splinter.

"When I was a little girl," she says, "I sometimes broke things. Important things. But when it was my own toys I broke, losing them was punishment enough."

"It wasn't mine. It's the Master's," the Doctor says, because there's no other way he can see it anymore, and he's very aware of the Master sleeping beside him. "Nothing's mine." He can't hold on to anything. The old sorrow rises up within him.

"That's because you're ours," Lucy says, patiently. "Harry and I will give you everything you need. You just need to let us take care of you."

When she finishes with the first hand, they shift so she can take the other. It's the worst of the two.

The Doctor has lost so much. He's fought and fought but all that's done is make things worse. Everything he tries to hold on to the universe tears away, and he simply can't bear it any more. But the moment he stopped fighting and surrendered he felt such relief. The weight of it all lifted from his shoulders. And he hasn't lost everything because he still has the Master. He doesn't care about the cost.

The Doctor can feel Archangel properly again, can feel those psychic muscles that he lacked in his child's body. But even though he's struggled for so long for this moment, he doesn't start weaving threads again. He's not going to. He won't break the paradox. He won't choose humanity over the Master.

He's been determined to hold on to the Master since this all started, but that's not going to be enough. He tried that once before and he still remembers the Master's hand slipping from his own, falling away. No, they need to hold on to each other if they're going to survive. And if the Master's grip extends beyond his hands, if he needs isomorphic cuffs and games and a laser screwdriver and a bloody paradox to pin the Doctor down, maybe that's all right. Maybe it's for the best. Maybe he needs someone to pin him down and the Master is the only one capable of it, the only one strong enough, the only one the Doctor has ever submitted to, deep down. And the Master knows it, has always known it.

The only thing left for him to do is accept it. "I'm yours," he says, lightness in his chest at the words.

"Yes you are," the Master says, rising up beside him. "And I'm very glad to hear it."

"Master," the Doctor breathes. He aches for the Master even though he's right here, their bodies so close together. He turns and clings to him, the side of his face flush against his chest. The Master strokes a hand down the Doctor's back, tender and possessive.

"What I said last night... I meant it. All of it." He says it without hesitation, not wanting there to be any question of doubt, uncertainty. He made his choice, the right choice. It has to be the right one.

"I know. If you hadn't, you wouldn't be here," the Master replies.

The Doctor makes a keening, desperate sound, but it's not from pain but relief. Bone-deep, utter relief. The Master's hand grips the back of his head, tilts his face upwards like a supplicant.

"It's all right now," he says, gently. "I forgive you. You've punished yourself enough."

The Doctor has been needing those words for so long, it's almost too much to be given them. "Master," he breathes, and closes his eyes in reverence. When he opens them, they're full of gratitude.

The Master simply smiles.

"I'll help," the Doctor says. "If you want me to, I'll help. Like Lucy."

"Oh, Doctor. You're going to give me your help. You're going to give me everything."

"Yes. Anything," the Doctor promises.

"Yes," the Master says, imperious. "Tell me what you're going to give me."

"Everything. Everything, I swear."

The Master's smile widens with exquisite satisfaction. "And in return for everything, I'm giving you a second chance. All those sins, all that pain. Gone. Washed away. It never happened. It's time for a fresh start."

The Doctor thinks of the baptism, paralysis and drowning and the burning agony of the Master's biodata fusing to his own. And instead of a violation he sees it for what it was: rebirth, the receiving of grace. It's hardly surprising that it was shocking, painful. Such things always are.

"Oh, Harry," Lucy breathes. "It's going to be so good for him, like it was for me. He's going to feel so much better."

Lucy leans over the Doctor and kisses the Master with open passion. The Master greedily takes her mouth, and the Doctor is pressed intimately between their bodies.

When the kiss ends, Lucy slides down beside him, kisses his neck, his cheek. "My darling boy," she says, takes his head in her hands and turns him to her and presses her lips to his own.

The Doctor starts in shock. Lucy has become all but a mother to him, and he can't believe she's doing this. It's wrong and he knows he should pull away, should refuse this, but he can't. He can't deny them anything, because it's already theirs and because he'll do anything, anything...

She kisses him again and he doesn't resist. Her lips are firm against his own, her tongue delicate, probing for entrance. His grip on the Master loosens as she turns him onto his back and slides smoothly onto him, her breasts against his chest and her thighs straddling his waist. She's silk and soft skin against his nakedness as the covers are pushed aside, as he's exposed to them.

He takes a sharp breath and Lucy's tongue delves into his mouth, just as the Master's delved into hers. She kisses him and kisses him until one hand rests lightly on her hip and he finds himself unable to stop himself from kissing back. He breathes in through his nose and smells her scent, flowery perfume and soap that he's come to associate with unconditional comfort mingling with the musk of her arousal. It's a disorienting combination and he's already dizzy with emotion.

Lucy breaks the kiss, and he sees that her eyes are hazy with arousal but still adoring, still infinitely tender. She rests the back of her hand against his cheek, strokes lightly there and then kisses his forehead, his cheek, his mouth again. It makes his hearts ache for her.

"Lucy," he sighs.

Lucy gives a delicate laugh against his lips. She smiles down at him, bright with joy and madness. She sits up and takes his hand from her hip and brings it to one breast. When the Doctor's hand is still, she presses it close, moves against it so the swell of her breast fills his hand, silk-covered and so soft. Her nipple is a hard point against his palm, and he can't... he has to...

He squeezes, and Lucy gives an approving murmur. Her hands cover his and he squeezes again, cupping her breast, massaging it through her nightgown. He's fascinated by it, the weight, the curve of it, the hint of texture beneath the thin silk. Of its own accord, his other hand leaves the Master and rests against her side, fingers wrapping around her slim waist, idly stroking. The black of his cuffs stands out starkly against their pale skin, the creamy white silk.

"That's it," she murmurs. "Such a good boy. Touch your Lucy."

The Doctor breathes a shuddering sigh and his hands tighten on her body. He can't resist her, has to do as he's told, but beneath that he doesn't want to resist her. He wants to give her what she wants, to make his Lucy happy. And she feels so good under his hands, so warm and alive.

"I missed you so much," he says, voice thick with emotion.

"Of course you did," she says. "My darling. I love you so much. Do you love your Lucy?"

"Yes," the Doctor chokes, the word wrenched out of him so suddenly he doesn't have time to think, to resist when that's been so hard for him to say to anyone. He's always been so afraid to say it, to let it make him vulnerable. But it's too late to worry about protecting himself, far too late. He's fallen so far down but they caught him and they're not going to let go, not going to let him let go. It's not up to him and the relief is so staggering it makes his eyes prick with unshed tears.

But he's not going to cry anymore. He's not a child anymore. Not when the press of Lucy's body against his own evokes far more than comfort. Not when there's an ache spreading through his body, making his hearts race and his skin flush.

The Master's hand comes to rest on his thigh, then slides in and up and the Doctor closes his eyes as he lets go of that last resistance, as he lets his cock begin to swell with arousal. His whole world narrows to their touch, to their scent, the sound of breath and movement, bodies against each other. "Master," he breathes. "Lucy." He's theirs, he's theirs, and oh, he aches for them so badly.

His hands move from Lucy's breast and hip to press against her back, to pull her down onto him, and in one swift move he takes that tantalizing breast into his mouth. He wraps his lips around that firm nipple, wetting the silk, and Lucy moans and clasps his head to her breast, holding him there.

"Oh yes, yes," she moans, over and over, giving coos of delight. Her thighs press into his sides, gripping him, and he can feel her skin where the silk has ridden up. When she shifts above him, he can smell how wet she is, that thick, human smell of sex. It's sharp and rich and he wants it, his mouth wets for it, soaking the silk in his mouth so he can feel the nub of her nipple against his tongue. He wants to taste her, to revel in her body.

The Master's hand is a steady pressure on his thigh, and it's as if that touch releases him, gives him permission to want. Like that first time, all those centuries ago. Their first time, when they ignored the rules about their bodies just as they ignored every other rule and even with the first awkward fumblings they knew how completely they would fit together. They knew that in the end no one else would be enough, and that only made them spin more madly together, tighter and tighter until their bond snapped and momentum pulled them apart. But now they've collided again and they're not letting go, not this time.

Lucy pulls him from her breast, only to guide him to the other. He latches on without hesitation, wetting the silk until he can taste her through it. She grinds herself against him and then the Master shifts beside them, tugging at Lucy's nightgown, sliding his hand between them and between her legs until Lucy gives a high moan of pleasure. The Doctor feels the Master's hand between their bodies, feels the movement of his fingers and the crisp hairs of her cunt and the wetness that slicks down from her to be smeared on his stomach, anointing him.

At last Lucy releases his head, rises up again, dark wetness over each breast and her pale skin flushed with pink. The Master's hand moves steadily beneath her gown and she slowly ruts against it, lips parted and breathing ragged.

The Master turns to him. Sees the desire on his face and pulls out his hand, brings his fingers to the Doctor's lips and feeds them to him. Lucy's juices are acidic and tangy, and he automatically analyzes the organic compounds, the trace alcohols, pyridine, acid phosphate, hormones. He licks the Master's fingers greedily, all those chemicals meaning nothing more to him than human and woman and Lucy. And when he's licked them clean, there's the Master, and the Doctor's cheeks hollow around his fingers.

"It's been far too long," the Master murmurs. "You left me, Doctor. You refused me, time and time again, and I had to punish you for that. But that's all over now. You're back where you're supposed to be." He pulls his fingers free and leaves a wet trail down the Doctor's cheek, brushes back his hair. "Now help Lucy with her clothes."

The Master's hands leave him and Lucy's grip his own, guiding them to the hem of her gown. The silk gathers in his hands as he pushes it up her thighs, Lucy setting the pace ever so slow. He swallows in rapt attention as he sees the tops of her thighs and then the first glimpse of dark blonde hair. A small, perfect patch of it, and then a smooth, flat stomach, the curl of her navel, and then her breasts, small but firm. When the Doctor can't reach any further the Master is suddenly standing beside them, pulling the gown up above her head and off.

Lucy is beautiful naked, body slim and delicate but he knows that's a deception, has felt her strength. Her nipples are small and as pale as her lips, even flush and thick as they are now. He runs his fingers through her long hair, thinking of all the times he toyed aimlessly with it when she held him, when he was her child. The shift in perspective disorients him, and now he holds her to steady himself. He half-sits, clinging to her, his arms wrapped around her back. She holds him in return, rocks him gently, his head pressed to her chest.

"There's only us," she says softly, as her hand strokes the back of his neck. "No one else matters. You were always ours."

The Doctor swallows a whimper as he buries his face against her, holds her tighter. He feels dizzy, like the whole universe is spinning out of control and the only thing that's real is Lucy, the Master. Everything else is far away, out of reach.

"It's all right," she says, comforting him. "I'll take care of you, my darling. We both will."

"I take care of what's mine," the Master says, suddenly back again, returning to their side on the bed. "Lucy."

Lucy holds out one wrist and the Master takes it, buckles a black cuff around it. The Doctor recognizes them from that drawer he snooped through back when they'd first let him into the suite. The match for his own that made him wonder. But as the Master puts on the rest of Lucy's cuffs, the Doctor thinks that he doesn't have to wonder anymore.

"You see?" she says, showing him her cuffed wrist. "We're the same. We're his together." She takes his hand and their cuffs press against each other, identical. The Doctor can't stop staring.

Lucy shifts back and leans down, kissing his cheek, his neck, their hands still clasped. When the Doctor doesn't move, is frozen staring, she lets go of his hand and wraps herself around him and kisses him. And this time there's no resistance, no urge to pull away. This time he kisses her back, surges up against her and loses himself in kissing her, lets all his whirling senses focus on her lips, her tongue, her naked body against his. It's a madness that's overwhelmed him, this need, this lust, the base urges of maturity drowning out everything else, uncontrolled.

And then he whimpers as she's gone, air against his lips. He opens his eyes and she's just an inch away, lips flushed, heat and expectation in her eyes. He doesn't even think, just acts, closes that space between them and takes her mouth, the kisses sloppy and fervent. And then again air, and again he closes that tiny distance. Again. Again. Until they're in the centre of the bed and he's crawling for her, hands and knees and neck arched with longing as he strains up into her mouth.

And then the Master's hand against the back of his neck, not quite gripping but another touch he has to follow, guiding him back until he's sitting, head tilted back, and the Master's mouth is at his neck, tasting and nipping. The Doctor's eyes close in pleasure as he bares his neck for his Master and a wave of submission makes his breath catch. And then Lucy again, this time over him, crawling onto his lap and taking the other side of his neck, and he's drowning in them. Their arms laced around him, holding him from all sides, a trap so exquisite he never wants to escape it.

The Master's hands move on his body, caressing and then scratching shallow lines across his chest. His light nips turn into a marking bite, teeth scraping his shoulder, and then hands firmly gripping each wrist and moving them forward, making his arms wrap around Lucy and then pinning them together. And then the Master's voice a low rumble in his ear.

"Fuck her."

The Doctor shivers and his hips thrust into the air. Lucy's arms wrap around his own and then the Master moves away, sitting back against the pillows, watching, waiting.

"Darling," Lucy breathes, rocking against him. Her thighs straddle him and his cock strains up between them, brushing the soft skin of her inner thigh but nothing else, nothing more.

The Master's command rings in the Doctor's ears. His arms press against Lucy's hips and then down, and his cock drags against her thigh as she moves. When she stops, his cock is nestled against curve of her hip and he ruts once against her, twice. His hands curl into loose fists behind her back, bound and useless when he suddenly wants to feel that wetness inside her for himself, to bury his fingers where the Master's had been. He gives a needy whimper and buries his face against her shoulder, breathing staggered and loud.

"Lucy," he sobs, mournful and needy.

Lucy leans in and rests her head against his own, cheek to cheek. She nuzzles against him, humming low and gentle in his ear, and he recognizes it as a lullaby. He takes a shuddering breath and squeezes her tight, and then she rocks her hips against him, rubbing herself on his erection. He begins to move with her, their hips rocking together in a slow, easy rut. The tightness in his chest begins to ease.

She smells so good, musk and sweat and perfume. He tastes her body in delicate licks, lapping at a drop of sweat, at the curve of her neck. The shell of her ear presses against his cheek as he buries his nose in her hair and breathes her in. The shaft of his cock is slick from the slide back and forth against her cunt, that trimmed hair and those slippery folds. Something dark and raw is coiled tight inside him, waiting for release.

Oh, he wants her.

At last he meets her eyes, looks into them and wordlessly shows her his desire, his lust, his utter defencelessness. And in hers he sees understanding, welcome, and desire equal to his own. He kisses her, then, passionate and deep as he's ever kissed, and it's her who breaks it, who pulls back in the circle of his arms and rises up and eases herself down onto the head of his cock.

He groans and thrusts up, and Lucy sinks down, and oh, oh. Sinking down so slowly, exquisite heat and the silk of her insides, and he's trembling as she takes him in, wraps her legs around him and settles against his thighs. Her madness and her love and the feel of her overwhelming him, winding that coil ever tighter until he can't bear it any more, until he has to thrust up into her again and again until there's no air between them, no space, just two bodies fused into one.

One, and the Master. Their Master, their audience, every move for him, every trembling breath and the rock of their bodies against each other. Arms bound around each other by his hand, mirroring each other's surrender to him.

"Master," the Doctor breathes, and Lucy tightens around his body, his cock. The Doctor bucks against her and she gives a moan of pleasure.

"Yes," she whispers, encouraging.

They kiss and kiss, dragging against each other's mouths, tongue and teeth against lips and then deep until the Doctor feels drugged with kisses. They fuck until their bodies are slick with sweat, until every thrust is exquisite agony because it's never enough, because the Doctor is as deep as he can get inside her but its still not enough.

And then at last that tight coil breaks loose and it's not slow, it's not steady, it's a desperate thrust against her, into her, driving without thought, without comprehension of anything but the motion, the raw act of it. He's distantly aware of the sounds he's making, whimpers and growls like some wounded animal. And Lucy is a match, keening in his ear as her legs vise against his waist, as her heels dig against his back with bruising force.

It's Lucy who comes first, her keening becoming a loud cry, her clenching wild around his cock, the single beat of her pulse spiking fast against his skin. But coming only makes her hold him tighter, to rut forcefully against him until she drags his climax from him, squeezes it from his body and into her as he pulses inside her, again and again. He rests his forehead against her and gasps, each breath edged with a whimper. That tight coil is released and he's tired, so tired and joyful and lost.

When it's all over she holds him inside her, against her. He rests against her shoulder, feeling their bodies cool and calm.

He looks to the Master and sees him watching with silent satisfaction, and when he meets his eyes they're dark with intent. There's a promise in them, glorious and terrible, that this is only the beginning.

The Doctor doesn't look away.

It's Lucy who finally pulls away, lifting her cuffed wrists up over the Doctor's head. She holds his head in her hands and kisses him one last time before rising up and off him, off his cock with a messy slurp. She slips easily from his arms and crawls to the Master. The Master's fingers curl against her back as he pulls her to him. Her wrists are still pinned and she hooks her arms over his head, rubs herself against the black silk of his pyjamas as they kiss.

The Doctor sits back, rapt in attention as he sees what the Master once denied him: the two of them together, beautiful and dark. Wrapped up in each other, limbs entwining, the Master's thigh moving between Lucy's legs. He can see wetness on the silk from Lucy's cunt, from his own come.

Of their own volition, his fingers reach for her, slip to the juncture of her thighs and plunge into wetness and heat. Lucy moans and rubs herself hard against the Master's thigh, greedy for more. The Doctor tears his eyes away and the Master is giving him a familiar, conspiratorial look. The Doctor slowly smiles. They always did make an unstoppable team.

The Doctor moves closer, kisses the small of Lucy's back as he moves his fingers back and forth. Works his way up the curve of her spine until he reaches the Master's fingers, then nuzzles at them, running his lips against the back of them. One hand leaves Lucy's back and brushes along his face, thumbs against his mouth until his lips part and then wrap around the Master's thumb and suck. The Master gives an appreciative murmur against the side of Lucy's neck.

They stay like that for long minutes, completed like a circuit. The Doctor's mouth is a promise around the Master's thumb and Lucy writhes between them, moaning from the Doctor's hand, the Master's thigh. She's as loud and unashamed as the Doctor imagined she'd be, picturing them all those months ago, listening through the door, the wall.

She comes fluttering around his fingers, all shudders and sharp cries of delight. When she stills, the Master rolls her back onto the bed and gestures once for the Doctor. The Doctor obeys, crawling up his body, dragging his cheek against him as he goes, seeking contact, scent. The Master's hand grips the back of his neck and pulls him up into a rough kiss. The Doctor whimpers as his mouth is ravaged and then rises up against the Master's mouth. They kiss with bruising force, almost more a battle for dominance than an act of passion even though they both know who's in control. It's been centuries, regeneration after regeneration, their lives turned inside-out by time and tide but in this nothing has changed. Their first bodies or their latest, as friends or enemies; their first kiss, every kiss, the essence is always the same. Having it again after so long, so much, only makes the Doctor ache for it more. Want it more, want the Master in every way he can have him, want the Master to have him just as completely.

The Master's fingers press into his neck. They moan into each other's mouths, tongues sliding, teeth clicking together. The Doctor ruts slowly against him just as Lucy did and feels the Master's erection through the silk, full and straining. He's distantly aware of Lucy's laugh as the Master turns them over, tumbling over into the centre of the bed so the Master is on top and the Doctor's bound hands are trapped between them, pressed down. And then his wrists gripped and pulled up over his head and pinned against the pillows, the Master delving back into his mouth, the Doctor arching up against him, one leg wrapping around and the other turned open to make room for the Master's body.

A break and the Master's face is held a bare inch from his own, his breathing short and rapid against his mouth, his eyes hard and dark and wanting. The Doctor thrills to the knowledge that the Master wants him, wants him, needs him like the Doctor needs the Master, and his hearts swell. All his fear, all his worries fall away, because the rest doesn't matter, the rest is irrelevant in the face of this. If surrender gives him this then he'll make a meal of surrender.

It seems as though the Master is about to speak, but the moment passes and it's back to wrapping themselves around each other, tasting and pawing and pressing hard, harder, driven by that wordless need. The Doctor's teeth tug aside silk to reach skin; he drags his mouth against the Master's neck, his shoulder, broadly licks to taste that honey-salt of Gallifreyan and not the copper-salt of human. The Master groans and thrusts against him, and then with a touch the Doctor's wrists are released and the Doctor instantly tugs at the Master's shirt and then runs his hands along his back, his arse, grasping and kneading. He needs contact, skin against skin, the friction of their bodies.

Somehow between them they pull the Master's clothes into disarray, shirt half-off and pajama bottoms hitched down past one hip. If there was any planned intent it's gone, forgotten in their urgency for each other as centuries of frustration and longing finally find release. There's no pretence, no games; their lust is the most honest they've been with each other since this started. The only thing that matters is not stopping, ever. Lustful groping turns into a full-bodied struggle as they tumble back and forth to be on top, to be underneath, to gain some indefinable upper hand that means only more, sloppily pinning each other down even as they kiss and moan. Lucy gives an amused, startled sound as their antics force her off the bed, and then they roll back the other way, tumbling over and over until the Doctor rolls into empty air and then slams to the floor, the air knocked out of him and flat on his back but there's no time to recover because the Master isn't fazed, isn't stopping, and he breathes in a great gulp of air and snarls and they're off again.

"Bastard," the Doctor growls under his breath. "Bastard, bastard, I hate you." And then he plasters his mouth to the Master's neck and sucks hard, laps at the skin and sucks until there's heat and he knows it will leave a mark and then he kisses and kisses up the Master's neck, back down again, and then his mouth, over and over. The Master just laughs and laughs and then drags his nails down the Doctor's back, raking the skin and then grabbing with cruel force, marking the Doctor over and over with blood and bruises. And it's glorious, glorious, neither of them can get enough, it's impossible to get enough to make up for nine hundred years of being driven mad with need for each other that they were too proud and stubborn to admit. And now that it's out they can't stop, can only tear into each other with increasing desperation.

The Doctor finally tears the Master's shirt away and there's new skin to attack, to feel and memorize and mark. They're both hard, the Doctor recovered from Lucy and now it's the Master he's straining for, and the Master shoves down the last of his clothes and there's nothing in the way, just skin and sensation.

Equilibrium is impossible. The struggle has to end and it can only end one way, and so the Doctor is far from surprised that it ends with him flat on his stomach, arms pinned behind his back, and then with him being bodily hauled half up onto the bed, bent over with his feet on the floor, the Master's cock between his thighs as the Master presses him down. They're both breathing hard, four hearts racing, bodies hot with exertion.

"Down," the Master growls, pushing painfully between the Doctor's shoulder blades. The Doctor gives one last futile struggle and then stills, accepting temporary defeat.

"What to do with you," the Master murmurs, low in his ear. There's a breathy, manic laugh, and then: "Too much spirit, Doctor. That gives me so much more to break."

"Planning to talk me into submission?" the Doctor spits back.

The Master clucks his tongue. "You never did know when to quit. And here I thought we understood each other."

A thrill of fear runs through the Doctor, mingling tantalizingly with his arousal. "Maybe I need a reminder," he says, daringly.

"That's the least of what you need," the Master sneers, and thrusts up between his legs, cock hot and thick against him. "I'm going to enjoy fucking this body of yours. It simply begs for me to hurt it."

"Then do it," the Doctor dares.

"Why Doctor, anyone would think you want to be punished. And after I so generously forgave you. Is that it? Tell me the truth and we both might get what we want."

The Doctor's chest tightens. "What if I do?" he says, lightheaded with admission.

The Master gives a rumble of a laugh. "Then there's hope for you yet. Now on your knees."

The Doctor grunts in surprise as the weight suddenly lifts from his back. His wrists still bound, he rolls sideways off the bed and lands on his arse. The Master smirks down at him as he struggles onto his knees before him. But when the Doctor looks up in expectation, the Master turns away.

"Go to the drawer," he tells Lucy. She's been watching them with interest, idly touching herself, but now she gets up from the bed. The drawer in question is their collection of sex toys, and she sorts through them.

"No peeking," the Master chides, and before the Doctor can react there's a blindfold across his eyes. He starts in surprise but there's a tug and the fabric is knotted into place. The loss of his sight as well as his hands makes him uneasy, sensitized to every sound. He turns his head back and forth, trying to hear what's happening around him, but the two of them have gone frustratingly quiet.

He crawls awkwardly towards where the Master was but finds only air. "Master?" he calls, warily.

He hears Lucy giggle, then moan. He turns toward the sound and follows it around to the other side of the bed, guided by the brush of his arm against the side of the mattress. He's startled by her hand reaching out for him and caressing his head, his face. He leans into her touch, seeking it as he always does.

"I'm here," she says, kneeling in front of him. She places light kisses on his shoulder, his neck. Runs her hands down his front, his side, caressing him. He can imagine her expression, that mixture of maternal and sororal and sexual love bound together by madness.

She touches the scratches and incipient bruising he gained during his struggle with the Master. "Does it hurt?"

The Doctor shakes his head.

"You mustn't lie," she tells him, tenderly.

"I'm not--"

But Lucy presses her finger to his lips, silencing him. "Whatever he does to you, you have to feel it." She presses herself against him, trapping his erection between their bodies. "No more fear. No more denial. Just what he gives you, pleasure and pain. That's what he taught me." Her finger moves from his lips, and she touches the fingerprint bruises left by the Master's hand, presses into them. The Doctor hisses.

"Does it hurt?" she asks again.

This time the Doctor nods. Lucy gives an approving murmur and returns to caressing his body, soothing instead of hurting. The Doctor breathes in deeply and then bucks against her, aching to bury himself in her body again, to be trapped in her embrace. "Lucy," he breathes, longing thick in his voice. It makes him dizzy to want them both so much.

And then the Master's hand at his throat, his voice, low and menacing in his ear. "Do you still want to suffer?" he murmurs. "Tell me you need it, Doctor. Punishment. Tell me you need me to hurt you."

The Doctor can't think, can barely speak. When he swallows he feels the grip of the Master's hand, light but strong. "Yes," he whispers. For every time he was weak, for every time he failed. Pain to hold him down, to stop the whirling madness of his thoughts. The Master's strength to struggle against. Yes.

The hand tightens briefly, then is gone. "Good," the Master purrs. "Very, very good. Now stand."

The Doctor struggles to his feet, helped up by Lucy. She pulls him up onto the bed and he crawls after her, off-balance and disoriented by his bindings. He's pushed down onto his stomach and Lucy's hand is on his back, sliding down and over his arse, lingering at the soft skin behind his balls. He thrusts against the bed and gives a low moan, aching to be touched, for relief from the arousal saturating his body.

She guides him to spread his legs, then spreads his arse, and there's cool slickness and then a third point of pressure, pushing against his arsehole. His hands clench into fists, but then there's the Master's hand on the small of his back, a steady pressure, and he relaxes with a sigh and opens. Something firm and thick pushes in, not fingers or cock but something else, one of the many toys he saw but he can't remember, had shied away too quickly, flustered.

"Master," he groans, breathy and needy. He clenches around the object, the dildo or plug, it has to be one of those, and then bucks up against it, eager for it. In response, the Master pulls back, then pushes deeper, fucks it back and forth in a steady motion. It's curved, curving inside him in ways that make his nerves spark with pleasure, and he moans openly. But before his arousal can rise much higher, the object is pushed all the way inside him, thickness flaring and then narrowing until it's settled into place, and when it holds itself inside him he knows which of the two it is.

Lucy moves away, down to his legs and presses them together, and then the Master reaches and with a touch they're locked in place, immobilizing him, making the plug settle more solidly into position. When the Doctor moves his hips there's a delicious pressure inside him and he thrusts against the bed in a slow rocking motion, seeking more. But then their hands are on him again and turning him onto his side, stilling him.

His blindfold is tugged down, over his nose and his ears and then into his mouth, turning it into a gag. He bites at it but it's more important that he can see again because the Master is looking down at him with pure satisfaction, with dark intent.

"I'm going to give you everything you deserve," he says, relishing each word. "But you're going to beg for it first, because up to now I've been far too generous. It's time you earned your keep." He moves back, reaching for Lucy, pushing her beneath him. "Until then, I suppose I'll allow you to watch." And then he turns away and kisses Lucy the way the Doctor longs to be kissed.

The Doctor whimpers through the gag. He would beg now, he would, if only they let him. The sight of them together -- together without him -- is almost too much. He has no choice but to watch as they lose themselves in each other, as the Master starts to fuck Lucy and she writhes wantonly beneath him, riding each thrust and moaning, crying 'Harry' over and over.

To be untouched in the face of that is unbearable. The Doctor bends his legs for balance and begins to rock his hips, seeking the glorious sparks of pleasure from the plug inside him. The Master tastes Lucy's body and the Doctor imagines her against his own mouth; Lucy's thighs tighten against the Master's sides and the Doctor imagines how it will be to ride that body, to be fucked by the Master, for his body to be fucked. He's glad he didn't let Jack take that liberty, wonders if the Master would have stopped him if the Doctor hadn't, because his body is the Master's.

His cock is hard and straining and he squeezes around the plug as he rocks against it, breathing faster as he watches the flex of the Master's hips, the bounce of Lucy's breasts as the Master thrusts into her, again and again. The way the Master's body strains with power, compact and muscular beneath smooth skin, the cords of his neck standing out with effort. He imagines himself under the Master, staring up into his snarl of lust as his body is bent double, as his arse throbs with the heat of friction and the Master's cock instead of the cool silicone inside him now. Imagines himself between them, buried in Lucy's body, held in her arms, her mouth dragging against his own as the Master pounds into him, pushes him into her, as he's held and trapped and there's no escape, he doesn't want escape, wants to keep this, keep them, be kept by them, anything for this.

He matches the Master's pace, each thrust mirrored in his own hips, in the way he clenches inside, and each of Lucy's moans blends with his own, high and desperate even though the gag. His cock is untouched but he can feel it building anyway as he drags himself along with them, as they fuck right in front of him, just beyond reach, the bed creaking in time with every movement. And he can see that it's close for them too and he clenches around the plug over and over until he's so close, suspended at the edge, and it's Lucy's loud cry that tips him over. He comes along with her, cock pulsing messily onto the sheets, shuddering and shivering and giving an endless stream of muffled whimpers and cries. The Master comes soon after, a triumphant cry as he buries himself deep in Lucy, as he turns to the Doctor with a gasping, gloating grin. He's laughing when he rolls off her and onto his back, breathing fast, cock slick with come.

Lucy recovers first, crawling over to him and sitting beside him, cradling his head in her lap. The Doctor is dazed and spent but when he breathes in a bolt of lust hits him all over again. He finds himself straining his neck, nuzzling at the wet juncture of her thighs. There's the rich smell of the Master and Lucy and himself, the thick mixture of come seeping out of her, and even gagged he strains his lips for it. Lucy gives a hum of pleasure, spreading her thighs wider for him, but before he can reach her cunt the Master pulls him back. The Doctor's face is smeared, nose and cheeks shining with their come.

"Not yet," the Master chides, amused. He pushes the Doctor flat onto his back, hands pinned beneath him. Then he stretches and climbs off the bed to shower, leaving Lucy and the Doctor to recover.




It's not until after he's been released from his bindings, the plug has been removed, and he and Lucy have showered that the Doctor even realizes he hasn't eaten in almost two days. He stumbles to the kitchen to make himself something to eat while Lucy and the Master dress, since he hasn't been given anything to wear.

He's going to have to get used to being tall again. It's hardly the first time he's had an abrupt change in height but it's certainly the most dramatic, and he was a child for long enough that returning to his normal state made his body feel new all over again. He's never had the same body twice before, so it's something of a novelty.

The Doctor stands naked in the kitchen, still slightly damp even as he licks crumbs from his fingers, and thinks to himself that even if it's unlikely that they could ever have a truly 'fresh start,' he likes the idea so much that he'll happily believe in it for as long as he can. There are a lot of things the Master said that he's willing to believe in. He's always been an optimist. And now that his neural pathways are starting to settle into their latest configuration and his brains have stopped leaking out his ears, it feels right to believe in them. He's been on his own for too long. It's time he stopped running away and started building something, even if it's on the Master's terms. Maybe because it's on the Master's terms, as even the thought of facing the universe on his own makes him want to go down on his knees and beg for the Master to keep him all over again.

If he knows anything anymore, he knows that he wants this. It feels like a home he'd forgotten about, and he's lost too many homes. He needs to keep this one.

He turns from the window and the Master is standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the light, black suit blacker for the contrast. He stands there for a long moment, silent and watching. The Doctor watches back.

"Am I going to have to earn my clothes, too?" the Doctor asks, only half-serious but calm, so calm. After all that whirling chaos of despair and surrender and lust, at last he's simply still.

The corner of the Master's mouth twitches. "No," he says, and reaches over and flicks on the light.

The Doctor blinks as his vision adjusts. He doesn't try to cover himself. There's no point in modesty.

The Master walks over to the counter and pours two glasses of whiskey. He hands the Doctor one and holds up the other. "To the new Time Lord empire," the Master says, smoothly.

The Doctor looks at his glass, then at the Master. But no, it's not a difficult choice. Not a struggle at all. He clinks his glass against the Master's and drinks it down in one long swallow, feeling the heat of it as it goes down.

The Master's gaze is approving as he drinks down his own. His empty glass joins the Doctor's on the table, and then the Master is turning him back to the window, standing beside him. One hand rests low on his back as they look out at the stratosphere. It's nearly dawn over this part of Earth; they're out of sync with the planet's rotation. After living within the rhythm of day and night for months, he's developed a certain attachment to the linear life. But this is a reminder that his life isn't supposed to be so simple, so human. This isn't his world. It's already over, has been over since the moment it was born, formed around the ravenous heart of a Racnoss ship, since the moment it burned with its sun five billion years from now. Since the moment the human race turned back from the end of the universe.

The thing about time is that it's all happening at once. Every day, every zeptosecond, all occurring within a single turbulent instant. At this moment Rose Tyler is being born and being pulled inexorably towards the Void. At this moment Jack Harkness is lying dead on a satellite in 200,100 and hanging over London during the Blitz in a Chula warship. The perception of time as something that flows naturally in a particular direction is as false as the perception of 12 static images of a horse run through a projector as being an actual horse. It's easy for him to pretend otherwise when he keeps lower species for company, but the man beside him has a mind almost the same as his own.

It used to be that if he closed his eyes, he could feel them. The Time Lords, the self-made universal constants. Gallifrey neither fluxed nor withered because the Eye of Harmony held it outside of time, and the Time Lords' observations resolved time into a narrative. The first sentient humanoids in the universe, born three and a half billion years before this moment, the universe's template for countless species that followed. If he'd personally tracked down each individual Time Lord and murdered them he would still be able to feel them. If he'd done all that and destroyed the Matrix, there would still be the echo of their minds. But what he did was so terrible, so complete, that there is only utter, endless silence.

Except the Master, and he resounds.

There is a part of the Doctor's mind, the reflex link, that exists for the sole purpose of connecting all Time Lords together. It used to be done through the Matrix, and as a renegade he had been alternately denied and allowed that connection. Now as a survivor he controls his reflex link entirely, as the Master does his own, as they did before their exiles.

They don't use it for words, not right now. Nothing so trivial as that. Instead it's a greeting, a brush of affection, the feel of it like a cat rubbing against his leg. The Master's mind brushing against his own and the Doctor's mind leaning into his, returning the gesture, and it's been so long since the last time he felt anything so intimate it almost brings him to his knees.

The Master's name is on his tongue but he doesn't use his voice. He sighs the word in his mind and the Master's hand moves, slides from back to hip and rubs a slow circle there, a match for the slow curling of his mind against the Doctor's, around it, coiling like a snake. And again the Doctor feels no desire to fight his grip, no need to struggle. Instead he welcomes it, sighs the Master's name again and closes his eyes and exults in the pressure of the Master's mind around his own, tightening and tightening until that link between them is a narrow point of sensation and then holding.

There's no silence, no static, only the pure tones of the Master's mind drowning out the discordance of the universe. He could hear a thousand Time Lords at once through his reflex link but now there's only one, but it's the only one that matters, the only one he needs. Through that narrow link he sings the keening hymn of surrender and the Master responds with the strong bass notes of sovereignty: ancient Gallifreyan songs of war adapted for their own private, intimate battles. Their song goes on and on, weaving back and forth between dissonance and consonance, over 900 years and the Doctor should have forgotten the notes but it's all so clear, as if it was only yesterday that they were entwined in their secret bed, minds and bodies pressed against each other until the borders blurred. The Doctor's whole self is tensed with those notes, that tight, narrow point of song between their minds.

And then the link breaks, the song breaks. The Doctor's knees do give out then and he comes back to himself at the Master's feet, panting, skin pricked with sweat. His hands spread out against the dark, glossy hardwood, long, slim fingers and not the small ones he became so accustomed to. He shivers, more from absence than any chill, and turns his face up to the Master.

The Master looks down at him with unfathomable eyes. Holds him with his gaze, not even needing touch, and the Doctor feels as though his very hearts are seized. He shivers again and reaches out through the link but the Master is silent now, shut down, and the Doctor can't bear it.

"Please," he begs, aloud and through the link. Not in English, not in human tongue, but in the melodic tones of Gallifrey. It's the first word of it he's spoken since the War. Since he became the last, the only one, the sole survivor. Since he became mute in his own song because there was no one left to sing to. He sings the Master's name, sings his surrender, his obedience. Anything not to be alone in his mind, not after the silence was finally broken.

It seems to take forever but at last the Master accepts, his returning song a purr of satisfaction, contented possession, and once again that unspeakably wonderful coil around his mind. All the tension runs out of him at once and he rests his head against the Master's leg, weary and grateful.

It's a lesson, he knows that. A clear reminder of how their arrangement is going to work. His obedience, his complete surrender, or else nothing, utter denial, isolation and abandonment and finally death. But if he's good he gets the Master, he gets Lucy and he won't be alone, and it's the choice between air and the vacuum of space, the choice between sunlight and the event horizon of a black hole. It's no choice at all, but he still chooses. He chooses the Master, will always choose the Master, over and over and over. And he sings that truth over the link in exultation.

"Good," the Master murmurs, and tightens the coil again.

The Master is true to his word. The Doctor doesn't have to earn his clothes. But when he sees them, he raises his eyebrows in wry amusement.

"Subtle," he comments, picking up the suit. It's a match for the Master's own, tailored black with purple silk lining, the only concession to the Doctor's usual tastes the addition of a faint grey pinstripe in the fabric. "Where's the tie?"

"No tie," the Master says, but doesn't enlighten further. "If you don't like the suit, you could go naked all the time. Or I could rustle up some Prydonian robes..."

"No, thanks," the Doctor says, making a face. "Those collars were a nightmare. Always gave me a crick in the neck." On the other hand, the Doctor fondly recalls the results of wearing nothing under his robes, and the rebellious pleasure of tearing each others robes off after teasing each other mercilessly through some interminable ceremony. But even if he wanted to, there's no going back. Only forward to something new.

"Thank you," he says, suddenly. "For the clothes."

The Master looks pleasantly surprised and definitely pleased. "Put them on," he says, eyes intent on the Doctor's body.

The Doctor gives an obedient nod and begins to dress. He savours the slide of fine cloth against skin, takes his time in a reverse striptease, his nakedness covered by the black of the suit, the new uniform of the Time Lords. The Master watches silently, an air of pride lacing his satisfaction.

The Doctor buttons his jacket and faces the Master for inspection. The Master straightens his clothes and then undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, baring his throat. The Master thumbs across the base of his throat, a brief pressure, and then drops his hand.

The Doctor turns to the mirror. The black cuffs are plainly visible at his wrists and peeking out at his ankles. He's still barefoot. Changing his wardrobe is usually something he does as a transition to a new body, a new life. This feels like more than a new outfit.

"It suits you," the Master says, standing behind him, caressing his side. The black of their suits almost blends together, the way the orange-red of their robes once did. The small differences show more clearly: the slight grey of his pinstripes, the vulnerability of his open collar compared to the stark black of the Master's tie.

"Remember when you invited me to rule the universe by your side?" the Doctor asks, thinking back all that time ago, when the Master first blazed back into his life.

"Of course."

The Doctor turns in his arms. "Ask me again."

The Master gives a slow smile. "Come in with me, Doctor. I'm offering you a half-share in the universe."

"Yes," the Doctor says, smiling back, giddy with joy. "I'd love to."

The Master's grip tightens and holds. His eyes shine with victory, long-denied but all the more exquisite for the wait. The Doctor's lips part in anticipation of a kiss, his tongue darts out, wetting them.

"I accept," he breathes. "Master..."

"Yes," the Master hisses, triumphant.

The Master pulls him down into a rough, passionate kiss. It goes on and on, wonderful and greedy, and when it ends the Doctor is euphoric.

The Doctor has seen the chaos of the universe, the damage left by the Time War and its ending. He's felt such guilt for it but it's too much for one man to deal with, even one Time Lord. All he could do was patch over the cracks and hope the rest held. But with the Master at his side, with the two of them working together, anything is possible.

This is why they survived, out of all the Time Lords that ever were. He knows it. Joining the Master will give him purpose again, definition for his existence after 'renegade' became 'survivor.' And they feels so right, just like they used to. He feels a slight twinge when he remembers that the cost of their reunion is Earth, but he of all people knows that sacrifice is necessary for the greater good. It's not the first time he's had to let a planet die for the sake of the universe, or even the second. Gallifrey is far from the only blood on his hands. But the Master understands that better than anyone, too.

"You look positively dashing," Lucy says, admiring his new look.

The Doctor preens. "Dashing. I like that, dashing."

The Master gives him a tolerant look. "As entertaining as your ego is, I didn't go through all this trouble just to improve your wardrobe. I believe you promised to help during one of those rather lovely rounds of begging."

The Doctor turns back to him, no less enthusiastic. "Yes! Help. What do you need me to do?" He bounces on his heels. "Preferably something non-violent, if that's all right."

"Perfectly," the Master says. "I have a very special project for you, one I think you'll really enjoy."

"Oh?" the Doctor says, intrigued.

The Master nods. "Would you like to start now? I'd hate for you to be bored, stuck in here all day."

"Now's good. Now's perfect," the Doctor says, barely containing his excitement. He'd half-expected to be confined to the suite again, at least until they went back down to the planet. But it seems earning the Master's trust has earned him freedoms. He has to admit that realization is very motivating.

The Master starts towards the door, then stops, as if suddenly remembering something. "Oh, and I think you'll want these." He picks up a bag from the table and pulls out the Doctor's black Chucks.

"Oh, yes!" the Doctor exclaims, thrilled. "I've missed you." He accepts them and tugs them on, then gleefully spins, hops. "Brilliant!"

"Shall we?" the Master says, dryly. He opens the door and gestures for the Doctor to go first. The Doctor bounces out of the suite and there are no guards there to dog his steps. Even the Toclafane keep a respectful distance. He feels remarkably free.

They walk to the elevator, then up to a part of the ship the Doctor's never seen before. And at last he has the answer to where the Master and Lucy went all those times, still on the Valiant but away from the suite. A whole section of a floor has been sealed off by the Master. Not even the Toclafane are allowed inside.

"It's keyed to Lucy and myself," the Master explains as Lucy looks into the iris scanner. "You'll always be with one of us, as before, so you can't go in or out on your own."

The locks release and they walk inside. To the left there's a living quarters, similar to the suite, and to the right...

A bank of computer systems, far beyond twenty-first century Earth. A lab filled with advanced alien technologies, and another for chemical and biological testing. There's his spare hand, bubbling contentedly in a display case. And past all that is a control room, filled with televisions showing video feeds of Earth, more computers, two desks and an amazing view of the planet below.

"Very impressive," the Doctor says, admiringly.

"I've made do," the Master replies. "But what I really need, that's what only you can give me."

"More than all this?" the Doctor says. He doesn't even have anything in his pockets.

"Much more." The Master walks over to his desk and takes something out. The Doctor frowns at it, then his eyes widen.

"Where did you get that?" he gasps.

"Your freak was holding out on you," the Master replies, holding up the coral seed of a living TARDIS.

"Jack had it?" The Doctor feels betrayed that Jack would have a TARDIS coral and not tell him. Something as important as this...

"Right on his Torchwood desk," the Master says, tartly.

"Torchwood," the Doctor growls, the mere name an insult on his lips. He really, really hates that place.

"I know," the Master says, sympathetically. "A lonely piece of Gallifrey, collecting dust like a paperweight."

The Doctor thinks of his broken querency sticks and blinks back his sorrow. "Can I...?" he asks, reaching for the coral.

The Master gently, reverently places it in his hands. At the moment of contact the Doctor can feel how alive it is, feels its limited consciousness and its instinctive purr of greeting to his Time Lord mind. He holds it close and coddles it in his arms, amazed and grateful. It's a tiny miracle that it exists at all, much less survived on its own.

"It was feeding off the Cardiff rift," the Master explains.

"It bleeds raw energy, like the Eye did into the Cradles," the Doctor says. "The nearest useable energy source for light-years." He strokes the coral and it gives a hungry psychic whimper. "In this stage it can't be away for long. We have to bring it back to the rift."

"I know," the Master says. "That's why I need you."

"You want me to take care of it?"

"I want you to make it grow. As much as it pains me to say it, you've spent enough time in that junker of yours to make you the expert. Somehow you've kept a broken-down Type-40 going for centuries. I wasted far too much time trying to sort out the scratch systems you built and actually convinced her to grow, so imagine what you could do with a seed of a modern Type?"

"Is that a compliment? From you?" the Doctor says in only half-mock astonishment.

"Slim pickings," the Master replies, unruffled. "It's been enough of a bore making do with primitive technology. But as you seem to thrive on making something from nothing, with a lab at the rift you should be able to build it something resembling a construction dock."

The Doctor finds himself already drawing up a mental blueprint. "Could be done," he says slowly. "What about raw materials? We'll need a lot of mercury just to prime the growth cycle."

"Whatever you need is yours, no questions asked. All the resources of this planet are at your disposal. Lucy will assist you with the mines and refineries. I've already started the most obvious stockpiles. I don't feel like waiting 500 years for natural maturity."

"How about an accelerated time bubble?" the Doctor offers. "Punctuated supergrowth, rift energy, a planet's worth of minerals... Could probably get her to basic space capability in, oh, two years, maybe one?"

"You have a little over six months," the Master replies. "After that there won't be a Cardiff anymore."

"You do love a challenge. All right, I'll see what I can do. But the time components will have to wait. They can't be grown in the time bubble anyway. Probably cause an inversion and that'd be a complete mess. How do you know what Type it is?"

"Simple. It used to be mine."

The Doctor blinks at him.

"Didn't you ever wonder what happened to my TARDIS?" the Master says, amused. "I might have been desperate enough to turn myself human, but I wasn't so stupid I'd let a Type-88 be destroyed. I wasn't planning on dying as a human. So right before I used the chameleon arch, I broke her anchor link to Gallifrey."

"You what?" the Doctor gapes, astonished.

"I overrode the automatic systems to reach the year one hundred trillion. I had to cut the anchor beforehand to keep the controls from locking up."

The Doctor shakes his head. "That should have killed her. The only reason mine survived without the Eye was because I'd already fitted her for alternative energy sources as a defence. The Daleks had..." He shakes his head. "It's not important. So what, instead of dying she reverted back to seed?"

"With a little help, yes. The idea being that once I'd opened the watch, I'd be able to track her down and grow her back to normal with technology that isn't one step above sticks and arrowheads. Unfortunately, that was when you kicked in."

"Ah. Caught in the backwash?"

"She was sucked into a rift over the Silver Devastation. I barely got out in time. Fortunately, like everything else in the universe seems to be, the seed was spat out in the rift over Earth. Cue Torchwood's grubby hands all over her."

"Poor little thing," the Doctor says, cooing to the coral. "You have had a time of it." When he looks up, the Master is ever so slightly jealous. Not that he'd admit it. The Doctor decides not to point out that observation, but is privately chuffed.

A thought occurs to him. "If she shed her atomic matter, then all that's left is the metastructure. We're going to need huon particles. That Racnoss..." He bites his lip, regretting the destruction of her lab.

"Lucky for you I was in charge of the cleanup."

The Doctor lights up. "You saved the particle extruders? Oh, you genius!"

It's the Master's turn to preen. "I made a few gallons' worth while I was taking over British politics. They'll be brought to your lab once you've settled in."

"So this lab..."

The Master smiles. "You're really going to like it. We'll go down tomorrow. I've had the Valiant moved so it's a quick flight down. We're over Cardiff bay."

The Doctor goes to the large window and looks down. Through the thin cirrus clouds he can make out the curve of the coastline, the city beyond. Anchored above it is the rift, a fluctuating, undulating ribbon of chaotic space/time, slithering like a trapped snake. The coral vibrates subtly, yearning for the raw energy that pours out of the scar.

"You know what it is," he says to the Master, his tone suddenly sombre.

"I don't care," the Master replies. "It's useful."

The Doctor lets the matter drop. If there was anything he could do about it on his own, he would have sealed it properly the first time and found another way to refuel. And as it is, they need what the rift offers. Long term... Well, long term has never been a strength for either of them, not really. They're more the 'cross that bridge next century' types, always have been. But they hardly needed to be before the War. Long term was someone else's responsibility, and a terribly dull one at that.

He turns away from the window, takes a closer look at the rest of the room. The urge to poke through everything is enormous. "So what else are you up to?"

The Master shakes his head. "Not yet," he says.

The Doctor pouts. "Aww, please? I won't break anything. Cross my hearts."

The Master plucks the coral from his hands and puts it back in his desk. "You've had enough excitement for now. But keep earning my trust and I'll give you more responsibility."

"Good behaviour, right," the Doctor sighs.

"I hope you haven't decided to be difficult," the Master says, warning in his voice.

"No!" the Doctor insists. "Not at all, I promise. I'm being very, very un-difficult. I just want to help. I don't... please, I..." He swallows. "I'm sorry about the sticks. I won't break anything."

The Master gives him an even look. "I've forgiven you for that. But you know why it was wrong?"

The Doctor feels suddenly twisted up inside, his confidence and good mood sinking under a terrible anxiety. "They weren't mine. They were yours."

"That's right," the Master says. His hand rests on the Doctor's shoulder and pushes down, firm but not forcing, and the Doctor's knees hit the carpet. The Master's hand slides to the back of his neck, half-caressing, half-holding.

"The last time I trusted you with a piece of our home, you destroyed it just to hurt me. Before I can trust you, I have to know that's not going to happen again. A Time Lord is nothing without a TARDIS, Doctor. Do you think I'm nothing?"

"Never," the Doctor says, looking up at him.

"Swear on the heart of your TARDIS that you'll take good care of it. That you won't damage it or try to take it from me."

"I swear," the Doctor says. "I will."

"Swear that you'll obey your Master. Because if you don't..."

"I swear," the Doctor insists. "Please, Master, I swear. I'll obey. Anything you want, please." Just keep me, he thinks, hearts beating fast with need, with fear. Please don't leave me alone.

"Prove it," the Master demands, hand sliding up to cradle the back of the Doctor's head. "Show me your obedience. Your complete submission. Show me."

There's a push against his mind. The Doctor gasps, flinches. He can feel the Master pressing in, wanting in to see his thoughts, to see the truth of them. The Doctor instinctively resists and remembers that the Archangel threads are still connected. As painstaking as it was to connect them, it'll take just as much time to undo them, and he can't show the Master that, he can't. But he can't deny the Master either, not without ruining everything.

There's only one thing he can do. In the space of an instant he gathers every memory of Archangel, of his plan, of Martha; he gathers every thread and shoves all of it deep, deep in his mind and forgets. There isn't time for finesse. In one tremendous mental effort he locks it all away and forgets that there's a key. As long as he doesn't remember, it will never make the Master angry, because he'll never see... he'll never see...

What was it again?

"Let me in," the Master demands, impatient. His other hand presses against the Doctor's forehead, insistent from both sides.

The Doctor can't remember why he was resisting in the first place. He wants the Master closer, wants him to see that he's loyal, that he won't run away or fight or break things that aren't his. That the Master matters more than any human, than the whole human race, present and future, matters more than anything else at all. The Doctor relaxes his mind and opens, opens.

He sees the Master above him, holding his head. He sees the Master in his mind, looking through his eyes up at the Master standing before him. It's dizzying but to be so surrounded, so full of someone else and not alone is indescribably good. No one else can give this to him, no one could even understand how badly he needs it, to have the song of the Master's thoughts and not the empty silence, the white noise of dead connections. He sighs as offers up his obedience again.

The Master seizes his thoughts and tears them open, looking for a lie concealed within, a kernel of pretence beneath the layers of need, submission, acceptance. It hurts, makes the Doctor's eyes water, but he can feel the Master's satisfaction when he finds nothing. When he sees that he's won, that the Doctor is his, that even the genocide of his once-favourite species isn't enough to make his loyalty waver. That he's made his choice and will keep it.

The Master calms and folds the Doctor's thoughts back together, leaving them intact but in disarray. He pulls back, pulls out. When he lets go of the Doctor's head, the Doctor snaps back to himself with a choked sound. He falls onto his side, eyes rolled back, panting. His head aches distantly.

Lucy turns him onto his back, touches him gently. "Come back, darling," she urges. "Come on. Time to wake up."

The Doctor looks blearily up at her, then past her to the Master, standing tall above them. "Master," he sighs.

"Go to the window," the Master commands. "Put your hands on the glass."

The Doctor can't quite think why he'd want him to do that, but obeys anyway. Lucy helps him to his feet and he stumbles over, holding his head, and then leans heavily against the thick glass window.

"Down there, all those humans," the Master croons, close behind him. "They're so small. Irrelevant. Squabbling amongst themselves in the dirt. Tell me what the human race is."

"Already dead," the Doctor says, distantly.

"Yes," the Master says, a hiss of pleasure. "It's not genocide, Doctor. It's suicide. A whole species removing itself from the universe. Best to leave them to it. But I want you to remember them as they were, just for a while. I want you to show me the humans you've fucked."

The Doctor's eye flick to the reflection of Lucy, ghostly and pale but for the dark red of her lipstick.

The Master's hand stroke down his sides, his stomach. "Tell me their names," he murmurs.

"There was Jack..." the Doctor begins.

"Your pet freak," the Master says. "Barely qualifies as human, but that makes one. And before him? One of your perky young assistants, perhaps?"

"No, I couldn't... Not them."

"Then who?"

"There was one, recently. Reinette." A wave of sadness at her name, the memory of having her and losing her in so brief a moment. "Madame de Pompadour."

The Master snorts. "Typical. Always chasing someone else's glory. And before her?"

"No one, not for years. The War..."

"Yes," the Master says, his tone sympathetic.

"But before things got bad. Before they called me back. Benny..."

"Twenty-sixth century? Tzun Confederacy?"

"Yes. After I regenerated, I gave her my cat. A farewell gift. But that wasn't what she wanted."

"Your eighth body, yes? Just after San Francisco."

The Doctor nods.

"A married woman. Naughty, naughty. And before her?"

"Benny was divorced by then. She was my first human," the Doctor says.

One hand pops open the remaining buttons on the Doctor's shirt, slips beneath to caress his front. "So few. You surprise me. But you wanted far more than three." It's not a question.

"Yes," the Doctor admits. He cared for them all, loved them in his way, and yet...

"You loved your little human pets. But you couldn't give yourself to them."

"I couldn't," the Doctor says. There was always a reason, always an excuse.

"Those three, they had you because you let them take. Isn't that right? That's what you need. Someone to pin you down."

"Yes," the Doctor breathes. Someone to stop him. A human once told him that.

The Master gives a hum of pleasure. "I find it very interesting that you only submitted to those women when you thought your Master was gone forever. You needed me and I wasn't there. Poor Doctor, all alone. And as for handsome Jack..."

"You drugged me," the Doctor says, the old accusation.

"No," the Master says, a smile in his voice. "What I did was give you permission."

The Doctor stares at his own reflection, stunned by the realization that that's exactly what he did.

"And you did so well," the Master murmurs. "You let yourself be taken, but not completely. It would have been wrong when your Master was so near, waiting for your submission. You only gave as much as I wanted you to give, and I didn't even have to tell you. You instinctively knew. And there's a very simple reason for that. Do you know what it is?"

"Because I'm yours,"' the Doctor whispers.

"Because you've always been mine. Because you never stopped being mine, no matter how far you ran. You could pretend all you wanted, lie to yourself over and over, but deep down you always knew the truth."

His fingers dig into the Doctor's body, a claiming grip. The Doctor's hearts are racing.

"You were weak without me. You strayed from your Master," the Master murmurs. "And now that I know, I'm going to make it all better. Would you like that?"

"Please," the Doctor breathes, wanting that. Wanting grace, like the Master gave him before. His sins wiped away.

"Beg," the Master commands.

"Forgive me," the Doctor begs, seeing the desperate need in his reflection. "Please, Master."

"You have to earn your keep. What will you give me?"

"Anything," the Doctor begs, thickly. "I was bad. I deserve to be punished. I'm sorry, please."

There's a puff of air as the Master sighs against his neck. "Yes, you do." He releases the Doctor, backs away.

At first the Doctor wonders if this is his punishment, if they're going to leave him alone like this. And then he sees the reflection of the Master and Lucy together, embracing, kissing. The Doctor swallows a moan as he leans toward the image, his hands flat against the glass.

"He likes to watch," Lucy says, languidly.

"He certainly does," the Master replies, darkly amused. "He didn't even need to be touched to come. Gagged and bound... Maybe he doesn't want to be touched."

The Doctor whimpers at the thought of being perpetually denied. Of being alone even in their bed. "No," he pleads.

"He wants to be with us," Lucy insists. "Our darling boy. Of course he does." She leaves the Master and walks to the Doctor's side, slips her hand beneath his shirt just as the Master did. The Doctor bends his arms, moves against her hand. She gives an approving hum and kisses his shoulder.

He tears his eyes away from their reflection and looks to her. He can see the pleasure in her eyes as they connect, as she guides down his arm and slides against him.

"He needs to be touched," she murmurs, caressing the Doctor's body, his face.

The Doctor leans into her touch, grateful and needy. "Please," he whispers.

"He needs us," she says, confidently. "And there's nothing he won't do for us. Isn't that right, my darling?"

"Anything," the Doctor moans. They're his life, his world. Everything is already theirs. If they want him to give it instead of simply taking, then he will.

"And when you need to be punished. When he hurts you, will you feel it?"

"I will," the Doctor promises.

"You won't resist," the Master says, suddenly behind him again, so close. His fingers tracing along the side of the Doctor's face. "Never resist me, Doctor."

The Doctor nods, dizzied, barely daring to breathe. Lucy's arms are around his waist, holding him. He leans heavily against his hand on the glass, against Lucy.

"Beg for me," the Master murmurs.

"Master," the Doctor moans. He feels drugged with desire, with longing. "Please. Please."

"Show me your memories," the Master demands.

"I will," the Doctor swears, thinking of Reinette's wide bed, of Benny pulling him down. Preparing his memories as an offering. The Master's hand brushes against the side of his face, a tickle as he skims the Doctor's thoughts.

"Good Doctor," the Master purrs. And then the Master's hands on either side of his face, pressing this time, insistent. The Master pushing into his mind, the Doctor opening for him, unresisting. The exultation of the Master's thoughts.

"Show me," the Master demands.

The Doctor closes his eyes.

In his mind, he's naked.

The Doctor's mental representation has always changed with the times. New clothes, new bodies. It's the essence of self-perception. The Master's is as well, so it's no surprise to find him the same inside the Doctor's head as outside, latest face and neat black suit. What's surprising is that in his own head, the Doctor is still wearing his cuffs. And nothing else, neither new suit nor old. Not even pyjamas.

The Master appears to find this as interesting as the Doctor does. He grabs the Doctor's wrist and squeezes around the cuff, tightening it until the Doctor winces. The Doctor tries to think it loose, but to no avail. Apparently these are as isomorphically controlled as the real thing. He knows that should feel more disturbing than it does.

At the Master's command the cuff loosens back to normal, a firm but comfortable pressure.

"Interesting," he murmurs, then looks up. "I believe you have something to show me?"

"Right. Yes," the Doctor says, collecting himself. Even if he hadn't pulled up the memory of Reinette, the situation is similar enough that he reverts to the metaphor of a corridor full of doors.

The Master is unimpressed. "I know you're used to thinking like a child, but really."

"There's nothing wrong with a good metaphor," the Doctor insists.

"Only when you're too unevolved to see the truth," the Master says. "I want your mind, not some limited interface."

"All right," the Doctor relents. Concentrates.

The corridor dissolves. Around them is endless black, stretching on and on in all directions. Distant galaxies and constellations, and then pinpoints of light like stars, growing brighter. Arcs of lightning through clouds of cosmic dust. But it's not the sky, the stars. It's a neurosphere. It's the geography of the Doctor's mind, each bright point a memory bound by times and places, senses and concepts, people and emotions. A web of almost invisibly thin strands delicately connects every star -- the dense network of his neural pathways.

"That's more like it," the Master says, turning in the mindlight.

He plucks a thread like a violin string and the Doctor remembers the first time he smelled a parrot flower in the jungle city of Alizarin Wain. As long as the string vibrates, the scent is rich, the soft petals brush against his nose, and his scarf is heavy on his shoulders. The Master stops the string with a touch, and the memory fades away.

The Doctor takes a moment to collect himself, then reaches up into the neurosphere. It shifts, following his hand; galaxies move around them, the constellations changing with each new perspective. The Doctor searches for a feeling, a joining thread that will lead him where he needs to go. His fingers brush a thread and he remembers cool blue eyes, the ticking of a clockwork monster. Reinette.

"This is it," he says, hand resting over a bright star of memory, thousands of threads extending outwards like a halo. He sharply strums them all in a wave of sound and suddenly the memory is around them, vivid and real.

"The night of the Yew Tree Ball," the Doctor says.

"So I see," the Master says.

They're in the Hall of Mirrors, and at first glance the room is in utter chaos. It's not merely packed tight with people, mingling and eating and dancing, but with their outlandish costumes as well. Harlequins and Pierrots, Scarmouches and large-turbaned Turks, Indians, magicians, shepherds and deities, bathed in the golden light of thousands of candles. All the men have swords but it's anything but a battle. It's the third day of celebration of the wedding of Dauphin Louis and the Infanta of Spain Maria Teresa Rafaela, and the party is due to continue for days.

"When I was here, I didn't leave until Shrove Tuesday. The French throw one hell of a party. Look, there I am!"

The Doctor point to his doppelganger, in pinstripes with a grin on his face and a drink in his hand. He's talking excitedly, gesturing widely, and is the one of the few not wearing a mask. A rented sword hangs from his hip. Reinette is nowhere to be seen.

"She was married, too," the Doctor says, suddenly. "Well, until she ditched him for the king."

"And you, apparently," the Master observes, dryly. "So where is she now?"

"Chatting up that yew tree," the Doctor says, pointing across the room. He can just make out the crook of Reinette's shepherd's staff. She is indeed chatting with what appears to be a human-sized conifer, but it's actually the king in disguise. "Louis would have got along very well with a member of the Forest of Cheem I once knew."

The Master steps through a cluster of people sitting on the floor, eating pâté and fruit. The two of them are ghosts in this memory, at least for now.

"We'd already had our first dance," the Doctor says, reminiscing. "First several dances. Dinner doesn't even start for another eighteen hours. Oh, and that's Voltaire. Have you ever met him? He wrote a fascinating--"

The Master holds up a hand. "We're not here for a French philosophy lecture."

"Right. Yes." The Doctor looks at Reinette, flirting with the costumed king. Even though they don't touch, though they're both masked, somehow their attraction is evident through the layers of costume and etiquette. She's caught his interest, beating out the hundreds of women here for the same purpose.

Her conversation with the yew tree ends and she weaves her way through the crowd to the suited Doctor's side. A whisper in his ear tears him away from his excited discussion with Voltaire and off into the crowd, her hand tugging on his proffered arm. The unclothed Doctor and the Master follow, the Master's hand on the Doctor's back, proprietary as ever.

There are alcoves here, curtained off areas where couples have found the privacy to kiss and touch. A pair of feet with buckled shoes sticks out comically from one where the couple inside have taken things to their natural conclusion. But Reinette leads her Doctor past them, away from the party and out to her private room. She wants the first time with her fireplace man to be more than a stolen moment in some curtained nook.

"Reinette," her Doctor says, hesitant when he realizes her intentions. "The king..."

"There is little a man desires more than that which is denied him," she counters. "I have caught his eye. That is enough for now."

"True, yes, but--"

His protests are stopped with a kiss, and just like that his resistance begins to melt away.

"Some things never change," the Master mutters.

The Doctor is torn between indignance and remembered desire. "It's just as well you never ran into me in my last regeneration. I would've punched you as soon as look at you. Well, maybe not punched. Glowered intimidatingly."

"You? Intimidating?" the Master says, archly.

"I wore leather. And black. Lots of black."

The Master smirks.

"Not like that!" the Doctor sputters. "Different black. And a coat's hardly the same as gloves. And I was Northern."

"A shobogan accent? You were in a state."

The Doctor just huffs, put out.

"I think it's sweet that you copied the toughest look you knew," the Master says, preening ever so slightly. He strokes two fingers along one of the Doctor's wrist cuffs. "You always did like leather."

The Doctor licks his lips. "I liked it better on you," he admits.

"I know," the Master replies.

Behind them, things have progressed with Reinette. Her Doctor is certainly engaged now, but she's still the one leading. The Doctor remembers rather liking that about her. Liking her utter self-possession, her willingness to take what she wanted and damn expectation, damn history, even damn her husband and the king as long as she found satisfaction. In hindsight the similarities to the Master are obvious, even blatant. He pulls at his ear, faintly embarrassed at his predictability.

Of course, now that he thinks about it, this is hardly the first time he was drawn to someone of their temperament. He doesn't like meeting the greats of history out of some desire for glory. He's never been interested in fame for its own sake, no matter how much he likes his ego flattered. The strong-willed, the self-possessed interest him. They always have.

No, they don't just interest him. He's drawn to them, like a moth to the flame. The movers of history; his companions, human or otherwise, who wanted something greater, something better. All of them shouted to make the universe listen. They all wanted: loves and desires, from the simple to the grandiose. The determined, the ambitious: the ones who see the universe and reach for it, embrace it; they refuse to be small, and that makes them great. And the ones that burn the brightest, those are the ones he finds impossible to resist no matter how much they sear him. He wants that fire, that white heat of life, unquenchable. And the Master burns brightest of all.

Reinette burns with that same flame, but he knows that this is all he'll ever have of her. A few stolen hours, stolen days, and then time will snatch her away just as it does everyone. They all leave him so quickly. But the Master... the Master stays. Even death won't keep him down for long. He always comes back, and that--

And then the Doctor remembers that with them this solidly in his mind, the Master can hear his thoughts.

The Master leans in, murmurs into his ear. "I'm tempted to punish you for comparing me to your little pets. But after the rest, I think I'll forgive you."

The Doctor stares at him, stunned by the sudden exposure of his private thoughts. He could never have said any of that aloud. He certainly didn't intend to share it. It makes him feel far more naked than his lack of clothes.

The Master's hand strokes confidently down his arm. "Oh, Doctor, I'll make you burn. All you had to do was ask." And then that hand grips and there's heat, a bright flare of it that makes the Doctor gasp and cry out. He suddenly remembers fire, burning from the inside, a living sun that made his brain boil. Their surroundings blur and darken and the Doctor feels the weight of a spacesuit, the trickle of sweat down his back and the sheer agony of the sun creature searing his mind.

And then suddenly he's plunged into salt water, freezing and rough. The heat is instantly quenched and he swallows water before he can stop himself, gags and struggles against the current and the waves, his suit a heavy weight dragging him down. But as he goes under someone grabs his hand and pulls. He's heaved up and up and finally onto a rubber surface, limp and coughing up water. His orange spacesuit has changed to an orange wetsuit, and the Master is hauling him onto a hovercraft.

"You needed some cooling off," the Master says, dressed in his own orange wetsuit, just as he was the day the Sea Devils almost incited a nuclear war.

The Doctor coughs "Don't remember it like this."

"Think again," the Master says.

The Doctor does, and then to his shock realizes he has two memories now -- one of seeing the Master escaping on the hovercraft, and one of leaping onto the side of the boat, trying to recapture him, and then tumbling into the water only to have the Master pull him out.

"Good trick, isn't it?" the Master says, proudly. "And I know an even better one." He reaches out and clenches his gloved hand into a fist, and the Doctor can feel the resonance of the original memory stop as the new one continues on. And then a new tension, pulling the old one away--

"No, don't!" the Doctor yelps.

The Master stops. Releases the old memory, then crouches down in front of the Doctor.

"Shouldn't you grow a beard if you're going to try that sort of nonsense?" the Doctor says, tartly. He feels suddenly grumpy, like he was when the real memory was created. He's pulled into the morphogenic field of the memory, making him feel older in body and terribly impatient with the universe constantly vexing him.

"Why would I ruin the memory of a perfectly good escape?" the Master counters, in the clipped tones of this memory's version of him. "I'm merely illustrating a point. And I trust that you're not trying to defy me, because that would be a very grave error."

The Doctor's submission, which felt so natural before, grates in this body. He's far too angry to do anything but defy the Master. He closes his eyes tight and remembers, and suddenly he's back on the shore, dry and pleased with himself for stopping the Sea Devils. The false memory vanishes. And then the Master, the now Master, is beside him, grabbing his wrist and pulling, dragging him out of the memory.

The Doctor falls to the floor and then the floor isn't there because they're back in the neurosphere. His clothes are gone, left behind in memory, and he's on his hands and knees. His anger is gone, too, loneliness and anxiety and need snapping back so fast it hurts.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, staring at the Master's shoes. "Please, I'm sorry."

"That regeneration of yours always did test my patience," the Master mutters. "Shall we try that again?"

"I won't stop you," the Doctor says, "but please, not that one."

"And why not?" the Master asks, demanding a very good reason.

"Because changing the memory won't change what happened," the Doctor says.

The Master considers this. "True," he says, drawing out the word. "But not enough. All you cared about was locking me up again, and you couldn't even be bothered to chase me. Why shouldn't I destroy that memory? It's barely worth the neurons you store them on."

"Because..." The Doctor looks up, then away; it's too uncomfortable to say it. He thinks it instead, knowing the Master will hear. That the memory of working side-by-side with the Master, even under pretence, is one he couldn't bear to lose.

"All right," the Master says, softer now. He takes the Doctor's arm and pulls him to his feet. "That one can stay. But there's a cost."

There always is. "I know," the Doctor says, willing to pay it.

"Show me Benny," the Master says, and the Doctor obeys.

With recent exceptions, the Doctor has tried to avoid thinking too much about his past. Not that he made a habit of it before the Time War, but afterwards it was simply too painful. If he talked about the past at all, it was the shallow boasting of meeting this person or being there for that famous moment. The sort of meaningless chatter that shielded him from deeper conversation. And so he hasn't thought of Bernice Summerfield in quite a long time indeed.

He was in his seventh body when he met her, and she came into his life just when things with Ace were falling apart. Her most memorable habits were trying possibly every form of alcohol the universe had to offer and threatening to leave him because he was a manipulative bastard. She was an archaeologist from the twenty-sixth century, and her timeline doesn't exist anymore.

"The War?" the Master guesses.

"Irving Braxiatel," the Doctor says, by way of explanation. "He changed her timeline repeatedly. Weakened it so much it snapped from the web of time."

The Master rolls his eyes. "Was there anyone in your House who wasn't useless?"

"Susan," the Doctor says, and shrugs. It hardly matters. None of them are around to be useless or otherwise anymore. It's amazing how many people he knows that never existed anymore. "Sometimes I wish I didn't remember them," he admits aloud.

The Master simply nods.

They're standing in the TARDIS the way he'd remade it at the end of his sixth regeneration's span. The console room is dimly lit, not the bright, small room of the default configuration but a sprawling, open area with bookshelves and Greek statues lining the walls. He'd actually used the wooden console from the secondary console room as part of a major upgrade of her systems. The Seal of Rassilon glows on a high arch above them. Allying himself with the Great Founder had felt very appropriate at the time, and then in his subsequent body he'd spent so much time on or involved with Gallifrey that he felt more like he belonged there than he ever had growing up. It hadn't hurt that Romana was President by then.

The Doctor winces as the Master gives him a sharp psychic sting. "I know, I know," the he says, rubbing his head. "Don't talk about Romana."

"Or think about her," the Master says, his distaste obvious.

The Doctor restrains the urge to roll his eyes. "Anyway. Benny. You know, I don't think she actually liked me until I regenerated."

"And then she couldn't resist you?" the Master says, archly.

"I was rather dashing at the time. For a while everyone I met suddenly wanted to kiss me. Or capture and torture me. Sometimes both," the Doctor says, pointedly.

"So nothing's changed, then."

The Doctor considers this. "Better hair."

"And even less dress sense."

"That's one opinion."

"Which counts far more than yours, given the depth your fashions have sunk to."

"And now I don't have any clothes at all."

"You have the ones I gave you," the Master counters. "A little time and you'll be wearing them here."

The Doctor looks at his cuffs and remembers the feel of his new suit over them, layers of the Master's control. His brief submersion into his old personality reminded him of how much his situation ought to chafe, how much he should be fighting that control. But that's the last thing he wants to do. He wants this, cuffs and all. He needs something with a future to strive for, and humanity no longer qualifies. He never even tried to save it after the Master claimed power. There just wasn't any point.

"We'd been drinking," the Doctor says, remembering Benny. "Ale at The Witch and Whirlwind, to celebrate stopping the Ice Warriors. And then a magnum of Brut Impérial after moving out all her things. It was pouring rain the whole time. Suited my mood."

The console room dissolves into a tiny, cramped flat in the Garland College Hall of Residence. It's full of moving boxes and there's just enough room for the two people already in it, plus the striped tabby curled up contentedly on the bed. The Doctor has longish auburn hair and a green velvet frock coat, and Benny is looking at him with poorly disguised speculation.

At the time, still on a post-regenerative high and working out exactly who he'd become after yet another drastic change, he'd been surprised by and then eager for her sudden attentions. She'd barely tolerated him for years and then just like that he was even more of a new man to her than he was to himself. In some ways it reminds him of how things were with Rose, their relationship changing overnight. With Rose the change had made him uncertain, sent him pulling away and then pulling her back until his feelings finally began to settle -- just in time to lose her. With Benny, they had never been very close, and he was leaving anyway and so it was easy to simply accept her attentions. It had all felt so casual, just a new way to say goodbye and much nicer than a handshake. But now... Maybe it's the fact that there's so much distance between that day and this one, but the abrupt change in their perception of him makes him uncomfortable. "Honestly, it's me," he'd told Rose, but he'd seen in her eyes that it was never that simple for her, and he recognizes that same disconnect in Benny. The same woman who once asked him never to touch her now poised to touch him far more intimately than a hand on her shoulder.

The tableau in front of them unfreezes, and Benny looks into her Doctor's sad blue eyes. Sad because they're saying goodbye and he hates goodbyes.

"Yes. Look, before you leave, there's one thing I have to do. I'd never forgive myself otherwise." She brushes her dark hair back behind her ear, that tell-tale signal of physical desire in human women.

Her Doctor looks puzzled. "What would that--"

But before he can finish, she's grabbed the lapels of his frock coat, kissed him square on the mouth and pushed him down hard onto the bed. The cat -- Wolsey, that was his name -- jumps out of the way with a startled yowl.

The Doctor has tended to gloss over how his regenerations affect the humans around him. Often the change is drastic enough that they find a reason to leave soon after. An important few saw him through more than one. It was easiest with those like the Brigadier, who kept a friendly formality that didn't discriminate between him with a bowl cut and a fur coat and him with blond curls and a coat capable of blinding certain species at 300 meters. Far worse were the ones who stayed and resented him for changing, or who never looked at him the same way, like he was a stranger they'd never quite accept. They treated him like a replacement, sometimes better and sometimes worse, but never the same man. But the same man is what he's always been.

"She couldn't see that," the Master says, quietly. "You were fooling yourself to think any of them could."

The Doctor watches as Benny pulls off her Doctor's cravat and resents the fact that she never would have wanted him unless he'd died to save her species for yet another time. That if her timeline hadn't been tampered with by his House brother until it snapped from the Web of Time completely, if she'd survived to see him after he'd sacrificed himself again, she would have stopped wanting him, just like that.

"They never see who you really are," the Master says, gentle but certain. "They're the ones who made you so alone. They die so quickly. You need a constant."

I need you, the Doctor thinks, turning away from Benny, turning to the Master.

"Yes," the Master says, meeting his gaze.

"Take it," the Doctor says, roughly. "I don't want this memory."

"Do you want to forget?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I want..."

"Tell me," the Master says, leaning close.

The Doctor swallows. "I want a memory that doesn't end with goodbye."

"Oh, Doctor. You could have had that, but you ran away. I came for you, and you refused me for the sake of your precious humans."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but--" The Doctor looks pleadingly at the Master. "It's done. Even if I forget, it still happened."

"We can make a new memory," the Master says, stroking his cheek. "A better one."

"That won't make it real."

"Leave that to me," the Master says. "Tell me what you want to remember."

"That you hadn't died," the Doctor says, remembering the grief he'd felt after the Master was consumed by his TARDIS, a death even he couldn't claw his way back from. "That we were together after the War. That I didn't spend so long as the only one, the last..."

"And in exchange?"

"You can erase them. Benny and-- and Reinette." He doesn't need them, doesn't need the pale candlelight when he has the blazing sun. He needs the Master more than any human, far more than either of them. A blink and they were gone. He'll blink again, as long as when he opens his eyes he's not alone.

The Master is all but glowing with power. "Very fair," he murmurs. "On the other hand, this helped you learn how little humanity can give you. That's a lesson I don't want you to forget."

"Please," the Doctor begs, needing something.

"You begged me to punish you before. Are you taking that back?"

"No!" the Doctor insists. "No, I'm not. I won't."

The Master steps away, stands over the couple entwined on the bed, increasingly naked. He brushes his fingers over that Doctor's naked back, just above the skin he can't touch. A memory can be observed or experienced, but not both.

"As much as I hate to let anyone else touch what's mine, you will remember Benny. That's your punishment. And as for your reward..."

The Doctor barely dares to breathe, waiting for the Master's decision. The Master steps back, away, and reaches up into the air, the neurosphere. The Doctor can feel the shifting of his thoughts as the Master seeks out the memory of Reinette, of the Yew Tree Ball. His fingers come to rest on the delicate threads and then, and then--

"It is a question of time," Voltaire says, insistent and more than a little tipsy. "Trust cannot be put in history when reason can shine a clearer light."

"Ah, but time isn't fixed," the Doctor says, waving his glass in the general direction of a chandelier. "Time's like, time's like a banana. No wait, fruit flies like a banana. Time is--"

"A banana?" Voltaire says, frowning.

"Oo! That's not til 1866! You have to try one of these." The Doctor rummages around in his coat pocket until he finds a banana, then pulls it out with a grin. "Brilliant stuff. Far better than pineapple if you ask me."

"You cannot insult the noble pineapple," Voltaire protests.

"Noble's a bit generous," the Doctor mutters. "How about limes? Lemons, yes, you can do a lot with a lemon, but who likes limes?" He wrinkles his nose. "Though a good key lime pie... Oo, speaking of drinks, and speaking of bananas, there's this amazing recipe I picked up in Havana--"

Something makes the Doctor stop, some tickle at the back of his mind. He looks quickly around, startled and unnerved. Impossible, he thinks. His mind playing tricks.

"Are you ill?" Voltaire asks, concerned.

"No, I just... I thought I felt..." the Doctor trails off, still searching the crowd for something, someone. But it's impossible. Probably just an echo of Reinette walking into his memories. A door once opened...

And then there, to his left -- a flash of black. He rises up on his toes, peering, but he can't see... He's supposed to wait for Reinette but surely this will only take a minute.

"Have a banana," he says to Voltaire, drops the fruit into his hand and starts weaving his way through the densely crowded room towards that glimpse he saw. A Scarmouche, yes, that's what it was. There are a fair number of them here, guests dressed as the popular stock comic character of the commedia dell'arte, masked rogues dressed in black velvet. He saw any number of them before and never gave them a second thought.

But he thought he felt someone. Impossible.

He catches another glimpse of black and quickens his pace, muttering a stream of apologies. Hopefully he hasn't elbowed anyone especially important; he's crossed enough monarchs for at least a year. And never mind Louis.

His hand is on his sword even before he sees the glint of steel. He whips it out as he whirls about, bringing his sword up to block, and the bright clap of their blades sings in his ears.

One look is all it takes. One brushing of minds and it doesn't matter that they've never met in these bodies, it doesn't matter that neither of them has any right to be alive, much less at a party in pre-revolutionary France. Nothing else matters except that the Master is right in front of him.

"What? What?" he gasps, stunned, stepping back.

The Master grins broadly, clearly pleased to see him. And not in a crazed 'about to steal your regenerations' sort of way. "Doctor," he greets, with a slight tilt of his head.

The Doctor can’t seem to process what’s happening. This must be a hallucination, a dream, a false signal in the mental static. But it’s none of those. The urge to touch the Master, to reach out and feel how real he is, is overwhelming. But the heavy pressure against his sword is solid enough.

"You should be dead," he says, trying to pull himself together. "Dead dead, for-good dead. But you're in France."

A shift and their swords clash again, again. They stop with their guards almost touching, faces inches apart. The Doctor is aware of people watching but his eyes are only for the Master. Dozens of questions fill his mind, but instead of asking them he stares into the Master's eyes through the mask.

He's not alone. For the first time since the War ended he's not alone. It's almost too much to take in.

"Why are you here?" the Doctor asks, because he has to ask. Because the Master plus Earth has always equalled some ludicrous plan to ruin human history, to help some alien invasion for his own ends. Could he somehow be involved with that fifty-first century ship, with the time windows? Did he trick the maintenance robots into looking for Reinette to sabotage history or as a ploy to bring him here? Is this a trap, was Reinette bait? It's not the first time the Master lured him somewhere. Or was his arrival a wrench in the works?

The Master merely chuckles, retreats and then lunges forward. The Doctor barely jumps out of the way in time, the point of the blade slicing by a mere inch from his chest. He looks quickly around for an exit and then just as quickly has to block another vicious swing. Their blades sing as they clash.

It hasn’t been very long at all since the last time he was in a swordfight, battling for his life. The Sycorax preferred broadswords, heavy and brutal compared to the deceptively delicate smallswords they’re using now. Of course, this time he doesn’t have a store of residual cellular energy to grow back another hand.

But he doesn’t think it’s his hand he has to worry about, as right now the Master seems intent on chopping off his head. He evades another cut and a woman screams as she’s almost hit instead.

"Sorry," he apologizes to her, making a swing of his own.

The Master leaps out of the way, sprightly in his newest body, his Time Lord body (and the Doctor really wants to know how he managed that), and nearly collides with a massively-turbaned Turk. The Master snarls at the man and raises his sword in anger.

"Tell me why you're here," the Doctor insists, loudly, drawing his attention.

The Master turns back. "Fight me," he demands, eyes wide.

The Doctor turns and runs, through the crowd and out one of the large doors that open to the garden. Whatever's going on, whatever the Master wants, they can't do it in there. He's not going to let the Master hurt anyone if he can help it. There are people out here, mingling in the moonlight, clustered in small groups or couples. The Doctor sprints past them in long strides, down the wide path between the pools of the Parterre d'Eau, down more stairs and finally stopping at the edge of Lantone fountain. But when he turns back, the Master isn't running after him, isn't anywhere.

Stupid, he thinks to himself. He should have known better than to turn his back on the Master of all people. And in the darkness the black velvet of the Scarmouche is far too good a disguise. But he knows the Master is somewhere close. He can feel him, his unguarded presence tantalizing to the Doctor's contact-starved mind. He wanders back up the stairs, then turns right into the garden, eyes wide in the darkness, seeking, seeing less with his eyes and more with his mind, straining for more. When moving closer to the palace seems fruitless, he goes down a path that lands him in the Salle de Bal and out again. But no matter what direction he moves, he never seems to get any closer.

"Master!" he calls out, voice resounding in the still air of the garden, the broad path lined thick with trees. He walks to the left, towards one of the large fountains. "Master! Come back here and fight!" Not that he wants to fight, but if that's what it takes, he'll do it. If that's what the Master wants from him, the Doctor will fight across Versailles, across Earth, across the stars if he has to. And he'll win the way he's always won, but that's not important. If he couldn't still feel him, the Doctor would worry that he was losing his mind, that the psychic isolation is causing phantoms without the TARDIS to fill the void. Maybe he is losing his mind. He needs to get back to the ship, back to the TARDIS and Rose and Mickey.

At the fountain the path intersects with another, but there's no sign of the Master. He turns left again, towards the palace, intending to leave. He cries out in pain as the low whisper of the Master's presence suddenly rises to a shout, rattling his teeth it's so loud. He grabs at his head and falls to his knees, sword clattering to the ground, and when his eyes clear the Master is standing over him, the point of his sword pressing sharply at the hollow of the Doctor's throat.

The Master tuts. "Letting down your guard. So trusting." His grin flashes in the darkness.

"You should be dead," the Doctor says. "Why aren't you dead?" Dead with the rest, oh, Gallifrey. He thought it had stopped hurting, that he'd left it behind when he regenerated, but it's all coming back. The guilt tightens his throat, as if the dead have clawed their way back solely to strangle him.

The point of the blade pierces the skin, so shallow there's only a drop of blood trickling down, but an inch and his throat would be opened, just an inch. "Are you going to kill me?" he asks, distantly. Revenge, he thinks. He's not sure he's supposed to fight that. Daleks, yes. Except he couldn't, in the end. He died because he couldn't kill again, and it was only Rose who saved the universe that time. All he did was take back the death he deserved.

The tip of the blade lifts from his throat and drags up along his neck, his left cheek, a thin trail of blood drying in its wake. There's a sharp sting as the sword slices along his cheek. He hisses and flinches back, but before he can reach for his sword the blade is beneath his throat, holding up his chin.

"You're far too useful to kill," the Master says. "So very useful. One day, Doctor, you're going to make all of this possible."

The Doctor frowns in confusion. "All of what?"

"I'm hardly going to spoil the surprise," the Master chides. "What I want now is for you to fight. Show me just how much you can still resist me." And then the blade is lifted from his neck and the Master steps back. Gestures for him to stand.

There's an implication there that's unsettling to say the least, but now isn't the time to worry about implications. He takes up his sword and stands, wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. It comes away dark with blood.

"All right," the Doctor says, settling into a duelling stance. "If you want to fight, let's do it." He points his sword at the Master. His fighting hand, he thinks, and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards. The old despair fades into the background as intent takes over. He was always better than the Master at duelling and has a fond memory of beating him soundly in 1215.

"Still claiming to be the best swordsman in France?" he teases.

The Master purses his lips. "That's a fact, Doctor, not a claim."

"Prove it," the Doctor dares, suddenly giddy. The Master is alive, he's alive and in front of him and dragging him into a duel. It's like the Time War never happened, like they're still renegades testing themselves against each other while the universe takes care of itself. It's astonishingly freeing. He finds himself grinning stupidly.

And then they're off, swords clashing. The Doctor laughs as he parries, feints, attacks. He's even lighter on his feet in this body than his past ones, and his footwork is quick and nimble. He feels alive, like he did fighting the Sycorax, vibrant after a long sleep. Like he did when he crossed swords with the Master in his third body, two prisoners finding freedom in a good dust-up. At least, that's how it was for him.

Their fight takes them down the path, away from the palace. They're surprisingly well-matched, thrust for thrust, advancing and retreating. The Master's footwork has improved, far nimbler than it once was. He has the grace of a dancer this time around, a litheness that matches the Doctor's own. It strikes him, suddenly, how different the Master is now. After his first regeneration, his bodies always had a heaviness to them. Not in weight but in the way he used his strength, clumsy and blunt with anger. When they fought in the past the Master would swing hard at every opportunity, leaving himself wide open for the Doctor's subtler attacks. The Master always tried to win through sheer force, even though in almost everything else his mind was as agile as the Doctor's. But now that anger is gone or at least sated, and it's bewildering to him. And that's the least of it.

He'd never thought much about it, but the Master was on his last body when he was only on his third. All the bodies he had past that were ones he stole, all the way to the end. At some point between the Doctor leaving Gallifrey and the Master participating in the Auton invasion, he went through eleven regenerations. The Doctor never asked how. But the Master who came to Earth never regenerated again, never had all of who he was burnt away and born anew. If living in alien bodies wasn't bad enough, didn't already help to drive him mad, then living for that long without regenerating surely made it worse. No wonder he was in such a state by the end, almost unrecognizable in his insanity. All this time, through all the regenerations the Doctor has had, the Master has been the same. But not anymore. The body he has now wasn't even stolen from another Time Lord. It's his, a fresh regeneration, untainted.

Their blades cross, slide, and then lock together. The Doctor grabs the Master's shield, pausing the fight.

"You have a new set of regenerations. How?" the Doctor asks, intensely curious.

The Master merely smirks, enigmatic. "Trying to talk your way out of a fight? I don't think so."

A shove and the Doctor staggers back. "All right, then," he says, raising his sword again. "After I win you'll have to answer."

"What is the bigger fantasy? That you're going to win or that you can force me to do anything?"

"Well, if that's the way you feel about it," the Doctor says, turns and with a few long strides ducks onto an path that leads into a bosquet. He almost collides with a statue set into the entrance. "Whoops, sorry," he mutters, and then bolts down the left forking path. There's little chance of any humans finding them in here in this dense grove, which means no concerns about hostages or distractions. Not that the Master has seemed at all interested in anyone but him so far tonight. Maybe all this business with the time windows has nothing to do with the Master. Maybe it's a coincidence, unlikely as that seems. Or maybe it's the fact that he's here that's drawn the Master to Versailles. Stranger things have happened.

"Running away again?" the Master says, as he reaches the small clearing where the Doctor is waiting.

"Terrible habit, I know," the Doctor replies. His sword is fully extended, his free hand on his hip, and the Master matches his position. The tips of their smallswords rest a breath apart as they circle each other. There's a long lull as they size each other up, their eyes narrowed and considering.

It's the Doctor who moves first, but that hardly matters as their swords come together in a flurry of motion. Each strike is blocked, parried, a sharp cling of metal or a scrape as they slide together. There isn't enough room for either of them to back away, but confinement only betters their aim. Nothing focuses the mind like a very sharp point coming at you at speed.

"You've improved," the Doctor admits. "Did you take lessons while you were dead?"

"It's a natural gift. You could say I was inspired."

"Really? By who?"

"You," the Master says.

When the Doctor hesitates in surprise, the Master dives at him. The Doctor falls back, breath held as the blade races towards him. He stumbles and lets himself fall, his back colliding with the trunk of a tree. The Master's sword spears deeply into the trunk just above his head, and the Doctor raises his foot and kicks the Master away. He cries out in success as he sees the sword left behind, jumps to his feet and yanks it out.

"Looks like I win," the Doctor says, a sword in each hand. He grins.

"So it does," the Master says, faintly irritated.

The Doctor knows the sensible thing would be to take the weapons and go, leave the Master to whatever scheme he's planning. But the sensible thing seems very dull. He doesn't want the fight to be over. He doesn't want the responsibility of having won, of having the Master's fate in his hands. He hasn't been doing very well with other people's fates recently.

Before he can think of a way to stop himself, he tosses the sword back to the Master, who catches it. The Master gives him a thoughtful look, and then slowly smiles and moves back into position.

"Shall we?" he asks.

"Oh yes," the Doctor says, grinning again. And then they're off, on the move along the bosquet path. Their strikes are wilder now, more playful, sending them dodging and thrusting and bouncing through the garden in a blur. They each laugh when they have the upper hand, grumble when they lose it.

They turn another corner and run smack into a clearing unexpectedly full of statues. It's so unexpected that the Doctor narrowly misses crashing into one, and the Master actually does crash into the other. There's a loud thump and then a crash of marble as the statue falls to the ground. The Master rolls to the side with a pained groan and the head of the statue rolls to a stop a few feet from the rest of it.

"Oh dear," the Doctor says, shaking his head. "That Baccante won't be drinking any more wine. Breaking a royal statue? The king won't like that."

"Oh, shut up," the Master grumbles.

Once the Master is on his feet, the Doctor backs away, raises his sword but doesn't attack, giving the Master time to recover.

"We could take a break," the Doctor offers.

But the Master doesn't like that. His eyes flash as he swiftly strikes, sending the Doctor scuttling back and then down the path to the centre of the bosquet. But the Master's sudden strength is short-lived, and as soon as they settle into a rhythm again it's clear that his injury has given the Doctor the advantage. Yet he knows better than to offer rest a second time. Instead he carries on, slowly forcing the Master backwards.

As they fight, they exit the bosquet and then enter another tree-lined path. The Master seems to be weakening and the Doctor can tell the end of the duel is near. It's down to luck more than skill; if he'd been the one who crashed into the statue, their positions would certainly be reversed. But the Doctor has always relied on luck.

The path takes them to a wide, open area, its circumference lined with colonnades. At the middle is a statue on a large pedestal. More Greek theology, this one featuring the Abduction of Persephone.

"It's over," he tells the weakened Master, hoping to end this without bloodshed. Well, further bloodshed.

"Never," the Master growls. "Fight." He swings at the Doctor, who blocks him without much difficulty. They circle round the statue once, twice, until finally the Master falls for the same trick as before. He runs at the Doctor only to have the Doctor jump out of the way, sending the Master into the tall, wide pedestal. The moment the Master turns, sword raised, the Doctor blocks him. Their blades slide together and their shields lock.

"It's over," the Doctor repeats, but without pleasure. He doesn't want this to be over any more than the Master does. The moment is too perfect to end, for things to go back as they were, for the Doctor to go back alone. But what other choice is there? It's the way they've been for centuries, merely passing for brief moments and then apart again. The Master has hated him too much for anything else, anything more. It was always too late.

He expects anger at being defeated, even fury. He expects hatred. Yet now, he looks into the Master's eyes and that constant hatred isn't what he sees. Instead... Instead there's something else, and it draws him in, his breath held for fear of its impossibility.

The slight tilt of the Master's chin. The way his lips part, seemingly inviting. And his eyes... The Doctor is caught by it all, pulled closer, closer, until their lips are a breath apart and there's no resistance and all he has to do…

He kisses the Master and time stops. Not literally of course, but it might as well have for all that the Doctor's existence narrows to the touch of the Master's lips against his own, of the taste of him. It's so unexpected, so strange and yet so wonderful, so longed for, that the Doctor forgets everything but this. The kiss is everything as the Master leans into his mouth, as the Master takes control, as the sword is plucked from the Doctor's unresisting hand.

The Doctor's back hits the pedestal. The kiss breaks, but the cool night air does nothing to clear his senses. He can still taste the Master on his lips and he licks at them, dazed.

The Master sheaths his own sword, then tosses aside the Doctor's. "Yes," he says, gently. "It is over. And I win."

The Doctor's back hits the pedestal. The kiss breaks, but the cool night air does nothing to clear his senses. He can still taste the Master on his lips and he licks at them, dazed.

The Master sheaths his own sword, then tosses aside the Doctor's. "Yes," he says, gently. "It is over. And I win."

"All right," the Doctor says, faintly. Winning is impossibly insignificant in the face of what just happened. He's never wanted to lose so badly.

The Master steps close again, his fingers brushing over the scabbing cut on the Doctor's cheek. His gloves are leather, not velvet like the rest of his costume. They feel familiar. "Say it."

"You win," the Doctor breathes, transfixed. "Master."

The Master rewards that with another kiss, deeper and more passionate than the first. The Doctor sinks into it, all resistance melting away, wanting only more. It's been so long, so long, it's almost unbearable to have this again. He doesn't dare to breathe, can't believe this is real. He's drunk something and dreaming all this, dreaming of what he's wanted but couldn't have. He lost it so long ago. But it feels real, it all feels real, solid and filling his senses, his fingers curling in the velvet of the Master's costume. All this time he's been half-masked, his face covered, and suddenly the Doctor needs to see. He reaches up and pushes off the hat, the mask, and sees the Master for the first time.

Yes, he thinks. Oh, yes. More beautiful than a clockwork man, than a werewolf in this moonlight. He can't look away. He's caught.

The Master's mouth curves in a knowing smile. He reaches down and flicks open the Doctor's jacket, buttons released so easily, and then slides his hand beneath, caressing him through his shirt. The Doctor takes a shuddering breath.

"That's it," the Master murmurs, encouraging. "Breathe for me. Only for me."

"Master," the Doctor whispers, throat tight with sudden emotion. He's not supposed to have this, the Master's supposed to hate him, to hurt him. He lost this centuries ago out of his own foolishness, his stubborn pride. How could he possibly deserve this now?

"You've been so alone," the Master murmurs. "So lonely without me. But I'm here now."

"How?" the Doctor asks, so lost.

"Because of you," the Master replies, steadily opening the buttons of the Doctor's shirt. "You're going to bring me back so we can be together."

"You're from my future," the Doctor realizes. It explains so much: the strange comments, the way the Master seems to know him the way he is now. The way he already knows how to touch this body. They're lovers, the future him and the Master. He doesn't know how it happens, doesn't care. The mere fact of it is enough, more than enough. Somehow they found each other again.

"Am I still with you?" the Doctor asks.

"Of course," the Master replies. He pulls the Doctor's shirt free, parts the fabric, exposing his chest to the cool night air.

"But that means you've gone back along my timeline," the Doctor says, unable to quiet the sensible part of his brain entirely. "That's impossible."

"Not anymore," the Master says. He leans in to kiss his neck, then whispers into his ear. "When we're together, nothing can stop us. Not even time. Do you know why I came?"

The Doctor gives the slightest shake of his head.

"Because you're going to ask me to," the Master says. "You'll tell me how alone you were, how much you needed your Master. And now I'm here."

The Doctor whimpers. A shiver runs up his spine, not from cold but from want. Desire that this be true, desire that he be so desired, that the Master will bend time and space to be with him. To find him and corner him and strip him bare. The Doctor's shirt and jacket fall to the ground, and then the Master's hand is at his trousers.

"Say it," the Master murmurs, fingers poised.

"Yes. Please, yes," the Doctor moans.

The Master chuckles, warm and pleased, and the Doctor's tight trousers loosen as the fastening button is undone, as the zipper slides down. He's naked but for his pants and tie and chucks, and the Master's hand takes firm hold over the bulge of his cock, covered by thin cloth. The heat of his hand makes the Doctor groan and buck his hips. He feels drugged with lust, with need, but it's still all so unreal, too good to be true, even with warm velvet beneath his hands, with the Master's mouth on his shoulder, his hands on his body. The cold marble of the pedestal digs into his back, a delicious contrast.

"One day, you're going to tell me about everyone who wanted you," the Master says, low and silky. "They were never enough for you. No one ever was. My dear Doctor, how you've waited."

"When...?" the Doctor asks. When will they be together, how much longer does he have to be alone? The loneliness is so strong it hurts, a physical pain inside him. He's not sure how long he can bear it. If he doesn't think about it, if he pretends it's not there, he can forget for a while, but it's never gone. It's a terrible gaping chasm waiting beneath his feet, always waiting for him to slip, to fall. And there's no one to pull him out.

"Soon enough," the Master replies. "But not yet. A little while. That's why I'm here now."

"Don’t leave," the Doctor begs, because he knows the Master will have to. He'll have to go back to his proper timeline, to the Doctor who's waiting for him there. And that's good, that's wonderful even, but it means he'll be alone again, and soon.

"I won't," the Master promises. "Not yet. I'm here to give you something. All you have to do is ask." One hand slides meaningfully to the Doctor's arse, squeezes and caresses.

There's a long pause as the offer hangs in the air. As the Doctor struggles for the words and finally finds them.

"Fuck me," the Doctor breathes, voice trembling with emotion.

The Master gives a rumbling purr of pleasure. "Turn around," he commands, silk over steel.

The Doctor obeys without hesitation, resting his hands against the pedestal, fingers spread. His pale skin looks white in the moonlight, almost like marble. And as the Master pulls down his pants, as he's fully bared, all clothes, kicked aside, as the Master's hands caress his naked body and guide his legs apart, he feels kin to the Greek statues, white and naked, frozen but for their sculptor's hands.

The Master presses fully against him, all soothing velvet and heat. The Doctor can feel his erection through the costume fabric, the press of it against his arse. He pushes back against it and the Master chuckles, thrusts forward. The Master's arms wrap around him, holding him, hands caressing his chest, his stomach, but leaving his cock to bob untouched in the air.

"So lovely," the Master murmurs, kissing his shoulder. "So mine. No more running, Doctor. Not from me. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the Doctor says, faintly.

"Say it properly."

The Doctor's voice catches in his throat. "Yes, Master," he says, lightheaded. No matter how long it's been, he hasn't forgotten that.

"Good," the Master says, approving. "Now suck."

Two fingers press at the Doctor's lips, and he opens to accept them. The leather tastes sharp against his tongue, aged and oiled. He licks greedily at the it, wetting it eagerly, then makes a needy sound when the fingers pull away, the hand leaving his mouth. He hears the Master spit, then again, and then slick leather probing into his arse, pushing and spreading. This body is untouched in that way; all his bodies have been untouched in that way since his first regeneration. It feels incredibly right that the Master should be his first and only for a second time.

"Your wrists," the Master murmurs.

"My wrists?" the Doctor looks at them curiously. They look the same as ever.

The Master gives a considering hum. "Just a gift I'm going to give you. It's a shame you don't have it now."

"A gift?" the Doctor echoes.

"One of many," the Master says. "But in the meantime..."

With his fingers still embedded, the Master grabs the Doctor's tie with his free hand and pulls it back and then taut. It's not so tight the Doctor is unable to breathe, but it's a near thing. And then it's pulled tighter.

"Tell me what you are," the Master commands.

"Yours," the Doctor gasps, voice strained and thin. But the pressure doesn't ease.

"And tell me what you're never going to do again."

It takes a moment for the Doctor to understand, and then it's clear. "Run away," he gasps. "I'm sorry. Please, I can't--" He almost reaches for the tie, almost gives in and tries to pry it loose. And then suddenly he can breathe, and the Doctor takes in deep lungfuls of air. He coughs.

The Master's free hand strokes soothingly down his side. "I won't hurt you. I just needed to be sure. You don't really deserve this. You haven't earned it yet. But you will."

"Master, what--"

The Master hushes him. "Patience." And then his fingers are moving again, steady but insistent.

The tie is a steady pressure around the Doctor's neck, tight but not uncomfortable. He lets his head hang down, giving in to the moment, the madness of the night. He wouldn't want to resist even if there was any reason to. But there isn't, not a single one. This is meant to happen, will have happened. His future is already written and somehow that's a relief and not the constraint it should be. It's possible to have too much freedom, and the War took away every boundary he'd relied on.

The Master's fingers pull out; there's the rustle of fabric and then the blunt pressure of the Master's cock. The Doctor bites his lip as he feels the stretch and burn of it pushing in, slowly filling him. The Master's are hands tight on his hip, his waist, holding him in place, pinning him with bruising force. The dull pain feels good, makes him feel alive. He concentrates on breathing, on relaxing. It's been so long he should have forgotten how to do this, but it's really quite simple, being fucked. Quite natural to feel the Master hot against his back, sinking into him. There's no one left to judge him for having desire.

Neither of them speak. The night is startlingly quiet. He hears their breathing, unsteady and sharp; the splash of garden fountains; the distant sounds of the party; the nocturnal calls of owls and small mammals. No mechanical sounds, no steam or combustion engines here. The industrial revolution hasn't started yet. The only light is the stars and the moon. Earth will never be this quiet again, not until the humans leave, but Gallifrey was like this until the War. The name, the memory, are a spear to his hearts, and he takes hold of one of the Master's hands, gripping it for reassurance.

And then the Master is fully inside him, flush against him, and his grip is holding and not pinning, and the Doctor shudders bodily at being so held. He lets out a choked sob, finally feeling what must be broken glass in his chest it hurts so much, the pieces of his hearts broken all this time, and he grips desperately at the Master's arms.

He doesn't deserve this. Doesn't deserve kindness or to have the Master back so impossibly. He doesn't deserve it. "Make it hurt," he rasps, voice tight with emotion, with self-loathing. "Please."

The Master is silent as he considers the request. And then says, simply, "No."

The Doctor gives an angry sob and smashes his fists against the pedestal, catching his knuckles on the carved designs. The Master grabs his arms and pins them to his sides and the Doctor struggles, only struggling now because there's finally someone to struggle against. And then suddenly he's slammed against the marble with stunning force; he goes limp, dazed, his head ringing from blow.

Somehow the Master is still inside him. Once the Doctor is still he resumes fucking him, slow and strong. The Doctor paws weakly at the pedestal, his body pressed against the cold, hard surface.

"I decide when you need to hurt," the Master says, soft in his ear. "I decide your punishment. Not you." He's holding the Doctor up now, steadying him between his body and the pedestal. "I decide what you deserve. Understood?"

"Yes, Master," the Doctor slurs.

"Good," the Master says, gentler now. "You've been alone for too long. I know what you need. It's a shame you won't remember that."

"What?" the Doctor asks, weakly.

"If you remember this, you might not do what you need to do. I'm going to have to hide the memory. But when the time comes I'll find it, and then you'll remember. You'll remember that I came for you. You'll remember how it was possible."

The Doctor tries to think. "I helped you?"

"By George, I think he's got it," the Master says, warmly. "If you don't help me, we can't be together. So I need you to promise. Give me your word and I'll make you feel so good. You'll deserve to feel good."

"I-- I promise," the Doctor stammers. He's reeling, confused, but that only makes the Master the only solid thing, the only steady thing in the whole universe. "I'll help. Anything…"

"Good Doctor," the Master says, approving. "Very good. Now put your hands back on the statue."

The Doctor obeys, leaning heavily against the pedestal. The Master straightens, no longer holding him but gripping again, one hand on his hip to steady him and the other reaching for his cock, stroking it firmly. The Doctor moans.

"There, now. That's better," the Master croons. "It's good, isn't it?"

The Doctor nods.

"Feel it," the Master commands. "Moan for me. Show me how good it is."

The Doctor obeys. As the Master thrusts inside him, as he squeezes along the Doctor's cock, the Doctor moans openly, loudly. Loud enough that someone might hear, might come and see them, but he doesn't care. Let them see.

There's no more words now, only the Doctor's moans and the Master's low grunts, the slide of leather against flesh, of their bodies together. Everything else is forgotten, unimportant, a mere backdrop. He doesn't think of Reinette, doesn't think of Rose and Mickey, doesn't think of anything but the Master, his mind full of the Master from just his presence alone. It's a balm to his mind, to his soul, to not be alone. To not be the last. To know that when the Master leaves him, taking his memory of this, his future self will be waiting to greet him, will remember all of tonight. That this isn't an end, isn't even a beginning, just a part of a story he hasn't started yet.

He stops thinking and focuses on simple physical pleasure. It's so good, so easy. He clenches around the Master and that earns him an appreciative squeeze around the head of his cock. No longer stunned, he meets the Master's thrusts, rocks against him, taking him deep, and in return the Master fucks him harder. It's lovely and he wants it to go on and on but all too soon it ends. The Master comes first, pressed deep inside him, and then stays there as he strokes his cock, as he caresses his body. The Doctor's climax leaves him sated and shaky, grateful for the Master's arm around his waist. And when the Master presents him with his gloved hand, the fingers wet with come, the Doctor obediently laps them clean.

When it's over, the Master lowers him to the ground and leans him against the pedestal. He tucks himself back in, straightens his clothes, then kneels down beside the Doctor. He takes off his gloves and places his bare hands on either side of his face.

"Let me in," the Master orders, gently.

The Doctor's eyes roll back as the Master pushes inside. He seems to know his way around, to know exactly what he's looking for. The Doctor watches as before his eyes a memory forms: of being pulled from the party by Reinette instead of the Master, of her stripping off his clothes instead, of her kissing him and fucking him. He feels his emotions copied and recontextualized, his attraction and desire transferred to the woman who is destined for the king, blended with the admiration already present. Two sets of memories, one real and one false.

"You're going to forget I was here," the Master commands, from inside his mind. "When I leave you will dress and then clean yourself up, and then forget doing that. You will not notice your injuries. You will stay at the party until it ends."

They're not requests, not even simple orders. The Doctor can feel the hypnotic commands sink into his mind and has neither the strength nor the will to resist them.

The Master's parting gift is a kiss he will not remember for two years.




--the memory of his night with Reinette is ripped away and the Doctor remembers. He snaps back to his body, staggers from Lucy's arms and leans back against the window. It's only been minutes in the physical world, but it feels like they were in his mind for hours.

He stares at the Master in stunned amazement. "How-- but-- you--" he stammers, completely at a loss. "I didn't remember," he says, stunned. It's more than a small shock to have a whole chunk of your life gone and find it was there the whole time. All this time the Master was there, just out of reach.

"I made you forget," the Master says, pleased with himself.

The Doctor remembers the party, remembers finally leaving to find Rose and Mickey trussed up by the repair droids, but that particular night... Until now there was nothing. It was simply blank. He remembers his head hurting; he thought he'd drunk too much wine. He touches his cheek but of course there's no scar. There wouldn't be.

"Was there something else? Something important." Concentrating so hard on that night, he thinks he can feel the edges of some other memory, but no matter how hard he tries there's nothing. Just blankness and then remembering.

"Don't worry your little head about it," the Master says, cheerily.

The Doctor holds his head as if to keep it from falling off. Like that statue's head fell off. Proof. He needs proof to know that it really happened. That it isn't a false memory. His memory is so much of who he is, and the idea of a false past unsettles him to no end.

"Is Versailles still standing?" the Doctor asks.

The Master thinks. "Should be."

"I want to go there." The Doctor pushes himself off the glass, then staggers, falls back, dizzy. "I need to see that statue. The Baccante. The one that broke."

Lucy goes to him, takes his arm. "You've had a long day," she says, worried. "You need to rest."

"I need to see it now," the Doctor insists. "The Toclafane. They have cameras. You can see what they see?"

"Yes," the Master says, understanding. "Sit down before you fall down. This shouldn't take long."

Lucy helps the Doctor over to a chair facing the television screens. Right now they're showing various bits of Earth, of human activities, but as the Master talks into his wristwatch the screens flicker and change. They all show the same image, a bird's eye view of the palace. The Toclafane swoops down and into the gardens, following the Master's instructions.

"It was there, right there," the Doctor says, pointing at a cluster of statues in one of the square bosquets. He stands up, walks unsteadily over to the screens. "Come on, come on. There! Tell it to fly right up to it, that statue there!"

The Master gives his orders and in a matter of seconds the head of the Baccante fills the screens. The Doctor stares at it, stares and boggles as he sees a tell-tale crack running along the base of its neck. "It's real," he mumbles, shocked, and stumbles back. Lucy takes his arm again, tugs him back into the chair. "It's real," the Doctor repeats, and laughs, giggles feverishly. He can't believe it but the evidence is right in front of him. And it's not possible for the Master to have travelled back to 1745 yet. It won't be possible until they have a working TARDIS again. He knows his own future. It's almost too much to process. His head aches.

"A time loop," he says, distantly. "You wrapped the paradox inside a time loop."

"Gift wrapped. Every once in a while I like to impress myself," the Master says. The Doctor can practically see his ego swelling.

He stares at his wrists, his cuffs. A gift, the Master called them. Implied that he's still wearing them, will still be wearing them. He's not sure if he's more scared or excited by the prospect. How long will it take to get the TARDIS seed to the point of functional time travel? Whole years of his life have been written and that's not supposed to happen, not to Time Lords. The querency sticks didn't lie. He promised to help, promised himself to the Master, and he does. He will. It already happened. It has to happen. It's no wonder he's dizzy.

But his future wasn't the only thing he learned from the suppressed memory. The Master was there, went there just for him: on his behalf, by his request. The Doctor didn't want to have been alone for so long after the War. He wanted the Master to be there. Maybe on some level he already knew that he was, and the suppression of the memory left a hole that he needed to fill. Maybe that's why he hurt so much, why the loneliness was so unbearable. Because on some level, he knew he'd lost something important, something precious.

"I think you've had enough excitement for today," the Master says, looking down at him.

The Master and Lucy each take an arm and help the Doctor up, help him out of the lab. The Doctor has trouble even keeping one foot in front of the other, and the trip back to the suite is a blur. He barely notices as Lucy strips off his suit, as she coaxes him to lie down in the middle of their bed. His head is killing him.

Lucy tucks him in and kisses his forehead, smoothes back his fringe with familiar care. "Sleep," she tells him, gently.

"Can't," the Doctor says, teeth gritted and eyes squeezed tight. "My head."

"Harry, help him," Lucy says, worried.

The bed shifts as the Master sits down beside him. Hands press against the sides of the Doctor's face and the Doctor doesn't resist the intrusion. The pain is like a signal flare in his mind and the Master finds the source of it easily: there are damaged neural threads, torn loose and in tatters and spitting like live wires. Damage from remembering? If his head didn't hurt so much, he could think, try to feel for what they once connected to. But whenever he tries, the Master guides his thoughts away. The Doctor finds himself thinking only of Lucy, staring at her concerned face as deep in his mind the Master cuts at the... at something... at...

The pain slowly eases and the Doctor gasps with relief. All that's left is a dull throb.

"Snip snip! All better," the Master says. "Shame about the loose ends. Ah well, practice makes perfect."

"What?" the Doctor asks, dazed.

Go to sleep, the Master commands from within his mind, and the Doctor is unable to resist.

It's a cool, bright-blue morning in Cardiff, and the Doctor can smell the sea.

The last time he set foot on Roald Dahl Plass he was running for his life. He was a different man, then. Or perhaps he's a different man now, no longer tormented by the past, by loss and guilt. No longer angry and alone. Not with the Master by his side and their future nestled contentedly in the case in his hand.

If he's changed, it’s a change for the better. He's not running anymore. They walk together across the Plass, the last and first Lords of Time dressed in regal black. The Time Lords are dead; long live the Time Lords.

"Is that a coal ship?" the Doctor asks, noticing the activity at the far end. When he was here in 1869 Cardiff was a coal port, and it's not quite West Bute Dock all over again but it's definitely no longer a tourist destination. But as he looks closer, he realizes they're unloading as well as loading.

"Who'd have thought South Wales would be good for anything?" the Master says, clearly amused at his own joke. "Coal is booming. No more pesky environmental and trade regulations. Do you have any idea how dull it was pretending to be interested in Earth politics? Boring."

The Doctor laughs despite himself. The Master was always the more serious of the two of them when they were younger. The change suits him. A lot of things about his latest regeneration suit him. Even though they've spent much of the past five months together, the Doctor finds it hard to stop watching him. There's nothing keeping them from each other anymore. He drinks in the sight of him as if he hasn't seen the Master since leaving Gallifrey, and in a way he hasn't. Not like this.

When they stop in front of the water tower, where the TARDIS once left a footprint of her perception filter, the Doctor is unable to resist the urge to steal a kiss. The Master's lips are warm and dry and eager against his own and the fine cloth of the Master's suit slides beneath his hand. He's not sure how he lived all those centuries having lost this.

The kiss goes on for a bit, neither of them willing to end it.

"I know it's a cliché, but did the earth just move for you, too?" the Doctor murmurs, and nibbles on the Master's lip.

The Master laughs against his mouth. Light fades to shadow and the Doctor looks around and then up.

"Oh," the Doctor says, staring as the ground rises over their heads. They're sinking beneath the Plass on a paving stone, which even for him is an unusual form of transportation. As they sink down into a high, arching space, his hand tightens on the Master's arm. He's not afraid of heights but he hasn't been fond of them since... well, since the Master pushed him off a satellite dish. The two of them have never done anything halfway, especially to each other.

He sniffs the air. "What's that smell? Is that... pterosaur?"

"No matter how many times the slaves scrubbed," the Master laments. "Don't worry. It's happily loose in the Amazon, snacking on anyone with a bulldozer."

"What, you saving the rainforest?"

"As Prime Minister, it's my duty to my constituency," the Master says, with a slight bow of his head. "Even under hypnosis they whined on about it."

"And letting a pterosaur loose in the jungle is the least you could do?" the Doctor asks, bemused.

They step off the slab and it automatically rises back up. "I wasn't going to keep it locked up in here, stinking up the place. Who lets a carnivorous giant lizard loose in their headquarters? Oh yes, Torchwood."

The Doctor starts in surprise. "This was Torchwood?" He looks around and sees no sign of the previous occupant. There's fresh paint on the walls and the furniture is gleamingly new.

The Master makes a dismissive sound. "Your freak and his little team had the survival instincts of a sausage. Who keeps their headquarters inside a national landmark?"

"Jack, apparently," the Doctor replies. When he'd stopped off to refuel, he'd thought that Jack was simply camped out in wait, rucksack and all. He certainly looked the same, all the way down to the coat. But of course he'd been busy.

"Tourists crawling all over the place like rats. Maybe that's why they kept a pterosaur. And enemy number one," the Master says, making a gun with his fingers and pointing it at the Doctor's chest. He mimes shooting and then blows at his fingertips. "Humans, Doctor. They only want you when it's convenient to them."

The Doctor suppresses a flinch, the memory of Benny fresh in his mind. But the Master is right about that, at least in regards to Torchwood. Even before the Void and the Cybermen and the Daleks, Yvonne Hartman was only too eager to imprison him. He had a strong suspicion that if he hadn't helped her, if there hadn't been a pressing need for his expertise, she would have simply had him dissected, the same way she intended to take apart his TARDIS. He was just another captured alien to her despite all the times he'd saved her country, saved the world, the whole human race. He still can't believe Jack joined Torchwood. It was such a betrayal.

The Master sees his reaction and leans close. "But not anymore. Torchwood will never hurt you again," he says tenderly. "I protect what's mine."

The Doctor gives a grateful nod and then welcomes the Master's kiss. His free hand tangles in the Master's hair as emotion wells up in him, deepening the kiss. It feels so impossible to have this, to have him, and he's still reeling from the discovery of their destined future, of the Master coming back for him at Versailles. He takes a ragged breath, wanting nothing more than to be back in the Master's bed, safe in his arms. The pure need is overwhelming and his desperation is driven by the fact that he could have had this, for centuries he could have had this but didn't. He let everything else come between them and the regret is terribly bitter.

"Master," he breathes, aching for him even now. It was never possible for them to have enough of each other before and he doubts it will be possible now. Even their worst offences against each other were driven by love, however twisted.

The Master merely welcomes his need, satisfied as a cat with cream. "My dear Doctor," he murmurs. "Such a good boy."

The Doctor shivers with pleasure. It's barely been two days since he was a child, and the Master's approval still feels indescribably good. He wants to be a good boy for his Master. It feels like the most important thing in the universe.

"Good boys deserve gifts," the Master says, fingers teasing along the Doctor's neck, brushing aside his open collar. "Would you like to know what you've earned?"

The Doctor nods.

"Mercury, copper, uranium..."

The Doctor furrows his brow, and then grins with realization. "TARDIS feed!" he says, suddenly glowing with excitement. "Oh, brilliant!"

The Master smiles back, then plucks the case from the Doctor's hand. He places it on an empty desk and opens it, revealing the TARDIS coral nestled in packing foam. He steps aside and lets the Doctor take it out and cradle it in his arm. The Doctor strokes it gently, sending it thoughts of safety and comfort through the brush of their psychic fields. It purrs contentedly, happy to be close to the Rift again, to be near two Time Lords. It's already feeding on the ambient energy, but it's going to need a lot more than that to grow big and strong.

"Everything will have to be built from scratch," the Doctor says, thinking of the highly advanced hyper-looms that were normally used to grow a TARDIS from seed to capsule. They won't be able to make anything near that, but fortunately they're only re-growing this particular TARDIS. The hardest parts, the mathematical naming and the space-time event formation, were done for them. It'll be no mean feat to grow a TARDIS from seed, much less with primitive technology, much less in six months, but it can be done. He's certain of that much. The future depends on it.

"If there's a supply of huon particles ready, it can have a soak in that while we work."

"The huon arrived in this morning's shipment," the Master says. "First priority. And I've brought in everything that looked remotely useful from all those packrat collections. Half of it's broken, but we'll be taking it apart anyway."

"We?" the Doctor asks.

"As if I'd let you grow my TARDIS without me," the Master says, in mock-disbelief. "And I'm hardly going to let anyone else touch it while it's growing. I rescheduled the next phase of my world-domination for after the exitonic circuitry is implanted."

"What about Lucy?"

"Lucy will be our assistant. She can hand us things and you can explain block transfer computation to her using small words. You always did like having someone to explain thing to. She'll look fantastic in nothing but a lab coat and high heels."

The Doctor rolls his eyes. He's tempted to defend Lucy's intelligence, but while he adores her she's hardly on their level. She's still a human, and not even a genius by human standards. And of course he does like having someone to explain things to; if he tried any of that on the Master he'd get a resounding sneer for the effort.

But all that doesn't matter. They'll be working together, side by side. That's an even better present than the chance to grow a TARDIS, better than the recovered memory of Versailles. A giddy grin spreads across his face and he beams at the Master.

The Master gives him a tolerant look, any annoyance clearly tempered by the fact that the Doctor's glee is entirely made of adoration for him and that which is given by his hand. "No time to waste," he says, and plucks the TARDIS from the Doctor's arms. He gives it a stroke himself, then sets it on the desk. "Shall we?"

The Doctor's grin widens even more.



A huon bath is a fairly simple construction, and at first glance only slightly more complicated than an aquarium. An aquarium they've just filled with enough highly dangerous particles to kill dozens of brides. But deadly huon is baby food to a TARDIS.

"Ready for a snack?" the Doctor coos to the waiting coral. "You're hungry, yes you are!"

The Master rolls his eyes. "Don't baby talk at my TARDIS."

"It likes it. I can tell," the Doctor insists, with a bit of a pout.

"Only because you've effectively married yours," the Master replies, unimpressed. "You might have spoiled yours but you're not ruining mine."

The Doctor brushes minds with the coral again, just to be contrary. He smiles when it welcomes him the same way his TARDIS does. He holds the coral closer and he can feel a gentle pull from its nascent transdimensional gravity. It feels like it wants to be held.

"No more hugs after this," the Doctor tells it, regretfully. "You'll be much too big. And radioactive. Well, assuming we don't blow ourselves up, then the main problem will be lack of arms."

"Rassilon save us," the Master mutters.

The Doctor bites back a laugh. "Think that'll be enough?" he asks, gesturing to the tank.

"It'll have to be. The next batch isn't ready yet. I could have the slaves whipped until they work faster?"

"Never mind," the Doctor says. He might have given up on humanity, but that doesn't mean he's going to encourage the Master into gratuitous suffering. Thinking about humanity makes him uncomfortable, so he turns his attention back to the coral. "Wish I'd paid more attention during TARDIS classes now."

"Don't tell me you're scared," the Master sneers.

"Of course not," the Doctor bristles. "Just... sensible. There's a reason they're usually grown in space. With transduction barriers and, and giant shields and things."

"Oh for--" the Master sighs, snatches the coral from his arms, and plunks it into the huon tank.

The Doctor holds his breath, waiting for the fireworks.

The coral thunks against the bottom and then floats back up in a spectacular display of nothing at all. It bobs at the surface like a buoy, lighter than the dense huon fluid.

"Is that all?" the Master says, unimpressed.

"Um. Shouldn't be." The Doctor peers at the coral and furrows his brow. "It should glow when it eats." He taps the glass. "Maybe the huon's bad?"

"Huon doesn't go bad," the Master says, annoyed. "Make it eat."

The Doctor reaches out and touches the coral. "It's still hungry. Maybe it can't eat. Maybe it needs something else first."

"It has a Rift energy and huon particle all-you-can-eat buffet. What else does it need? Salt and pepper?"

"An Eye of Harmony would be nice," the Doctor mutters. He runs his hands through his hair, thinking. "You said you cut the anchor but you never gave it an alternate energy source. If it remembers the Eye it's still waiting for it. That's why it's not growing." He runs his hands down his jaw. "It's been feeding off the Rift but not directly. Maybe ambient energy? Maybe just enough to sustain some sort of hibernation." He screws his eyes shut, trying to remember the architecture of the Hyper Looms. "A TARDIS starts out as a block-transfer computation. When it's hooked up to the Eye it becomes a Complex Event. Circuitry's installed, and the last step is to link the metastructure to a Time Lord's symbiotic nuclei. Yours, in this case." He points at the Master, then waggles his finger in the air. "Making the Event dependent on us. And since we're back to the metastructure, that's powered by raw artron energy! But since it was already birthed once already--Yes! Don't you see? It needs us. Our energy. Time Lord artron energy! Just like mine did when I took it to a parallel universe. Oh, brilliant!"

The Master, who had been nodding along during his mad ramble, gives an impatient gesture. "Then feed it already."

"We could do it together. It'd be like birthday candles! Want to make a wish?"

"I'd worry that your brain is still eight years old, but you're always like this," the Master says, dryly.

The Doctor grabs a pair of thick, shielded gloves and puts them on. He takes the coral back out of the tank and holds it up. "You need a jump-start, that's what you need. Ten years should do the trick. You might want to stand back," he warns. "Ready?" the Doctor asks, glancing to the Master. His stomach is knotted with anticipation, with hope.

The Master takes a few steps back. "Do it," he says, confident.

"Here goes," the Doctor says, excited. He remembers his joy as he brought his TARDIS back to life in Pete's universe. It feels so right that he should nurse this TARDIS back to life the same way. He concentrates on his artron reserves, the pool of time within him that ticks down the seconds of his life like an hourglass. Only the Eye of Harmony has the power to replenish it, which makes what he has even more precious.

He breathes in slowly, deeply, releasing years' worth of energy into his lungs, and then just as slowly breathes it out, golden light curling around the coral like smoke. He breathes out for a full minute and then breaks into a huge grin as golden light shimmers across its fronds. He breathes in.

"It's eating!" the Doctor says, happily. "Aw, that's so..." He has to breathe in again, suddenly short of breath. He feels a resistance, concentrates on filling his lungs. "I can't…" He grips the coral tightly as he struggles to breathe in, but the resistance increases. And then it's not a resistance but a tugging, forcing him to breathe out and keep breathing out even when he runs out of air. "Master!" he squeaks, eyes wide with alarm.

He hears the Master curse, then realizes that the golden energy of the TARDIS isn't centred around the coral. There's a thin trail of light leading into the Doctor's mouth, past his tongue and down his throat, pulling breath from empty lungs, nursing at his artron reserves in thoughtless hunger. With horror he realizes it's forming a block-transfer connection with him as if he was the Eye, except he doesn't have limitless amounts of energy for it to feast on. If they don't break the connection it will kill him.

'Help,' he mouths at the Master, who's already grabbed another pair of gloves and tugged them on. His knees wobble as he starts to weaken. He staggers back.

"Hold still," the Master growls, angry and upset. He grabs the coral and yanks, but the connection is strong enough that the Doctor is tugged along after, as if leashed to the coral by his spine.

Another ten years of his life is sucked away. Eleven, twelve. He tries to grab the cord and snap it but it's insubstantial, pure force and energy and mathematics. He can't break it.

"Is the baby hungry? Then let's feed it!" the Master cries, and before the Doctor can stop him he plunges the coral back into the huon.

There's a sound like a stone egg splitting. The Doctor's teeth ache as a subsonic vibration rumbles through the room. There's a loud crack, a pop, the wrenching sound of the universe being displaced as the heart of the TARDIS pushes it out of the way and slams into real time. As the first ray of brilliant golden light spears out from the breaking coral, the connection snaps and the Doctor falls back in surprise, gasping in great lungfuls of air. He screws his eyes shut as a blinding light fills the room, as a wave of intense heat burns the air.

When the light fades, he feels singed and drained but alive. He's flat on his back, gasping, and looks wildly around as he tries to orient himself. When he tries to push himself up, the Master's hand pushes him back down.

The Master is dusted with ash but otherwise none the worse for wear. He kneels over the Doctor, checking him over. "How many years did it take?"

"Not sure," the Doctor rasps. His mouth, throat, and lungs feel raw, singed. He's covered with ash himself. "Maybe thirty?"

"Idiot," the Master snarls. "It was supposed to be ten."

Even the insult is full of concern. The Doctor smiles dopily. "Sorry," he says, not really meaning it.

The Master gives a despairing look and hauls him to his feet. The Doctor staggers against him before finding his balance, and then sees what's become of the TARDIS seed. As all seeds do when they're ready to grow, it split its shell. Pieces of coral litter the bottom of the huon tank, and inside the fluid there's a roiling ball of golden light. The Doctor crouches in front of the tank and stares through the glass in fascination.

While he learned about this sort of thing at the Academy, visited the Construction Docks, it's something else entirely to actually see a seedling's first moments of growth. A glimpse of the living heart of a TARDIS in immature form. "It couldn't feed until it hatched," the Doctor says, his protectiveness undiminished despite almost being sucked dry. He presses his hand against the glass and finds it warm, almost hot. "It's generating more heat than I expected."

"It'll need coolant."

"Lots of it," the Doctor agrees. They'll need to bring it down to absolute zero, or close to. "And freezing coils."

"I'll arrange it," the Master says, and steps away to send the orders.

The Doctor flattens his hands against the glass, leaving dirty smudges. He watches in rapt silence as the TARDIS greedily consumes, finally given the base nutrient it needed to catalyse and grow. "There you are," he murmurs. He can't touch it directly and there's no telepathic circuitry at this stage, so he can't communicate with it the way he could when it was in coral form. But it radiates emotion as well as light and heat, and he can feel its satisfaction. "You're a greedy thing. Just like your owner," he says, fondly.

Amusement flits through his thoughts as he remembers how the Master tried to suck out his artron reserves so he could use the regenerative energy for himself, even tried to tap directly from the Eye. The more things change, he thinks, and Like Time Lord like TARDIS.

The Master returns bearing copper and aluminium rods. "We can set up a rudimentary heatsink with these. The rest will take a few hours."

The Doctor stands and takes half the rods. "And once we're done with these?"

"You haven't seen the lower levels yet." The Master gives him a meaningful leer. "And then we both need a shower."

The Doctor feels a spark of heat entirely unrelated to the roiling TARDIS. "To celebrate?"

The Master runs a hand down his chest, his stomach, making the Doctor's insides go all tumbly. "You've been very generous with yourself. That earns a reward." He steps closer, sliding his arm around the Doctor's waist, murmuring into his ear. "Never hesitate to give me your life, Doctor."

"I thought it was already yours," the Doctor jokes.

"Oh, it is," the Master says, entirely serious. "But submission is so much better when it's freely given, don't you think?"

The Doctor meets his eyes and finds it so, so easy to fall into them. So hard to look away. "Yes, Master," he murmurs, leaning in.

The Master's arm is tight around him as they kiss, a possessive grip that promises never to let go. The Master's kiss is one of unquestionable domination, stealing his breath away as surely as the TARDIS did.


Chapter illustration. Click for a larger version:


Plass Kiss by TatteredPsyche

The makeshift heatsink is short work and does the job, channelling the intense heat generated by the TARDIS out of the tank and into running water. With overheating warded off until a more permanent solution arrives, they have hours to spend in the lower levels.

The initial tour hardly takes any time at all. What used to be the archives has been whittled down to only things that aren't useless Rift flotsam. The Master had useful bits of tech brought from the various Torchwood caches, from Van Statten's collection, from smaller collections all over the globe. The archive level is the lowest, the kitchen and sitting room the highest, and between them is the sleeping level, with a large bed and bath. Everything is new and of the highest quality, which the Doctor has come to expect by now. He has to admit that while he's generally as happy sleeping under the stars as he is on a pocket-sprung mattress from Squornshellous Zeta, the Master has a point about the finer things. He has no objections to being pampered on his downtime.

Their dirty suits join each other on the floor of the bedroom as they help each other out of their clothes. The rest of their bodies stand out pale in contrast with the dark grey streaks of ash on their hands and faces.

When the Doctor sees himself in the mirror, he makes a face and cards through his hair. Ash falls onto his shoulders. "Ugh, what a mess," he laments.

The Master steps into the shower first, rinsing off the worst of it. Grey water spirals into the drain, but the Doctor has eyes only for his wet, naked body, his arched neck and head tilted back under the spray. When wet, his dark blond hair looks almost brown, the colour it was in his first body. The Master as he was before he chose his name; well, at least not formally.

The Master's eyes flutter open, slitted but sharp, watching him watch. His mouth curves into a slow smirk. "Young and strong," he says, meaningfully.

"Sorry?" the Doctor asks, his thoughts on more physical things than speech.

The Master steps aside and gestures for him to take his turn under the spray. The Doctor complies, sighing as the heat of the water soaks into his bones. He's pleasantly surprised when the Master begins to wash him.

"My first actual regeneration in centuries," the Master murmurs, running slow circles on the Doctor's body with a soapy bath sponge. "I wasn't going to stay a weak old man. Not after I saw this." He kisses the Doctor's shoulder, licks at the faded freckles that would be dark if the Doctor ever sunbathed.

"Good choice," the Doctor says, approvingly. "I never could get the hang of controlled regeneration. I never know what I'm going to end up like."

"Maybe next time I'll help you," the Master says, thoughtful, speculative. "Mould your change to suit my tastes."

"Can you even do that? Without a loom, I mean?"

The Master rests a hand over the Doctor's left heart. "My biodata is wrapped around yours. Inert, but under controlled conditions... who knows? You never did manage ginger hair on your own."

The Doctor laughs, remembering his obsession with the Master's hair, a mixture of jealousy and adoration. Of course, he was equally obsessed, jealous, and adoring of the man himself, and the feeling was largely mutual. "I suspect it would be a very bad idea to let you muck about with my biodata, even if it means going without ginger hair."

The Master gives a low rumble. "Just be glad I like this regeneration enough to give you time to take that back," he says, half-amused and half-warning.

The Doctor softens under the flattery. "Well, maybe. I'll think about it?"

"Better," the Master says, and resumes washing him.

Once the Doctor is clean they change places, and the Doctor enjoys exploring the Master's body as he washes it, unhurried this time as opposed to their frantic tumble in the Valiant bedroom. He's aroused, needs the Master as much as ever, but now... now everything's falling into place. He's falling into place just where the Master wants him to be, and it's exactly where he wants to stay. He half-kneels as he washes the Master's legs, and the Master's hand presses against his temple. There's a brush against his mind as he thinks those thoughts of belonging and submission, and he affirms them again for his audience. When the Doctor looks up he sees the Master's dark smile, and finds himself returning it with his own.

Dry yourself off, the Master orders from within the Doctor's mind. The Doctor unhesitatingly complies, using one of the large, fluffy towels. When the Master steps out, instead of handing him the other he starts to towel him down, taking the opportunity to keep touching him. The Master allows it, brushing his fingers through the Doctor's damp hair, stroking down his cheek to idly tease through his thoughts. The Doctor leans into his touch, relishing the contact of their minds, the simple touch of skin on skin. He's surrounded by the Master inside and out but it's never enough. He still wants more.

He shows the Master a memory of youthful bliss, of a night when the Master had bound him in body and mind, had fucked him and delved so deeply into his consciousness that there seemed to be no part of him left unpossessed. One slice of that time when the Doctor's House barely tolerated him, when Time Lord society rejected him, but he belonged to the Master in a way he never knew before or since. The Master wanted him, all of him, and together they fit like two halves of a whole.

When he opens his eyes, sees the present again, the Master's eyes are full of emotion and anger and pain and so much that they never had words for. The anger and pain retreat to a simmer, the constant presence they've been since that bliss was broken, and the Master gives a low growl. The towel is ripped from his hands and tossed aside. Before he can even stand, the Master grabs his arm and twists it behind his back and shoves him against the sink. The Doctor gasps in shocked pain, his stunned condition making it easy for the Master to grab his other arm and lock his wrists together by their cuffs, the cuffs that never come off, that have become a part of his new existence. The constant reminder that no matter what rights the Master gives him, no matter how much freedom he's allowed, he is the Master's property first and foremost. He's not sure if that's a reason to resist or to surrender further. Maybe both, when both feel so good.

"Is that what you want?" the Master hisses, low in his ear. "Tell me, Doctor. When you think of Gallifrey, of everything you lost, do you want that most of all?"

The Master flips him around, pinning him against the sink with his body, back arched over the sink and the Master's arm across his chest forcing him to bend. "You could be mine again. You could surrender every part of yourself to my will. Is that what you want?"

The Doctor tries to answer but can't. He says nothing.

The Master steps back, releasing the Doctor so suddenly that he slides against the sink and falls onto one knee. The Master stands over him with an unfathomable expression, hands curled into fists. For a moment the Doctor feels afraid, but then he understands. Rises to his feet and steps forward. The Master takes a step back, and the Doctor closes the distance again, again, until the Master's back hits the wall. His eyes are wild and dangerous, like a cornered animal.

The Doctor leans close and whispers into the Master's ear, "I'm sorry."

The Master rears back and punches him across the jaw. The Doctor goes down hard, smacking his head against the edge of the sink, and lies gasping on the bathroom floor.

"Idiot," the Master mutters, rubbing his knuckles.

For some reason, possibly addled brains, that strikes the Doctor as hilarious. He starts to giggle. The Master scowls at him, but reaches down and releases his cuffs from each other. When the Doctor's giggling tapers off, he pushes himself clumsily to his feet, probes at his jaw and then his head. His fingers come back dabbed with blood, and he holds them up for the Master.

"What do you expect me to do about it?" the Master says, unimpressed.

"Kiss it better?" the Doctor asks.

The Master arches his eyebrows, then looks speculative. He takes the Doctor's hand and pulls it closer. With his eyes locked on the Doctor's, he slowly takes the two bloodied fingers into his mouth and licks them clean. When he moans around the Doctor's fingers, it makes the Doctor's knees feel weak.

"Not quite what I meant," the Doctor murmurs.

"Is that a complaint?" The Master leaves his fingers and begins to taste his way down the Doctor's hand, along the edges of the cuff. He licks at the leather and chuckles darkly.

"No complaints," the Doctor breathes, finding it hard to concentrate enough to talk.

The Master moves to the soft inside of the Doctor's wrist. Nips at the skin over a vein, drags his teeth against it. Sucks and worries until the skin is pink and the Doctor's eyes are unfocused.

The Master gently turns him around and inspects the wound on his scalp. Probes at the edges of it, making the Doctor wince. Without comment he wets a flannel and dabs away the blood, then gives the Doctor a nudge towards the bedroom.

The Doctor sits on the edge of the bed and touches at his head; his fingers come back damp but clean, the wound already clotted. He lies back on the bed and spreads himself out, takes a deep breath in and then a long sigh out. He closes his eyes. It's been a hell of a day: punched out, almost died, lost thirty years off his thirteenth life and it isn't even lunchtime yet.

The bed dips as the Master crawls onto it, over him. He nuzzles at the Doctor's neck the way he did his wrist, leaving his mark on the vulnerable skin. The Doctor rests his hands on the Master's back, feeling bone and muscle, feeling the life of him. The Master is alive, is here, and part of him still marvels at that.

The Master shifts higher, nuzzling the Doctor's head to the side so he can feast on the sensitive spot behind his jaw, the lobe of his ear. The Doctor moans softly, his fingers curling against the Master's back, leaving light scratches over the fading lines he left the day before.

When the Master kisses him the Doctor's need rises up inside. He has no choice but to tumble over the Master, pin him down and drag his mouth along his neck, his shoulder, down his chest. To run his hands down his sides, back and forth in an aimless caress. He'd never make the mistake of confusing the Master's body for who he is, but that doesn't mean he can't admire it. He wants to learn the Master all over again. Despite the memory of Versailles, despite the intimacy of the day before, this feels like their first time in these bodies. Just the two of them with nothing in the way, and as drugs go it's as powerful as it ever was. They could live for another thousand years and it would be the same.

He follows the trail of curling hair down the Master's abdomen and can smell the Master's arousal, delicious and musky. He glances up at the Master and sees him watching expectantly, waiting. The Doctor can't suppress a naughty smile. He slides down and concentrates on one slim hip, the crease of his groin. He toys with the short hairs on the Master's legs, teasing at his inner thigh.

It's only when the Master gives an impatient grumble and nudges him with his knee that the Doctor relents. He pushes apart the Master's thighs and bends his head between them and begins to lave at the base of his cock, at his balls. The Master sighs with pleasure as the Doctor devotes himself with his tongue, his lips, his fingers. Despite the years, despite the differences, despite his current body being nearly virgin, it's effortless to slip back to those old, old habits, the skills learned in private when in public he was learning solar engineering and third-level bioinorganic chemistry. When they spent as much time studying each others bodies as revising.

The Master's touch draws him to raise his head, then to sit back as the Master pushes himself up to sit back against the pillows. The Doctor follows after him on all fours, meets him in a long, slow kiss, the Master's hands carding through his hair, deftly avoiding the healing wound. One hand cups his cheek and the Doctor leans into it, his eyes closing briefly with contentment. He feels that familiar brush against his mind and welcomes it, letting the Master sink into his thoughts. He offers up the memory of their youthful bliss again, almost shyly this time, and feels how much the Master aches for that. To have him so fully in his power, to know that for the Doctor nothing matters more than his Master. He feels a wave of jealousy from the Master, jealousy that anything or anyone else ever had a claim on what should have been his forever, what was promised to him forever. Anger at being left behind, at being denied, at being ignored. Rage, blinding, thundering rage at being ignored, with a relentless, driving beat.

The Doctor reels from the dark emotions resounding in his head. Regret won't appease that anger, mere words won't quench that rage. Words are masks and toys and weapons, not truth. Truth is song, and they once had so many songs. Songs of conquest, songs of harmony, songs of joy and pain. But the one he chooses is one they stopped singing even before he left Gallifrey and the Master behind: the song of their future, the one they were supposed to have together. Before that promise was broken, before the Flower of Remembrance.

As he remembers the song it echoes in his thoughts. At first it's a painful dissonance with the Master's rage, but as he remembers it more clearly it becomes louder, dominant. The rage recedes, replaced by a dozen emotions: sneering anger, longing, disbelief, pain, and so much more. But instead of joining the song, the Master abruptly pulls out of his mind.

When the Doctor meets his eyes, the Master's expression is impenetrable. Before he can reach out, the Master's hand is on the back of his neck and guiding him down. The pressure of the Master's hand is unyielding, his grip painfully hard. The Doctor half-wonders if the Master might snap his neck and damn controlled conditions. The Doctor doesn't fear death, not even at the Master's hand, but he's used up enough energy for one day. He hollows his cheeks around the Master's cock, hoping pleasure will be enough. After a few minutes, the pressure on his neck tightens, then eases. The Master kneads at his neck as his anger subsides.

The Doctor holds the head of the Master's cock between his lips and peeks up at him. The Master's hand moved to his jaw and guides him off his cock with a wet slurp. The Doctor pushes himself up on his arms and meets the Master's kiss; the Master's teeth scrape at his lip, nip at his jaw, his neck, leaving a trail of shallow bites as the Doctor climbs onto his lap.

The Master's hands stroke briefly along the Doctor's erection, then one moves back between his legs as the other slides around to caress and grasp. He hisses at the sharp bite to his shoulder but doesn't flinch away. The Master's hand forcefully grips his balls and there's another bite to his shoulder, this time hard enough to draw blood. A few drops well up and trickle down his arm. And then the Master's teeth move to his throat. The Doctor stops breathing.

There's a long, tense moment as the Master's teeth dig into the skin over the Doctor's carotid artery, a shallow bite that threatens more. A sharper bite, a vicious yank, and the Doctor's life would bleed out onto the bedsheets. The Doctor's hearts pound in his ears.

And then the bite eases, releases. The Master kisses the injured skin, then across and to the other side, where it's still red and marked from the Master's more loving cruelties.

"You deserve so much pain," the Master murmurs, almost sweetly. "I should make you scream for days. Weeks. Centuries." When he leans back there's a distant look in his eyes. He snaps back to the present. "You owe me more than thirty years, Doctor. No, more like... nine hundred. That is what you owe me. Nine hundred years."

The grip on his balls tightens until the Doctor hisses with pain. And then he's abruptly released and pushed backwards. Before he can collect himself the Master punches him hard across the jaw, the same spot as before, snapping the Doctor's head back and making him see stars. He falls flat on his back, clutching at his jaw and blinking. When the Master swings at him again he rolls to the side and off the bed, thumping onto his hands and knees and then bouncing to his feet, eyes wide and watchful. The Master snarls at him with murder in his eyes and lunges, and the next thing the Doctor knows his back is pinned against the wall and he's locked into a violent embrace, the Master's eyes bright with insanity. He remembers grappling with the Master over the Eye of Harmony in his TARDIS and losing him and he's suddenly afraid, but not for himself.

"Stop this," he grunts, voice tight with exertion. "Master, please, stop this."

A shift in the Master's grip and suddenly the Doctor has the advantage, and it's his turn to twist the Master's arms back, to push him against the wall and hold him. The Master struggles furiously but the Doctor doesn't let go, absolutely refuses to let go. The Master snarls at him, incoherent with rage.

The Doctor holds him until the Master finally stills, body tense as a wire. He reaches up to touch the Master's face, to look into the Master's mind, but ends up with an elbow to his gut instead. He falls back, gasping for air, but he's ready when the Master grabs him. They grapple furiously, a violent echo of their tussle on the Valiant, slamming each other against the wall, nails digging into skin, teeth bared. The Master determined to hurt and the Doctor determined to stop him. It's so much exactly the story of their lives that the Doctor gives a breathless laugh. The Master lashes out, forcing him backwards, but their feet tangle in their abandoned suits and they're sent tumbling to the floor together.

The Doctor thinks that at least the carpet is softer than the bathroom floor and gives a crazed giggle.

"Shut up," the Master hisses. "Shut up."

That only makes the Doctor giggle more. He rolls onto his back, limbs curled as he laughs and laughs, unable to stop himself. The Master shoves him, then again, onto his stomach, and the Doctor keeps laughing. He reaches up one arm and grabs at the corner of the mattress and starts to pull himself up, but the Master grabs him again and hauls him back down. They roll away from the bed, grappling again, but with the Doctor halfway down the Master's body. And then the Doctor stops laughing and latches his mouth to the Master's body, laving along the line of a rib, and the Master stills, breathing hard, one hand gripping roughly at the Doctor's hair and the other digging into his shoulder.

And then suddenly the hands are holding and not punishing. They're guiding the Doctor down, down, back to his cock. The hand slides from his shoulder to his jaw and when the Doctor opens his lips for the Master's cock, his head is forced roughly down, giving him no choice but to take it into his mouth, his throat. But the Doctor moves with that force, turns it against the Master and into pleasure, into a sweet, long suck and a swallow that makes the fingers in his hair begin to knead, that makes the Master's breathing slow and halting. Where the Master tries to take, the Doctor gives, and just like that everything changes.

The Doctor knows the outcome of meeting force with force, and he doesn't want that. He doesn't want them to rip each other apart until there's nothing left. And he knows, he knows the Master doesn't either, no matter how much he holds on to anger, how much he's used it to survive beyond all expectation, all hope. Neither of them has to be alone anymore, not now.

When the Master has calmed, lulled by simple pleasure, the Doctor eases off his cock but doesn't look up, doesn't meet his eyes. Instead he nuzzles submissively at the Master's thigh, his hip, drags his cheek against the short, wiry hair that trails down his abdomen, then kisses slowly back down again. Wraps his lips against the shaft of his cock and hums low, a pale imitation of mindsong but the echo of the tune is enough, hums in a broken lilt, hums his willingness to give, to accept. A gentle submission to soothe the Master's pain.

When the Master's cock is slick with spit, the Doctor rises again, crawls up his body, and then eases himself back and onto his cock. They both gasp at the sudden penetration, the tightness of the Doctor's body, and the Master's hands grip at his thighs. The Doctor concentrates on relaxing, on muscle memory from a past body, on easing himself slowly down and letting the Master fill him. He sees the Master's face through shuttered lashes and there's so much there, a vulnerability that was hidden beneath that fury, a need even stronger than his own. It makes the Doctor ache to hold him, to soothe him, but he doesn't. He can't.

Right now the Master is like sand, like mercury. If the Doctor tries to hold him he'll be left with nothing. So instead he gives, offers himself so that the Master will hold him, and that has to be enough for now.

The Doctor rocks himself back and forth, up and down the Master's cock. He keeps his eyes all but closed, keeps his arms loose at his sides, using the wiry strength of this body to move: his thighs, his stomach, clenching and releasing. And then he goes one step further and holds his wrists together behind his back, in imitation of the isomorphic lock of the cuffs. A simple gesture of surrender.

After long minutes, the Master finally touches him. The Doctor shuts his eyes completely as the Master's hand brushes his cock, as his fingers trace its length, following the motion of the Doctor's rise and fall. In the quiet of the room he can hear the Master's shallow breathing, hear him swallow as his fingers slide and press. The Doctor moans and it sounds so loud to his ears, and as the Master's grip tightens he opens his eyes.

The Master is staring up at him with intense eyes, a renewed hunger, a terrible desire. Their eyes meet and lock, and just like that they're caught in each other's gaze.

A sudden shift and the Master is turning them over. The Doctor grunts as his back thumps against the carpet, and when he recovers the Master is crouched over him, staring down at him with intent. He bends down to nip at the Doctor's collar, the soft base of his neck, and then roughly grabs the Doctor's leg and pushes it up. The Doctor gasps as the Master sinks back inside him. He responds by meeting that thrust with his own, wrapping his legs around the Master's waist.

The Master gives a hiss of satisfaction and starts to fuck him in earnest, holding nothing back. Each thrust pushes the Doctor against the carpet; he's going to end up with rugburn all down his back but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything but the Master above him, inside him. He braces himself with one hand on the carpet and the other grasping at the Master's side and stops thinking about anything but being fucked.

Soon the both of them are flushed with exertion and the scent of honey-salt and arousal is thick in the air. The Doctor's cock is full and straining between them, slapping drops of pre-come against their bellies. They steal kisses between gasping breaths, harsh and sloppy, nipping at each other's lips. The Master is beautiful, mussed and sweaty and out of control in the most delicious way, and the Doctor soaks up the intensity, the sheer focus, all of it directed at him, and returns it with equal fervour.

Eventually they tumble again, the Doctor on top, because deep isn't deep enough. But even as the Doctor impales himself fully, the Master tumbles them over again, this time grabbing both the Doctor's legs and bending them back, back, hooking them over his shoulders, and then slamming into the Doctor's arse with a vicious, wonderful thrust. The Doctor cries out and growls with lust, claws at the Master's back, at the carpeting, as the Master snarls and fucks him, anger and passion indistinguishable, inseparable.

The Doctor grabs his own cock and roughly pulls at it, his grip slicked and desperate. The Master grips at his shoulders and fucks him in a shallow, rapid rhythm, barely pulling out at all and yet trying to shove himself deeper. The Master claws down his shoulder, his back, his nails dragging painfully through skin. The Doctor cries out in exquisite pain and moves his hand faster on his cock, wanting more but never wanting this to end.

But he can't have both. When he comes, it's with a cry of ecstasy and a wail of loss, shaking all over as his cock pulses messily between them, all over his hand. But the Master is there to catch him, to hold him even tighter, to fuck him without faltering even as the Doctor clenches wildly around him. The Doctor keens weakly, battered and blissed and barely holding on, but the Master isn't done yet.

"Master," the Doctor whimpers, mumbling his name over and over. His Master, the only one, always and forever. He aches inside to know that he lost this, aches to know he found it again, aches desperately to keep it. To keep the Master and be kept by him. He couldn't survive losing him, he just couldn't.

He reaches out through the reflex link, singing the Master's name in Gallifreyan, keening for him in his thoughts, and the Master's snarl breaks in a sob. He snarls again, teeth bared like an animal, like a wildcat, and then with a roar he bites into the Doctor's shoulder. The Doctor screams in pain and the Master comes, his whole body pulling the Doctor in with so much strength it's almost enough to break bone. The Doctor gasps for air, whimpers, claws weakly at the Master's back until at last the Master goes limp, collapses and rolls off him, onto his back beside him.

The Doctor's shoulder throbs angrily, and he can feel blood dripping down and pooling under his arm. He lays there, catching his breath, trying to pull himself together. The Master seems to be in a similar state, but he's the first to recover. He pushes himself onto his hands and knees and leans over the Doctor, giving a possessive, lustful, proud stare before checking the bite on his shoulder. He stumbles away and comes back with a clean flannel and presses it against the wound.

"Come on," the Master says, pulling at him to sit up.

The Doctor complies, dazed and finally starting to feel the extent of his injuries. He's sore all over; in many places he's sore in several different ways at once. But it's a glorious sort of soreness and he gives a woozy smile as the Master hauls him up.

"Hm. Shower first," the Master decides, and with the Doctor's arm over his shoulder they stumble towards the bathroom.

The hot spray of the shower wakes the Doctor up a bit even as it soothes him. He watches his blood spiral down the drain as the Master cleans the bite wound, washes off the blood from countless scratches and smaller bites. Washes him clean. The Doctor leans against the wall as the Master's fingers push inside him, toying with his body and giving him little aftershocks of pleasure. He reaches for the soap to wash the Master of blood and come, but the Master just guides him out of the shower and wraps a towel around him. The Doctor lazily dries himself off while the Master finishes.

"I'm ruining all your towels," the Doctor says, seeing streaks of blood on the white cloth.

"You've already ruined the carpet," the Master says, but seems unconcerned. He pulls a few things from the cabinet; slathers ointment on the bite wound and covers it with a large pad. Then he dries himself off and nudges the Doctor out to the bedroom.

The Doctor eagerly welcomes the luxurious comfort of the bed. He snuggles in and gives a long sigh, then a stretch and another snuggle. The bed dips as the Master slides in beside him, against him, and wordlessly they entwine.

Their kisses are unhurried this time, lazy and soft. As they kiss, the reflex link between them is a steady presence, their minds as entwined as their bodies. It's surprisingly gentle after everything, but it feels just as right, just as good. And then the Master begins to coil his mind around the Doctor's, around and around like a constrictor around its prey. But it's not a threatening capture, not something he needs to fight against.

It isn't like it was between them during their Academy years. They can't go back to what they were. So much has changed and they've spent too long hurting each other for love to be easy or simple. But after everything, everything, it's still love. It doesn't need to be said or sung to be true.

Let his capture be complete; let himself be swallowed whole. There are victories in surrender.

TARDISes are grown, not made. The heart of a TARDIS is a Complex Space-Time Event formed from pure block-transfer mathematics; it is literally spoken into existence. The Doctor has always been a better engineer than a mathematician, more interested in the practical than the theoretical. But there are times when he dearly wishes he'd paid more attention to his multi-dimensional maths and just a bit less to the latest method of quantum pranking. Tricking a piece of reality into flipping into a pre-real state is one thing; building the exitonic circuitry and various systems of a TARDIS is another entirely. He almost envies the Master's gruelling calculations for the accelerated time bubble.

The TARDIS has been contentedly gorging itself on energy and heavy metals for weeks now. Instead of growing larger, that glowing, roiling heart is forming a crust, a chronoplasmic shell made of mercury, validium, inorganic polymers. Eventually it will form the interior and exterior shells but that won't happen unless he can turn this half-finished exitonic circuitry into something resembling a molecular stabilizer. It's one of the more complicated bits of circuitry, and it's what he's been working on since the TARDIS was initialized. The multidimensional grey prints, the complete schematics and plans, are still somewhere in the metastructure. He could build the telepathic circuits first and read the prints himself, but it would take decades to hand-construct the artron mainframe, much less the navigation and guidance systems and everything else. No, the best thing to do is build the self-repair circuit and then trick the TARDIS into building itself from the inside with its own block-transfer capabilities. It's just proving more difficult than he expected.

He has considered cannibalizing his own TARDIS for this. Not without shame, but he's thought about it. On some level he's accepted the loss of his precious ship as the cost of gaining the Master. But if his TARDIS lost the ability to self-repair, the paradox machine would soon break, and in all likelihood the Master's TARDIS wouldn't even have time to grow a console room before the paradox reversed. He'd lose both TARDISes and the Master in one fell swoop. Selfishly he's glad that's not a choice he's allowed to make.

He leans back on his stool to survey the new wiring matrix. It looks about right, which is as close as he can get when he's making up most of it as he goes along. Satisfied, he reaches for his handmade steady-state micro-welder and fires it up.

About a minute after the smoke alarm sounds, he hears Lucy coming up the stairs.

"Darling? Is everything all right?" she calls, somewhat inured to alarms going off by now. "Do you need the extinguisher this time?"

The Doctor waves away the smoke, trying not to breathe it in. "No no, it's fine, really it's fine. More smoke than fire." There was an early disaster with an extinguisher that set him back days of work. He's half-tempted to get rid of the extinguishers altogether, but of course the moment he did that the lab actually would catch fire.

The ventilation fans automatically kick in, sucking the worst of the smoke from the room. As it clears, Lucy leans over his shoulder. He can see her trying to figure it out, but it's beyond any human's comprehension. She reminds him of Jo when she does that, curiously peering over his shoulder as he tried to repair his dematerialization circuit in the UNIT lab. But then she does what Jo never did and presses herself languidly against his back, wraps her arms around him.

"You never came to bed last night," she says, and her lips brush against a particularly sensitive spot on his neck, right below his ear. "We missed you."

"I needed to finish this first," the Doctor says, tilting his head to the side as she plants a trail of kisses along his neck. "The wiring matrix is very important to the um, the, um." Words fail him as Lucy moves back to that sensitive spot and sucks at it, making his eyes lose focus. "I can't think when you do that," he protests.

Lucy laughs, a breathy rumble against his skin. His eyes are drawn to their reflection in the curved metal shell of the exitonic circuit casing, and he can see the dark amusement on her face. It reminds him of the Master and that makes it even harder to think. He puts the wiring matrix down on the worktable and turns in Lucy's arms, meets her mouth with his own.

She's wearing that lab coat again, and only that. He can feel that she's wearing nothing underneath the clinging material, the almost transparently thin white cotton. There's just the heat of her, the softness of her curves as she rubs slowly against him, as she straddles his lap. Her hair is up in a bun, and it must have started out neat but it's already been mussed, no doubt by the Master's hands. He breathes in deeply and he can smell her musk and knows she's already come once this morning. Maybe he should have gone to bed last night after all.

As they kiss and touch, he slowly pops the top two buttons of her coat and pulls the fabric aside, revealing the top of one pale breast, her shoulder freshly reddened from the Master's mouth. The Doctor sucks over those same spots, tasting the traces of the Master on her skin, feeling the rush of heat against his tongue. Lucy moans and paws at his shirt, her nails dragging against his back.

"I see you didn't burn the place down after all," the Master says, and the Doctor looks up to see him standing there, watching them.

"Maybe next time," the Doctor replies, and holds the Master's gaze as he goes back to mouthing Lucy's shoulder.

The Master says nothing, keeps watching their languid embrace with a laid-back intent, holding the Doctor's gaze. Then he walks forward, slides his hand between them and opens a third button, slides his hand beneath her tight coat to her breast, pinches and squeezes.

"Harry," Lucy moans, but it's the Doctor she rubs wantonly against. She drags the Doctor's head up and kisses him, tongues sliding together, her teeth scraping against his lip. One of her legs curls around his own, the spike of her high heel against his leg.

"Lucy," the Master sing-songs. "The Doctor should know what his little false alarm interrupted."

"I think I have a good idea," the Doctor murmurs.

The Master just smirks knowingly. He releases Lucy and reaches into his pocket, and the Doctor hears the jangle of metal. And then the Master is reaching between them again, pulling aside the coat to expose Lucy's left breast. He tweaks and rubs at the nipple, making it stand firm. The Doctor leans Lucy back and bends to lick around the Master's fingers, tasting the both of them together. And then there's that tinkling jangle again and the Master's other hand comes around with a handful of thin chains and a nipple clamp between his thumb and forefinger. The Doctor watches avidly as the clamp is fixed onto her nipple and tightened until she gives a gasping whimper.

And then the Master's hand offers the second clamp, and the Doctor takes it. He pulls at the fabric, covering the clamped breast and exposing the other. He pinches her nipple, feeling the skin crinkle and firm under his touch. Lucy rests against the Master, eyes half closed, her lower lip caught between her teeth. The clamp bites into her nipple and the Doctor turns the little screw on it until the nipple is dark and flushed. And then he sees the third clamp that hangs on a long chain between the first two, dangling against her stomach and pooling between her legs, resting on the Doctor's lap. This is a new addition, and the Doctor takes it in fascination, knowing immediately where it's meant to go.

"She should lie down for this," he says to the Master.

The Master grabs the Doctor's jacket from where it was slung over a chair and drapes it over the cleared table beside them. The Doctor holds onto Lucy and stands with her in his arms, her limbs wrapped around him, the edges of the clamps pressed between their bodies. There's a moment of dissonance as he remembers her carrying him when he was a child, and then he shakes it off as he lays her down on the jacket, as she's spread out before them, the last clamp caught under the edge of her coat as if eager for her itself.

The Master moves first, pushing up the hem of the coat up, exposing her to them. He dips his hand between her thighs and stirs his fingers inside her, making her writhe against his hand and hum with pleasure. The Doctor slides his own hand down to join in, his fingers sliding through the folds of her slippery cunt, soft and wet and flushed hot. He finds the nub of her clit with ease, rubbing his thumb against it and pinching it, making her whimper. He looks up at the Master and gives him a dark, conspiratorial smile. They kiss as their hands keep busy, teasing and delving, until finally the Master stops, pulls out his hand. He brushes slick fingers across the Doctor's lips, lets the Doctor lick them, suck them.

"Put it on," the Master says, his voice rough with arousal.

The Doctor obeys. He has to wipe his hand to grip the clamp properly, then nudges her legs wider. His fingers drag shallowly through her folds again, pinch her clit and draw it up to expose it. He gives it one last tweak of pleasure before carefully bringing the clamp down to bite. Lucy mewls with pain, her brow drawn up, her hands gripping the edges of the jacket beneath her. She cries out again as the Doctor tightens the screw to a secure grip.

"My beautiful Lucy," the Master murmurs, and reaches for the chain that joins all three clamps. He tugs lightly at it one way, then the other, savouring her reactions.

"It hurts," she gasps, with a perverse joy. She looks up at them with eyes hazy with pain and pleasure and licks her lips invitingly.

"Good," the Master says, and gives a sharp tug on the chains that makes her cry out. At last he relents and drops the chain, bends over the table and opens another button so he can push aside more of her coat and expose her hidden breast. There's just two buttons left, stretching the fabric taut across her stomach.

"Got anything else in those pockets?" the Doctor asks, transfixed by Lucy's shameless writhing.

"So glad you asked." The Master reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick glass dildo and taps the head of it against the Doctor's jaw. "Bigger on the inside."

It's a cheap trick, his cheap trick, but the Doctor is amused anyway. He takes the dildo and holds it up against the light, admiring the clean lines of it. It's finely made, solid and with a simple elegance: the shaft long and slightly curved and ending with a smooth arrow of a head. The glass is perfectly clear all the way through, refraction at the edges shading into rainbows.

"Very nice," he murmurs. Hefts it in his hand and leans over the table, showing Lucy their new toy. "What do you think?" he asks her.

"I think the two of you are terrible teases," she says.

The Doctor gives her a kiss for that, then can't resist working his way down to her breasts. He wraps his mouth around one clamped nipple, tasting skin and steel, laving at the sensitive, swollen nub. Lucy's fingers tangle in his hair, holding him just enough to encourage. That keeps the Doctor's attention long enough that the Master takes the dildo back.

"If you want something done," the Master sighs.

The Doctor knows it's inside her when Lucy bucks beneath his mouth and moans loudly. He gives her nipple one last lick, then leans back to see. The Master is holding one of her legs bent back, working the dildo back and forth inside her, twisting it and tilting it and brushing at the nearby clamp with his thumb. The Doctor takes over that part of the job for himself, rubbing his fingertips along the base of her clit, twisting the clamp to make Lucy whimper.

He can smell when she's about to come, that sharp spike in the rich scent of her cunt. The Master pushes the dildo in deep and leaves it there as she shudders with aftershocks, the Doctor's fingers still toying with her clit. The Doctor leans down between her legs and looks inside her, the pink softness of her pulsing around the glass. He brings his free hand there and presses one finger inside, tracing shallowly around the stretched skin. The glass is slick with come and juices that slowly leak out of her. He abandons her clit and pushes her other leg back and licks at that join of glass and skin, his teeth clicking along the base of the shaft.

By the time Lucy's legs are hooked over his shoulders, he's lapping eagerly at her cunt, around the glass, around the clamp. He looks up over her abdomen and sees the Master at the other side of the table, kissing Lucy and caressing her. It still surprises him how much the Master truly cares for her, though he's anything but jealous. If anything, it drives him on; he wraps his mouth around her clit and sucks and sucks until her thighs clench around him and she's crying out into the Master's kisses.

He's focused on pushing another finger fully inside her along the dildo when there's a shift and Lucy is tugged up towards the Master. It's just a few inches, but it leaves her head tilted back, the line of her throat long and straight. He resumes his own enjoyment of Lucy's body as the Master opens his trousers, takes out his cock and guides it to Lucy's mouth. He loves to watch that, the way the Master's cock disappears into her mouth, the red of her painted lips around the shaft. His own cock twitches in his trousers, arched taut against the fabric.

The Doctor watches the Master's face, his shifting expressions. The pleasure that furrows his brow, the concentration that makes his lips thin, his teeth bare. His tongue darting out to wet his lips as his breathing roughens. The Master sees him watching and the Doctor feels a wonderful tumble inside at the promise that appears in the Master's eyes. He starts to cycle through the possibilities, wondering which it will be. He wants everything.

The Doctor turns his attention back to Lucy. He takes hold of the dildo and eases it out, pushing his fingers inside to savour how loose and open it leaves her. He sets the dildo aside, lets her legs down and leans over her, undoing those last two buttons and spreading the wings of her lab coat. He spreads his hand against her stomach, feeling it rise and fall and toying idly with the clamp chains as he watches her eagerly suck the Master's cock.

The Master pulls out before long, his erection flushed a bright reddish pink at the head and slick with spit. The Doctor's eyes follow it as the Master walks back around the table. The Master grabs him by his arms, pulls him up and kisses him fiercely.

"Downstairs. Now," the Master growls. "Help Lucy." And with that he tucks himself back in, grabs the glass dildo, and stalks off towards the stairs, determination in his stride.

The Doctor stares after him, then turns to Lucy. She's already pushing herself up to sit, and looking a bit dizzied about it. He helps her off the table and tucks her coat around her, then his jacket over that. He kisses her forehead and then her mouth, and she presses against him languidly.

"He was in a mood when I woke up," she says, wryly. "You should have come to bed last night."

"Oh," the Doctor says, realizing now what she meant when she said it before. "I suppose I won't get anything else done today."

"I doubt he'll let you leave the bedroom," she says, tracing her fingers past his rolled-up sleeve to touch his cuff. "I think he's jealous of that circuit."

The Doctor just shakes his head in amusement. "I'm making it for him. For us."

"Boys and their toys," Lucy sighs. She takes his hand and walks towards the stairs, faltering as the chains swing and tug at the clamps. "Oh, that's..."

"Girls and their toys," the Doctor smirks. He takes pity, though, and scoops her up into his arms. Lucy yelps and then laughs, and holds onto him as he carries her downstairs.

In the bedroom, they find the Master half-undressed, sorting through the drawer of sex toys with a certain storminess. The Doctor sets Lucy down at the foot of the bed and goes over to him.

"I didn't think," he says, chagrined. "I'm sorry."

"Get undressed," the Master says, not interested in apologies.

When the Master is in this sort of mood, the best thing to do is obey. The Doctor strips off the clothes he's been wearing since yesterday, then slips into the bathroom. When he washes, his reflection looks a bit tired, but he doesn't expect to sleep for quite some time. He twists to check his back and frowns.

When he comes out, half the contents of the drawer are piled up on top of the dresser, Lucy is naked with her own set of cuffs on, and the bed restraints are out. It's definitely going to be one of those mornings -- not that he minds, of course. He half wonders if he gets in trouble just to have this sort of morning. It wouldn't do for things to be easy. That would be boring.

He walks over to the Master to see what he's brought out to use, and the Master whirls around with a snarl and slams him up against the wall. The Doctor reels, stunned.

"On your knees," the Master growls, and lets go.

The Doctor immediately slides to the floor, knees hitting the carpet. The Master whips off his belt and loops it around the Doctor's neck, then yanks at the end like a leash. The Doctor falls forward onto all fours and crawls clumsily after him, trying to keep up with the Master's long strides. He's yanked up again, but even as he scrabbles at the belt the Master is reaching over his head and attaching the loose end to the strong hook hanging from the ceiling and then pulling. The Doctor chokes as he's forced up onto his toes to avoid strangulation.

The Master secures the hook rope, then grabs the Doctor's wrists and locks his cuffs together behind his back. He checks the belt's tightness, then goes back to the dresser, leaving the Doctor to strain and gasp.

Lucy's watching him with concern, but when the Master sees this he goes over to her, blindfolds her. He guides her to lie back against the pillows and hooks her wrists to the restraints.

"Be a good girl, now," he tells her.

"Yes, Harry."

He kisses her forehead, then stands. "We're going to have a little fun," he declares.

"Master..." the Doctor begins, voice strained from his uncomfortable position.

"Don't make me gag you," the Master replies, coolly. "It'll ruin the screaming. Now where was I? Oh yes."

He picks up a flogger from the dresser and hefts it in his hand. It's thick-tailed with heavy leather strips, a menacing piece of work. The Doctor already knows its sting, and he tenses as the Master slowly stalks towards him, tossing the handle in his grip. With his other hand he smoothes the tails into a bundle once, again.

"You, on the other hand, have been very naughty," the Master says, as he brushes the flogger in circles around the Doctor's chest. "What am I going to do with you? Oh, wait."

A flick of motion and the flogger snaps across the Doctor's nipple, making him hiss loudly through clenched teeth. And then before he can recover, a strike across the other, then back again. Then the Master's hand smoothing across his chest, tweaking his stinging nipples painfully.

A stroke of the flogger across his stomach, a light stroke that's almost a caress. Then the same across his ribs, his waist, his thighs and arse. The Doctor's body warms in the aftermath of each slap, flushing all over. An extra sharp stroke makes the Doctor flinch here and there, but mostly it's a stinging warmth that's almost pleasant, somehow lulling. But he's constantly straining to keep from being strangled by the belt, to keep his weight on the balls of his feet.

The Doctor tugs at his wrists, tries to slide out of the belt around his neck, but he's held fast.

"Are you trying to get free?" the Master asks, head tilted in curiosity. "I think we both know that would be a mistake. Oh, but you can struggle. I like it when you struggle."

A shove and the Doctor is sent swinging. He immediately loses his footing and chokes at the sudden pressure around his neck. His toes drag across the carpet at the low of each swing, gradually slowing his movement but not enough that he's able to catch a hold. He struggles frantically as he's strangled by his own weight. When he starts to find his footing, the Master laughs and gives him another push. The pressure on his throat is unbearable.

Just when he thinks he can't take any more, the Master stops his swing with a hand to his chest. The Doctor immediately pushes up on the balls of his feet again and takes a painful breath, a desperate gasp.

"Shh," the Master soothes, reaching up to touch his cheek. A gentle caress, and then a stinging slap across his cheek, a backhand across the other. Handprints heat up the Doctor's cheeks as the Master slaps stinging blows all down his front, back and forth. And then the flogger again, a medium stroke this time, forcing whimpers from deep in the Doctor's aching throat. The Master circles him leisurely, striking him in a slow spiral everywhere but his back and cock.

Eventually the flogging stops. The next thing he feels is the Master's mouth against his chest, the slick of his tongue as the Master mouths at a tender nipple, works his way up to the reddened skin over his collarbone.

The Master rises up onto his toes and nuzzles at where the belt digs into the Doctor's neck, kisses there lovingly, tenderly. "So beautiful," he murmurs, caressing where the Doctor's skin bulges against the leather. "My Doctor. Will you be a good boy for me?"

The Doctor swallows tightly. His throat feels bruised, swollen. It hurts to talk. But still he says, "Yes, Master," in a hoarse rasp.

The Master gives a long, satisfied hum. He sighs against the Doctor's neck. His hand grips at the back of the Doctor's head and forces his head forward, cutting off his air as the Master kisses him soundly.

And then his head is released and the Master's hand is around his cock, stroking sweetly. He knows just where to touch this body now, has had weeks to learn the places that make the Doctor whimper and sigh. The Master is as obsessive about the Doctor's body as he is about everything he does, everything he controls. There's a result he desires, and he'll do anything to achieve it. That's one of the truths the Doctor has learned about the Master as he is now. He still plays games, but they all have a definite purpose. The Doctor wonders if his mad chaos is entirely a mask for his deadly reason, if it's something the Master battles against or embraces.

But this isn't the time for introspection. He wants to feel this pleasure, to feel the pain, to feel everything the Master gives him. His calves and thighs tremble and burn from the strain of his position, but he still finds himself subtly rocking against the Master's hand, seeking more.

"Please," he rasps.

The Master hushes him again. There's more stroking, wonderful strokes and squeezes, a light pinch here and there. Just sensation, pure and simple. The Doctor finds himself relaxing into it, as much as he can when relaxing completely would strangle him again. He feels flushed and warm all over: tingling everywhere he's been hit, and the aching fullness of his swollen cock, his balls.

One last squeeze and the Master steps away, leaving him hanging there as he returns to the dresser. The Doctor sees a flash of silver as he takes something into his hand.

"I only give you what you deserve," the Master says, gently, when he returns. "This is going to hurt. I expect you to scream."

The Doctor's stomach tumbles and he swallows in terrible anticipation. He couldn't stop the Master from doing this even if he wanted to.

The Master bends down. There's a familiar tinkling sound, and the Doctor recognizes it as similar to Lucy's clamp chains, the ones she's still wearing. But the ones the Master uses on him are crueller than hers. The Doctor gasps as he feels the first sharp bite into the skin of his balls, winces and draws in a hissed breath at the pinch. And then another to the other side, equally painful. His face is drawn in a rictus, jaw clenched against the pain. His hands are fists behind his back.

And then he screams weakly as the clamps are weighted, tightening the clamps as the chain is pulled agonizingly down. The Master flicks at the weight to set it swinging, and the Doctor gives a long, quivering whimper. It hurts, it hurts so much.

The Master stands up, watches him with slitted, contented eyes. But no amount of satisfaction is enough, not when he can have more. And so the Master hefts the flogger again.

It's not just that the strokes are harder this time, that the Master is no longer holding back the force of each blow. The Doctor's skin already thrums from all the strokes that came before, and the thudding sting of the leather tails is losing distinction. What makes it torment, what wrenches out a scream with every hit, is the way it sends the weight swinging again, tightening and pulling at those points of agony on his sensitive balls, making his nerves shriek with pain. It's sharp and cruel and excruciating, and it doesn't stop, not even when his screams have dragged into whimpering sobs.

And then suddenly the flogging stops. His body rocks to a halt and there's no more swinging. He takes sharp, whining breaths as the pain starts to ebb at last.

The Master strokes the flogger once more, with all his might, right across the Doctor's genitals, and the Doctor yowls.

And then the Master turns away, leaving him there, hanging and trembling, and walks towards the bed, walks to where Lucy waits.

Lucy is blindfolded and bound; she could only listen as the Master had his way with the Doctor. And now the Doctor can only watch as the Master sits down on the bed next to Lucy, as he reaches out to touch the clamps she's worn all this time.

She keens as the first nipple clamp is taken off. The Doctor doesn't envy her the pain of removal and dreads his own. But the Master takes pity, massages her breast to ease the ache left behind. He does the same with her other breast, then reaches down between her legs and toys gently with the clamp on her clit. Lucy gives little mewling whimpers, thrusting shallowly against his hand, away from it, as if not sure which she wants.

When that clamp comes off, she sobs with pain. The Master's fingers press against her clit, soothing and pleasuring her. Lucy leans gratefully towards him, seeking contact, and the Master obliges. Even in pain and discomfort, the Doctor appreciates the sight of them together. As he recovers from the last blow of the flogger, he can feel the low hum of his arousal returning. His cock twitches upwards and he sways slightly on the balls of his feet, wincing as the weight on his balls rocks, sending gentle waves of pain through him.

"Have you hurt him terribly?" Lucy asks the Master.

"Only a little," the Master replies. He slides his hand back between her legs, pushing his fingers inside her. "Would you like to find out?"

"Please," Lucy murmurs, sighing with pleasure as she moves against the Master's hand. She bites her lip and moans.

The Master pulls out his hand and Lucy gives a whimper of disappointment. He looks slyly up at the Doctor, then turns back to her and gives one breast a sharp slap. Lucy gives a gasping cry, then a mewling whimper as the Master slaps there again. Then he begins to massage it, first soothing and then kneading, a rough grab that reddens the pale flesh. He sucks at her nipple, laves at it, bites lightly and then kisses, slaps again, again. Lucy tugs fruitlessly against the bindings, pained and pleasured, wanting more and wanting relief. When the Master is fully satisfied, when her breast is marked and red, he does stop, but only to switch to her other breast, to do it all over again.

And then as Lucy whimpers he begins to slap at her sides, her stomach -- not hard, but insistent, incessant. His hands clap against her thighs, her arms, the soft skin of her inner thighs, making her skin flush all over, just as he did to the Doctor. Lucy makes desperate little sounds, moves restlessly this way and that. Every so often, the Master stops to kiss her, her body and mouth, to play teasingly with her cunt, but stops as soon as she's had enough time for the sting of the slaps to fade so he can begin again, to slap and lightly scratch. When he's done with her body he slaps at her cunt, toys with it and slaps again, again. He gives her a deep, hungry kiss, then leans back, raking her body with his gaze.

The Master reaches up and undoes the loosened bun of her hair, smoothes it out with his fingers. He kisses her, grips her hair and pulls her head back, kisses her again. He wraps his other hand lightly around her neck and strokes it back and forth, his palm against the front of her throat, squeezes once, again. And then more kisses, aggressive and deep.

"Would you like a surprise?" the Master asks, sweetly.

"Anything," Lucy moans.

The Master pulls several things from his pocket and sets them onto the bed, the objects obscured from the Doctor's view. He picks up a ball gag and brings it to her mouth. "Open up," he murmurs.

Lucy obeys, and the gag is buckled into place. The Master slips his hand down between her legs, strokes the inside of her thigh. Lucy gives a muffled moan and spreads her legs wider. The Master picks up a largish steel ball from the bed. It fits comfortably in the palm of his hand, and he brings it to her cunt. Lucy gives a soft "oh" and then a long groan as he pushes it into her, as it goes all the way inside and then stays there even after the Master's hand pulls away. She twists her hips as she moans, her hands grasping at air. The Master grasps one hip and turns her half on her side, twisted over to expose her arse. The Master slicks his hand with lube before pushing fingers inside her. He pushes another steel ball into her arse and Lucy gasps and groans.

The Master kisses her once more, then leaves the bed and walks to the Doctor with amusement in his eyes.

The Doctor swallows; his tongue feels thick, his throat sore and bruised. "What?" he rasps.

The Master takes what looks like a small remote control from his pocket and holds it up. "I made this in about ten minutes. Human radio technology is ludicrously simple."

He presses a button and Lucy immediately begins to writhe on the bed, moaning helplessly. The Doctor can hear strong vibrations coming from inside her. His cock twitches, jumps.

The Master reaches for the Doctor's cock, strokes it a few times, then reaches underneath and without warning removes both clamps from his balls. The Doctor screams in pain, whimpers and shudders. The Master abruptly lets down the suspending rope and the Doctor cries out as he crumples to the floor, aggravating his soreness from the flogging. lies there, stunned and gasping, as the Master unhooks the end of the belt and sets to work with a long black rope, rearranging his body and binding him over and over. His wrists are unlocked and his arms bound in a new position behind his back, and the rope goes around his chest several times before it's tied off. tries to roll over, but the Master holds him still as he winds the other end of the rope around one thigh. The purpose of the new binding becomes evident the moment the rope is hooked and the Doctor is hauled back up again, the Master grunting with effort as he raises up until only the ball of one foot touches the ground. Instead of hanging straight down from the neck, the Doctor is bent forward, his centre of balance somewhere around mid-back. His bound leg is held raised beside him, knee pointed out. The end of the belt dangles from his neck.

"So much better this way," the Master says, feeling the spread of the Doctor's arse, massaging his sore, exposed balls.

The Doctor feels an aching relief from the combination of the Master's hand and the release of the full-body tension he needed to keep from being strangled. His weight shifts and he loses his footing, but all that does is make him hang freely. He relaxes at last, letting the rope hold him. The Master continues to massage his balls, rolling them in his hand, rubbing pleasurably behind them. The Doctor lets his head hang, his eyes close.

He lets out a disappointed sound when the Master stops touching him, but it's only for a moment and then slick fingers are pressing into his arse, hooking inside him and twisting, spreading. A cool, heavy ball is pushed firmly into his arse, followed by another, another. They slide in with moderate effort, one after the other, each one slightly larger than the last. The Doctor shifts uncomfortably as the string of them moves deeper with each addition, over a dozen of them following the bend of his body. The Master pushes the last one in as far as his fingers will reach, forcing past any resistance. And then another pressure, a wide plug that makes his eyes water as it's pushed inside, as the widest part stretches him to the limit. He breathes out in a shudder as it settles into place, his arse closing around the narrow neck. The plug is secure, trapping the balls inside him even as he hangs in mid-air.

The Master's hand rubs against the base of the plug, then moves around and presses at his abdomen, finding the start of the string of balls. He pushes at them, nudging them about with his fingertips, and the Doctor whimpers helplessly.

"Does it hurt?" the Master asks, eyes bright with fascination. "There's barely any nerve endings that far inside. It's really more for me than you." He traces from the hard bulge of the balls to the other side of the Doctor's abdomen, still soft and flat. "Next time I'll make it longer."

The Master holds up the remote and runs his thumb over a button. He seems about to press it, then stops. "No, not yet," he decides. He grips the Doctor's chin and tilts his face up.

The Doctor wets his dry lips, swallows against the belt still tight around his throat. He wants to apologize but he knows how pointless it would be, even counterproductive. The Master's forgiveness isn't something he can beg for.

"Did you really think that was enough?" the Master asks, head cocked. He grabs the dangling leash of the belt and wraps it around his fist, pulls the Doctor in by his neck.

The Doctor gags as the leather tightens painfully.

"It wasn't," the Master snarls, coldly furious.

Abruptly he releases the belt and turns away, leaving the Doctor swinging gently and gasping for a clear breath. His chest is tight, his arms drawn back by the new position, making it difficult to breathe. He coughs weakly and fumbles for his previous footing to ease the tension. When he finally regains it, finally looks up, the Master has returned, and he has something in his hand. Something new.

The Master begins a slow circle around the Doctor, sliding the tip of the slim rattan cane along his body as if contemplating the best places to strike. Where it will hurt the most, where the Master wants him to hurt. The Doctor braces himself in expectation, his breathing shallow and halting.

The first strike is a casual tap across his thigh. It stings, but it's no worse than the flogger, certainly less agonizing than that last blow he received. But it's followed by a series of constant strikes, rap-rap-rap-rap-rap, over and over all up and down his legs. The Doctor winces and hisses, loudest when the cane strikes the back of his knees, the inside of his thighs. It's worst in the places where the flogger never reached, where he hasn't been half-numbed from those thudding blows.

A sharp strike across his chest and the Doctor is left gasping, left with an angry, throbbing mark that makes his eyes water. And then again across his stomach. Two strikes to his arse, made worse as they jar the metal balls and the plug. The Master criss-crosses with the cane, gridding the Doctor with welts until he's taking hitching, keening sobs of breath, until he's screaming pitifully every time the tip of the cane catches on his balls and cock.

The Master is breathing hard himself when he stops, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. He puts the cane aside and runs his hand over the Doctor's heated, raised skin and caresses it, pinches it here, there.

The Master rests his head against the Doctor's and gives a satisfied hum in the Doctor's ear. He presses his fingers into the Doctor's abdomen again, finding those metal balls inside, and then smacks there, over and over with an open palm. The Doctor sobs and tries to pull away, but the Master holds him still.

"Shh shh. Almost done," the Master murmurs, stroking gently over his hip. He kisses the crook of the Doctor's neck, then reaches down and strokes the Doctor's cock, steady and sweet. The pleasure is almost unbearable after so much pain, with his whole body a mess of throbbing welts. He snivels, gives a wrenching groan as the Master squeezes his sore balls, rolls them in his hand. The Master kisses him, tastes the salt of the tears on his cheeks, laps them up like fine wine.

"Poor Doctor. So many tears. Would you like to feel good?" the Master asks.

The Doctor nods weakly. "Please," he rasps, an almost airless sound.

The Master keeps stroking the Doctor's cock, then reaches up with his other hand and toys with the belt around the Doctor's neck, casually tugging and tightening. When the Doctor's cock is half-hard, he releases it and concentrates on the belt, admiring the bruised stripe that bleeds past its edges, turning the leather so the buckle is on the side of the Doctor's neck. He tightens the belt until the Doctor can't breathe anymore, then loosens it just enough that he can. He pushes one finger beneath the leather, testing the give, and is pleased when the Doctor again struggles to breathe.

The Master pulls his finger free and wraps the leash of the belt around his fist. A strong tug and the Doctor's balance tips. He loses his footing as his weight shifts forward, as his head is pulled down. The Master pops open his trousers and pushes them down, kicks them off. He caresses his hard cock with his free hand, gives a considering hum, and then opens the buttons of his shirt, pushes the wings aside, exposing his cock.

"Open wide, now. And no teeth," the Master says, sternly.

Another strong pull and the Doctor sticks his neck out, mouth gaping as he strains for the Master's cock. It's so close, just an inch from his lips, but the Master doesn't close the distance, makes him work for it. The Doctor shifts his weight, wriggles and tugs, then strains again, again. Finally he catches the tip of it with his tongue, a glancing lick and then a broader one. The Master chuckles as he pulls just out of range, as the Doctor gapes after him, but then pushes his hips forward again, letting the Doctor catch his lips around the head of his cock. The Doctor sucks hard, hollowing his cheeks to keep a hold. Leather creaks next to his ear as the Master's grip tightens on the leash, dragging him a fraction closer. The leather digs into his skin but he doesn't care, barely notices when the only thing that matters is giving the Master the pleasure he desires.

It's not very long before the Master loses interest in taunting and steps close enough to feed the Doctor more of his cock. The Doctor sucks messily, drooling generously due to the angle of his head. The Master is already fully hard, and his cock bumps bluntly against the back of the Doctor's throat, thick and hot against his tongue.

The Doctor is so focused that he gives a muffled yelp of surprise when one of the metal balls suddenly springs to life inside him, vibrating steadily. And then a second, a third, and he groans as his insides spark and hum with pleasure. He groans around the Master's cock, squirms in the ropes. The Master's cock slips free and the Doctor pants and moans as another begins to vibrate, another, until the whole string of them is humming and he's devolved into desperate, gasping whimpers. Every time he squirms the balls shift inside him, making it worse and so much better at the same time.

The Master tuts. "If it's that much of a distraction, I'll turn them off," he warns, motioning for the Doctor to continue sucking.

"Sorry," the Doctor slurs, whispery. "Don' stop, don'..." And then no more words, just wet slurps and groans as he sucks sloppily, greedily.

The Master strokes his hair with obvious approval, holding the Doctor to his cock with one hand on his leash and the other tangled at the back of his head, gently pushing. The Master's cock dips shallowly into the Doctor's throat, just briefly but over and over. The Doctor swallows each time, to keep from gagging, to encourage him deeper, but the Master is in complete control and has his own pace in mind.

The hand in his hair disappears, and seconds later the vibrations change inside him. He lets out long, wavering whimpers as the balls move like a wave inside him, the strongest vibrations cascading back and forth. It's unspeakably good and his eyes roll back as his cock twitches, already full and aching. He lets out a deep, long groan around the Master's cock, and the Master tugs on his leash and this time he pushes deep and holds. The Doctor swallows, swallows, and the fullness of the Master's cock stretches his throat, pushes against the makeshift collar. There's no chance of air, not like this, and he switches to respiratory bypass with the little sense he has left.

The Master's other hand returns to his hair, still holding the remote, the edge of it digging into the Doctor's scalp. But none of that matters because the cascade of vibrations is changing, switched to some random sequence that makes him choke from shocks of pleasure. It's all he can do to concentrate on keeping his jaw open wide, on keeping his teeth out of the way as the Master begins to fuck his throat in short motions, staying deep inside, making his throat bulge. He hangs helpless in the ropes, tensed but held, so held. His body throbs and aches, bruised and battered but it's so good, so good, all of it is good. Euphoria fills his chest, his head as it all blurs together, as the vibrations return to their cascading but stronger this time, so strong. Nothing escapes the Master's hand, nothing except his untouched back, though it's only untouched for now because that's the reason for all of this, for his suffering, his payment of pain. The only crime is to refuse, even out of thoughtlessness, out of distraction. He's paid for his sin; the pleasure that builds in him now is forgiveness.

And suddenly every ball is at full force inside him, humming loud and fast. It's too much for him to bear, too much, and his untouched cock arches up as he comes, spurting into the air. He chokes and coughs around the Master's cock, nearing the limit of his air, his racing hearts using it up too quickly. But the Master holds him, his lips flush against his crotch, around the base of the Master's cock. The Master cradles his head close, groaning aloud as the Doctor's throat spasms. It's not until the Doctor goes limp, drained from his climax, strength fading with his sight and air, that the Master finally eases back, thrusting shallowly, reluctant to leave the Doctor's throat completely. But just as the greyness fills the Doctor's vision, there's the wet sound of the Master's cock slipping from his throat, the rush of air into his lungs. He gasps around the Master's cock, chest heaving against the ropes. The Master takes in a hissing breath and comes against the back of the Doctor's throat, making him choke on his come, coughing and gagging.

The Doctor hangs there, dripping come from both ends, the balls still humming inside him, making him twitch and shudder. The Master closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh. His tongue peeks out and wets his lips, and he rolls his head from side to side. When the Master opens his eyes again, the anger is gone from them. He takes the Doctor's head in his hands and kisses him on the forehead. Rests his cheek against it and gives a humming sigh.

"I so needed that," the Master says, voice low with satiation. He releases the Doctor and uses the remote control to turn the vibrations down, off.

The Doctor can't even muster a whimper of relief. He's completely limp in the ropes, slumped and boneless, eyelids heavy with exhaustion. The Master touches him gently, a light caress, inspecting, soothing. Making sure he hasn't broken anything he didn't want broken.

Lucy moans, loud and pleading, almost senseless herself. She's been trapped all this time with those vibrations inside her and no relief, nothing to push her over the edge.

The Master gives the Doctor one last reassuring touch before returning to the bed. The Doctor watches dazedly as the Master slips his hand between Lucy's thighs, toying with her cunt. She ruts against his hand without shame or restraint, mewling and pleading for him to please, please make her come. And he does, making her arch and cry and shudder. And then minutes more of exquisite torment and again she comes, keening so high. She lies against the pillows, senseless, and he removes the gag, kisses her deeply.

At last the Master detaches her cuffs from the restraints. He rubs each arm to soothe her, then uses the remote to make her shudder with aftershocks before lowering the balls inside her to a quiet hum, then off. Lucy stretches and curls against him, nuzzling sweetly.

The Master sees the Doctor watching, and his mouth curls in a crooked smirk. "I think the Doctor wants to join us."

"Show him to me?" she asks, voice heavy with satisfaction. The Master removes her blindfold and she squints against the light, blinks as her eyes adjust. And then she see the Doctor, the state of him, and she shivers. "Oh, my darling," she coos, and crawls across the bed, steps onto the floor with wobbly legs.

When she reaches the Doctor she begins to touch him, to caress all over, so gentle over the welts, the heated skin, the bite of rope and leather. "Such a good boy," she murmurs adoringly. "My poor darling. Lucy's here."

The Master joins her and together they lower the Doctor to the floor. The Doctor's vision fades out as they untie him, as the pain of stopping proves finally too much for him.

When he comes to, he's lying half-curled on the bed, his head resting in Lucy's lap. She's touching him aimlessly, toying with his hair and stroking his arm. He's been cleaned up and the ropes and toys have been put away, though the balls and plug are still inside him. He aches everywhere, and his muscles stiffened up while he was out. He groans weakly.

"Back with us?" the Master asks, and the Doctor sees him move into view. He's fully naked at last, relaxed and calm in the afterglow of the Doctor's punishment.

The Doctor tries to speak, but only manages an incoherent mumble.

"Get him some water?" Lucy asks, and the Master obliges. He returns with a glass and together they hold the Doctor up enough so he can drink. Thirst sated, the Doctor sighs and slumps against Lucy.

"Help me get him onto his front," the Master says, and they ease the Doctor from Lucy's lap to lie flat and stretched out. The soft bed cushions the marks from the cane and flogger. The Doctor feels the bed shift around him, and then the Master's legs straddling his hips. And then the Master begins to massage his aching muscles, and the Doctor groans.

The Master chuckles warmly and continues on. He's clearly in a generous mood and the Doctor is in no condition to refuse. Even though the massage has an edge of pain as the Master squeezes sore and bruised flesh, the Doctor finds he's left relaxed and pleasantly achy once the knots and stiffness have been steadily worked out of him. The soreness and the pleasant aches blend together into an inescapable thrum of sensation, his whole body saturated with it.

"Doctor?" the Master calls, sing-song.

The Doctor gives a rumbling noise that would translate to, 'I'm awake,' if he could get his voice to cooperate. Not that any part of his body is interested in doing anything but lying there like a very relaxed lump.

The Master climbs off him and the Doctor can hear him puttering about the room. Lucy sits beside him and resumes her comforting touch. The Doctor gives her an appreciative murmur, then rests quietly.

He must have dozed, because the next thing he knows he smells food, and Lucy and the Master are eating what looks like lunch. Italian. The Doctor smells basil and olive oil and his stomach rumbles. He licks his lips and clumsily pushes himself up.

"Can I--" the Doctor begins, his voice gravelly and rasping, but at least he can manage words again.

The Master wordlessly offers a glass of wine, and the Doctor accepts it gladly. He drinks it like water, then downs a second almost as quickly. The alcohol hits his system fast and it gives his tiredness a pleasant fizz. As the Master refills his glass again, Lucy hands him a plate of food. Bruschetta, and fresh mozzarella wrapped in prosciutto. The Doctor balances the wine glass on the plate and devours his lunch, moaning at the taste of it. It's of excellent quality, but he'd eat a boiled shoe right now and call it gourmet, he's so hungry. Still, the sudden hit of food and wine makes him feel lazy, and when he's done he sets the empty plate and glass on the floor, stretches widely, and flops on the bed like a dishrag. He gets a jolting reminder of the string of metal balls inside him, but then it feels rather good to have them shift about, and he moves his hips aimlessly to continue the sensation. Distracted, he only half-notices as lunch is cleared away, as Lucy and the Master begin to prepare for the next stage of the day.

"Feeling better?" Lucy asks, as she sits beside him.

"Mmm. Much," the Doctor sighs, content. He nuzzles against her open hand, kisses her palm. "It's time?"

Lucy nods. She helps the Doctor move to a new position, on his front in the centre of the bed, his arms and legs outstretched for binding. The Master returns with a tray bearing a glass bowl, a flannel, a sheathed dagger, a vial of cobalt-purple fluid, and a fine-tipped brush. He hands it to Lucy before attaching the bed restraints to the Doctor's cuffs. The restraints are tight but not uncomfortable, spreading him flat and keeping him in place. It's an unsubtly sacrificial pose, and it's only now that he starts to feel the familiar knot of expectation, anticipation clearing away his drowsiness.

"I don't want you biting into your tongue again," the Master says. A ball gag is wedged between the Doctor's teeth and its straps tightened securely behind his head.

Lucy moves a chair up next to the bed and sits down, there to assist but mostly to watch. She rests her hand on the Doctor's arm, a simple reassurance.

The Master climbs onto the bed and straddles the Doctor's hips, this time settling down onto his arse. His weight presses the Doctor into the bed, making him gasp around the gag as the plug presses deeper, pushing the metal balls around inside him.

The Doctor watches askance as the Master selects the dagger first, unsheathing it and holding it up to the light. It's a kris with a half-leaf blade and ornate handle of Indian design, old but well-made, and well-cared for in some museum until the Master selected it for himself. The tip is fine and sharp. After inspecting it to his satisfaction, the Master sets it across the Doctor's back, resting it on his shoulderblades.

"A day behind schedule," the Master says. His hand traces across the Doctor's back, feeling the rough lines that cover it, scars on this body that never scars. "You neglected your Master. Ignored my wishes, too wrapped up in your little project. I don't think you'll be making that mistake again."

The Doctor is rather certain that he's right.

"I have to wait long enough for the scars to set. I don't appreciate further delays. Is that understood?"

The Doctor nods, giving a muffled assent.

"Now let's see. Where were we?" The Master starts at the beginning, tracing over the wide circle that forms the container for the phrase. And then the first swooping line through the circle, already intersected with multiple layers of scars. High Gallifreyan writing is three-dimensional, words layered on top of each other within a single space, the layering representing the passage of time. There are simplified forms of writing more suitable to two-dimensions, even different alphabets for formal and casual, for native and alien. But for official use, for seals and oaths, only High Gallifreyan will do. It's a language of abstractions, of interactions between symbols, of order and rank. What the Master is slowly writing over a period of weeks bears a closer resemblance to a coat-of-arms than a sentence. The closest human analogue is a Buddhist yantra, a series of nested, overlapping symbols. But instead of meditative symbolism or heraldic identity it's a declaration, a formal pact. A pact the Doctor once chose to forget, to dismiss, though the Master never did. And now the Master carves it into his skin so he will never forget again.

In the complex design already finished, the Master traces the overlapping ideograms for 'until/beyond the boundaries of time/space' with an unrestricted tense and the helix line that implies personal experiencing; for 'to be bound and thus unbound'; and a symbol that has no spoken equivalent but in closest approximation means the union of blood and will. They've reached the middle layer now, the actors upon which the surrounding words are sealed. Tonight the Master carves his own personal symbol, and his impatience is no surprise.

The tip of the blade is placed at the top of the circle, and with great care and deliberation the Master begins to carve. The dagger is razor-sharp at the point and cuts neatly; only the Master's steady hand keeps it from slipping deeper, past bone to cut nerves, organs. But this is an act of life, not death.

They weren't children when they designed and swore this oath. Koschei was gone, and so was Theta Sigma. Every Time Lord has at least four names: the name of existence, the name of childhood, the first chosen name and the century name. The name of existence is never spoken, never shared, for just as a TARDIS is spoken into life so is a Time Lord, and the knowledge of that name is a terrible power. The name of childhood is given by the House but is stripped away when a child sees the Untempered Schism. After the Schism, after entrance to the Academy, for the first time a child chooses their own name. It's only upon reaching their first century that another name can be chosen, the sign of true adulthood. Most Time Lords stop there, but a few continue the process of naming, adding new ones through all the stages of their lives.

As was typical for them at the time, the Doctor and the Master had not only already chosen their century names well ahead of time and started using them, but they'd scandalously put a section of their names of existence into writing. (Of course, back then scandal was an ongoing project of theirs.) For their oath, those slices of name, those incredibly complex equations, were simplified into representational geometric patterns.

It takes the Master the better part of an hour to finish carving his symbol, drawing each line shallowly before drawing it again, again, until the required depth is reached. Blood seeps generously from these wounds, and the Master uses the flat of the blade to scrape it up into the bowl. If a wound starts to close, it has to be re-opened, and so at the end the Master scrapes open every line one more time.

Past the bloody mess of his back, the Doctor is pale and clammy, weak from blood loss. Pain draws fine lines at his eyes, his forehead, and his hair is flat, his fringe sweaty and clinging. The bedsheets are damp beneath his cheek, wet with drool from the gag. His eyes are dull with pain, half-closed and unfocused. He's faded from high-pitched keens to tremulous whimpers.

The Master wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, sniffs and sits back in admiration of his art. But there isn't time to waste. He starts by cleaning the rest of the blood from the Doctor's back with the flannel, then wipes off the blade. He pours a few drops from the vial into the bowl of the Doctor's blood. The mixture sparks with artron reaction as the blood catalyzes and dilutes the fluid.

Finally, the Master takes the fine brush and begins to paint the mixture into every open wound. It fizzes like acid as it hits flesh, making the Doctor suddenly sob and hiccough with agony. But the burning doesn't eat away, merely soaks into the wounds, drawn to the Doctor's blood, the energy signature of his cells. Lucy holds down the Doctor's head and neck as the Master paints over and over, carefully brushing within the lines, careful not to drip or spatter. The cobalt-purple fluid is poisonous to Time Lords, and the Master's use of it here must be very controlled or he risks far greater damage to the Doctor's health than mere scarring. For days after this, the poison will battle with his body's healing, damaging the skin cells until they mutate a localized scar-forming gene, generating a buildup of collagen fibres as each wound heals. In such small quantities the poison will eventually be broken down, but the damage done will remain in those thin cuts.

When the painting is finished, Lucy takes the tray and its contents away and returns with fresh, damp flannels. The Master cleans around the wounds and Lucy wipes away the drips of blood elsewhere. When they finish, there's no more blood and a thin layer of clotting has formed. The Master wipes over those, cleaning away any traces of poison on the surface of the Doctor's skin. And then it's over. All that's left to do is wait. By tomorrow they'll see a result.

The burning fizz fades from the Doctor's wounds, replaced by a thrumming heat that prickles along his back. From experience he knows it will last for hours yet. He gives a pitiful whine, muffled by the gag. Lucy presses the back of her hand to his forehead and looks concerned.

"Would some ice help?" she asks.

The Doctor gives a weak nod. Lucy leaves, then returns with ice packs that she lays along the Doctor's back. He shivers and sighs with relief as the cold sucks away the heat, numbs the pain.

The Master lies down alongside him, his eyes calm and clear. He wraps a leg and arm around the Doctor, presses against him. He's hard.

"My name carved into your skin. Wait until you see. You're going to love it," the Master says, his fingers tracing the edges of the circle. His hand arcs down to the bottom, then down to grip the base of the plug and twist it, tilt it, until the Doctor gives a low groan.

The Doctor groans again, louder as the Master moves the plug back and forth, shallowly fucking him. Lucy hands the remote to the Master, and soon the Doctor is writhing gently, his erection pressing into the bed. Pleasure as reward, as balm. Taking everything the Master gives him. No refusals, not anymore.

When this newest set of scars has set, the Master will carve the Doctor's symbol, and then after that the remaining ideograms: the symbol for 'Time Lords', their customized Chapter seal, and the oath-mark that declares all below sworn to be unbroken.

It's going to hurt. He'll suffer over and over. But it's worth the pain.

To unknowing eyes it will be a dense network of geometry, but to the last of the Time Lords it will say: 'The Master and the Doctor, Time Lords of Chapter Prydonia, sworn in union of blood and will, bound and thus unbound, go together until the ends of time and beyond the boundaries of space.'

Their oath renewed, the promise mended.


End of Arc 3.


Chapter illustration. Click for a larger version:


Absolution by the Rast