It was a very long year.
The Doctor thought about Martha, sometimes—a lot of the time, really; there wasn’t much else to think about, besides concocting vague plans for escape which always contained one or more significant flaws, or wondering how many people had died today, or of course slowly building himself up in the Archangel network (but that was, of course, slow, and it was tiring), or how Jack was doing. Sometimes the Master would show him how Jack was doing, of course. He’d watch while the guards shot and cut and burned and flayed, and eventually the Master would take him back, but that was only because Jack had a tendency to laugh and make jokes after each successive death, and the Master didn’t like that. It was good to know that there was something on this ship the Master couldn’t control.
Jack was the only one like that. Martha’s family may have seethed quietly, but they always did what they were told, and certainly neither Lucy nor the guards showed any signs at all of independence, though sometimes he wondered if there might be more to Lucy than she was showing. But there might not be, and probably wasn’t; in all likelihood, the Master had picked out the most random and ineffectual female he could find, just for the sake of parody. The Doctor took comfort in the thought that the Master would never be able to find someone like Martha or Rose or Sarah Jane or certainly not Romana—it was a reminder that there was something else the Master couldn’t have. Lucy was a pale imitation, and he was sure the Master knew it.
The Master liked to talk to him. Sometimes it was to tease him or wear him down, not that it was hard to do that, but sometimes it was just to talk about Gallifrey, about Axos or the Rani or anything that the Master seemed to want to remember. Maybe the Master wanted him to remember. Whatever reason it was for, it was a reprieve, though not a comfortable one. He wanted to believe that the Master was talking about these things because he genuinely wanted to talk about them, because he needed to talk about them, because he needed the interaction with someone who knew what the universe was like, but he knew it was because the Master wanted him to think that. Still, the Doctor talked about Gallifrey and the Academy and the sub-space implications of the Halc-Treimel equations, because there was nothing else to do besides think, and even if the Master didn’t need to talk about the universe, sometimes the Doctor thought he might. It had been so long since he’d been able to talk to someone who knew exactly what he meant.
On occasion, the Master would undo the effects of the Lazarus machine. It felt better to not be confined in that trap of a body, of course, but he knew the Master did everything for a reason, no matter how mad the reason might be, so it always made him uneasy. Sometimes, on occasions like those, the Master would just sit and watch him. He didn’t have to do anything; the Master seemed quite content to sit in silence, observing him, mentally cataloguing whatever it was he thought was so interesting about him. The Doctor couldn’t move around, of course—he was always handcuffed to a chair, or a banister, and he was never within reach of anything, but once, maybe five or six months into the year, the Master took the handcuffs off.
“Give you a chance to stretch your legs, eh?” the Master said, grinning, though there weren’t very many times when he wasn’t. The Master was handling world domination rather well.
Being able to move was a relief, and having a body that could do it was even more so, but, as always, his mind turned to the motive behind the action.
“What do you want?” the Doctor asked, tiredly, wanting to stretch and reduce the effects of sitting down for so long, but he didn’t feel like giving the Master the satisfaction.
“Do I have to want anything?” the Master replied, eyes wide in innocence. “Maybe all I want is to have a walk with an old friend.” He extended an arm. The Doctor didn’t take it. “Come on, now,” the Master said, pouting, “it doesn’t hurt to be friendly.” He paused. “I’m sure it hurts not to be, though. What’s that girl’s name? Leticia? I bet she’d be friendly. After a while.” The Doctor’s face didn’t change, but he took his arm regardless. The Master beamed. “Jolly good. Now let’s take that walk, shall we?”
The Master led him down shining silver corridors and elegant halls of brushed steel, and past doorways that opened automatically or remained ominously closed, and through patrols of black-clad guards who saluted and were waved off dismissively. “There’s a lab over there,” the Master said, pointing down another hall. “I’m thinking of using it for something or another. It’d be fun to get back in the game again, wouldn’t it? I could make, I don’t know, a negative flux coil. Always liked a good negative flux coil.”
“You’d need a black hole to calibrate it,” the Doctor said, staring into space, “and then it would leech the energy out of every living thing within five hundred miles.”
“But that’s what makes it fun,” the Master said cheerfully, leading him down another hall. “It’s no good building something if it isn’t fun.” The Doctor didn’t reply.
After a while, the Master looked over at him and said, “You know, I don’t think these halls are very interesting. We should go have a look at the maintenance tunnels. Bet there’s something fun to do down there.” Another round with Jack, then, the Doctor thought. At least he’d get the comfort of that one irrepressible comment the Master would let him hear before moving him away.
But they passed by the corridor with Jack in it, and the Doctor didn’t get a chance to look at him. He could hear him, though. As incongruous it may have been to hear singing in the maintenance tunnels of a spaceship used by a megalomaniac to slaughter millions of people, it didn’t seem entirely unexpected, because it was Jack, after all. Some people will go for any way possible to maintain their sanity, and singing ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’ was one of the more heartening ones. It would almost have been worth a smile, but the Master gestured to a guard, and then there were a succession of rapid bangs, and the singing stopped. Still, he suspected it would start up again in a few minutes. He smiled in the privacy of his own head.
“That Jack fellow,” the Master said, turning around a corner. “He’s a mistake, isn’t he. You did something and he turned out wrong.”
“I didn’t do anything,” the Doctor said. “It was someone else.”
“Ahhh, but that someone else was another one of yours, wasn’t she? Of course it was a she. You’ve always got a she lying around. You don’t have a he very often. Well, not that this one really counts as that, admittedly,” the Master said. “Maybe that’s why you have him around.”
“You don’t know anything about him,” the Doctor said as they rounded another corner. “You have no idea who he is.”
The Master rolled his eyes. “And you know everything about him. What’s his favorite color?”
“He doesn’t care, he likes all of them,” the Doctor said automatically. The Master raised an eyebrow.
“Where was he born? What’s his middle name? What is he afraid of?”
A moment passed. “I don’t know,” the Doctor said, eventually.
“There you go then. You don’t know who he is either.”
“I know enough to trust him with my life.”
“You trust everyone with your life. Your life isn’t something you take seriously. I think you trusted me with your life, once, a long time ago.”
“I take life more seriously than you can imagine, Master.”
The Master shivered. “Oh, that’s nice. Say it again.” The Doctor stayed silent.
“I could force you say it, you know. Have someone killed every time you refuse. That’d be fun, wouldn’t it? Oh, the look on your face…or we could skip all that and get to the point where you inevitably agree to do it. What do you say to that, eh?”
The Doctor didn’t say anything.
The Master stopped walking and turned to face him. “Go on, answer me.”
“Yes, Master,” the Doctor said. He could still manage bitterness. Bitterness was easy.
The edges of the Master’s mouth curved upwards. “That’s better, isn’t it? One should remember an old friend’s name. Now, where are we?” He leaned his head around the next corner. “What do you know! We’re right near that other old friend of yours. But she’s not really yours any more, is she? All mine, now. Let’s go have a visit, shall we?”
Down the steamy corridor of pipes and grates and vents was the room holding the TARDIS, and he’d known, to a certain extent, that she was nearby; once he had been able to feel a vague humming in his head when she was close, but that had been replaced by a sort of hollow echo. There wasn’t anything left in her to hear.
The Master dragged him through the unlocked door—while there were still keys around, nobody seemed to want to go in anyway, and so no particular amount of security was required, beyond the obligatory guards. And what could anyone do if they got in there? He supposed he could damage the paradox machine, but that would require a weapon, and those were out of his or the Joneses’ reach.
The TARDIS was as red and still and, hah, alien as she had been the last time he’d seen her. The Doctor wanted to revitalize her, bring her back with the energy and enthusiasm he’d kept her running on for so long, make her hum and glow and buzz with the urge to move, go, run, explore—but her engines were dead and her heart was cold, and he didn’t know how to fix her or even get in a position where he could do so.
“Aw, she doesn’t talk much any more, does she?” the Master said, idly examining a cast-off fuse equilibrator. “Bit boring, really. Never thought she was all that impressive. Now, when I had a TARDIS, oh, she was really something…but she’s gone now. Burned with the rest of them, I suppose. I hadn’t seen her in so long anyway. I wonder if she missed me.”
“She forgot who you were,” the Doctor said. He wasn’t trying to be vicious. It was the truth, that was all. “You left her, and someone else found her. They died with her, not you.”
The Master’s mouth twitched. “Well, it’s better I didn’t have to see her like that, then. Better to not have to watch her grow cold and die. What does it feel like to know that a part of you is dead, Doctor? Does it twist you up inside, or is it more of a dull ache? Is it like having a phantom limb? How much does it hurt, Doctor?”
“It’s like having a dead heart,” the Doctor said quietly. “You go on, but you know it won’t take as much effort to make you stop. The lack of a second beat leaves you disoriented and the first one doesn’t seem as strong any more.”
The Master winced. “Ouch. Glad I’m not going through that. My beats never stop, you know. They’re always there to remind me where to go. You should try it, Doctor.”
“You’re the only one who can hear them, Master.” Again, that little shiver; he was beginning to suspect it was more to unnerve him than anything else.
“You could try. For me. As an experiment, of sorts.”
“There isn’t exactly a Time Vortex handy, is there.”
The Master laughed and slapped him on the back. “Now there’s the Doctor I used to know! You’re no fun, you know, now that you’ve gone all quiet and hopeless.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m hopeless, exactly,” the Doctor said, and he smiled. The Master narrowed his eyes.
“Right, yes, you’ve got a plan. You’ve got your Martha Jones down there, fighting the good fight and bringing freedom to the masses. Has she actually done anything, do you know? Has there been any news of a great uprising? I’d tell you if there was. I really would. I do so like to keep you informed.”
“You like to tell me about your victories, yes. I’m not sure you would mention anything else.”
“Well, that’s because there’s nothing else to tell! People are dying, cities are burning, the shipyards are working at full capacity—everything’s going swimmingly, Doctor. Martha Jones is just another speck in an increasingly obsolete species. Ahhh, but you and I, though, our species is just starting to begin.” He leaned in, his mouth curved in a dangerous smile. “The new Time Lords. The new Gallifrey. It’s a whole new galactic order, Doctor. And you get to see the start of it all! Isn’t it exciting?”
“This isn’t how Gallifrey should be remembered, Master,” the Doctor said softly. “It’s gone. You can’t bring it back.”
“I’m not trying to bring it back,” the Master snapped. “I’m making it better. All of the power and none of the stodgy old bureaucracy. This will be a Gallifrey that can do things.”
“Destroy things, you mean. Burn everything to the ground and take control of what’s left—is that what you want?”
“I want,” the Master said, slowly, “to do what I’m supposed to do. I can’t very well call myself the Master if I don’t control anything, can I?”
“Names can change. You weren’t always called that. I wasn’t always the Doctor.”
“No, you were once like everyone else, every other Time Lord, and you still are. Or you were a while ago, anyway. Now you’re not like every other Time Lord at all! I’m the only one left, and you refuse to be like me, so you’ll never be average again.” He paused. “Funny thing, averages. Add up two different numbers, divide it by two, and you get something that’s in between the numbers you started with. I wonder what that’d be like with us? Half me, half you. Could be interesting.”
“I really can’t think of anything to respond to that,” the Doctor said, after a moment. The Master laughed.
“The fact that you’re talking at all is good enough for me. You know, those eighteen months before I met you again, I kept thinking about you. What you were doing, if those things had killed you yet, whether or not you’d found a new girl—it was a fun way to pass the time between Lucy and work. Not that Lucy isn’t fun, of course. Humans really are amazing, aren’t they? But you’d know that better than I, wouldn’t you? I bet that girl of yours is just loads of fun. Just like all the others. You really can’t get enough, can you, Doctor?”
“They’re not like that,” the Doctor said, tight-lipped. “None of them are like that.”
“Bet some of them wanted to be. You could have used that, you know. Stepped off your high and mighty pedestal for once and just enjoyed life.” He knew, he knew he was just being antagonized again, the Master just wanted to get a reaction out of him, but it was always so hard, these days, not to give in to emotion—
“Some of us have better things to do than that, Master. There are other ways to enjoy the universe—but then, you could never see those things, could you? You could never see anything but yourself.”
The Master’s eyes glittered. “And you think you’re so different? If you cared for all those girls so much, why’d you leave them all in the end? Every time I saw you, you had a new one. In the end, Doctor, they were never as important as you. So why’d you bother pretending to be all noble and above all that when you were just one step away from me?”
“Every person who ever traveled with me,” the Doctor said slowly, “was more meaningful and important than anyone you ever let near you.”
The Master raised an eyebrow. “So you’re including yourself in that, then? I thought you had more self-esteem than that. Some of those girls were really just sort of useless, you know. You’re miles better than them.”
The Doctor gritted his teeth. “They all had their part to play. You can’t even begin to understand their purpose.”
“Right, yes, moral support. You just can’t handle yourself without having a cheerleader or two around. Not so tough, are you, Doctor? Take away your pretty friends and you don’t know what to do. It’s sad, really. I can be self-sufficient. When you’re alone, you’re nothing.”
“I was alone in the war,” the Doctor said, angrily—“I did what nobody else could do, and I did it on my own. I did more than you could have ever done.”
“You’ve got a point there! I could never have wiped out two entire species on my own. I’m too nice for that. You, though, you’re the Oncoming Storm, you’re the one entire planets are afraid of. My track record’s nothing compared to yours. And that, Doctor—” The Master leaned in further, inches from his face and grinning like a shark, “—is why I’m better than you.”
“I wouldn’t—” the Doctor began, but the Master pressed a finger to his lips, still grinning.
“Shhhhh. It’s not polite to interrupt. You say you’re a force for good, you say it’s your duty to help every single person you come across, and you do help them, except for when your help isn’t enough, or it doesn’t last after you leave, but you hardly ever bother to go back and check, do you? Some people call you a god, Doctor. Gods are not known for their willingness to admit mistakes. Gods can be vengeful. There are planets who worship gods that tear the skies apart in their own pointless battles, forgetting the people they supposedly govern, ripping great swaths of fire and rage across the world and leaving nothing behind their rampage but a burning planet full of dying followers. I wonder, Doctor, what kind of god are you?”
The Master was pressing him up against the cage holding the core of the TARDIS, and the metal dug painfully into his back; he could have pushed away, gotten out, but where would he go? The guards would catch him, or the Master would, and he’d just end up back here, or back in that horrible body, but perhaps—if the Master was paying too much attention to him to actually pay attention to him—it wouldn’t take that much effort, really, to grab the screwdriver. He didn’t know what he would do once he had it, but it would be a sight better than his current position, so to speak. So he stood there, pushed against the metal grate, wondering if the people who’d come up with the phrase ‘lie back and think of England’ had ever intended it to be used in such a situation.
“At least I’m honest about who I am,” the Master whispered, sliding a finger along the Doctor’s jaw. “I don’t pretend I can fix every problem and I don’t tell innocent little girls how wonderful the universe is just before I leave them in the dirt. I don’t deny myself anything because I think I’m above it. The drumbeats are clear and simple, Doctor. They don’t hide behind veils of self-imposed rules and restrictions.” He ran a hand down the Doctor’s neck, settling on his collarbone, fingers tapping out da-da-da-dum, da-da-da-dum on his skin.
“I’d rather be dishonest than be mad,” the Doctor said, looking directly at him.
“And you think one precludes the other with you? Oh, Doctor, you’re a drumbeat away from the call to war, whether you hear it or not…” The Master fingered the Doctor’s shirt collar. “We had the same beginning, do you remember? We were the same when we were young. Our lives weren’t recognizably different at all. We had the same teachers, the same classes, we played in the same fields—do you remember them? The suns lit up the grass with iridescent fire, and the trees whispered secrets when the wind blew through their branches. All gone now, of course. You took care of that.”
“You would have done the same,” the Doctor said, “if you hadn’t hidden yourself in a watch on an empty planet.”
The Master’s grip on his shirt collar tightened. “And then I would have been the death of the Time Lords, wouldn’t I? It wouldn’t be on your shoulders, if you survived at all.” He laughed—it would have been threatening if it hadn’t sounded halfway like a giggle. “But of course we would both survive, one way or another. We’re so very hard to kill. And then you could blame me, and you’d chase me halfway across the universe before you realized it only existed because of what I’d done.” His fingers slipped around the Doctor’s tie, loosening it slightly, fingertips flickering over the skin underneath. “Or maybe it would have been you who hid in a watch, and maybe I would have found you at the end of the future, old and foolish and not even a shadow of yourself. I would have killed you, of course, to save you from the misery of living like that. And then I would be the last of the Time Lords, and the skies would be empty forever…but the beat goes on, and eventually I wouldn’t care at all.”
He paused in his diatribe long enough for the Doctor to concentrate on something other than the breath on his face and the fingers on his chest; if he was fast enough, could he grab the laser screwdriver before the Master had a chance to get at it? He’d always been quick with his fingers. But before he could even formulate a maneuver, the Master’s other hand slipped down his arm, skimming across the fabric and coming to a rest on his wrist, all the while tapping out the beat: da-da-da-dum, da-da-da-dum.
“You’re not going to make any kind of move,” the Master whispered, sliding his thumb in a circle along the Doctor’s wrist. “I’m not the one being distracted here, Doctor.” He leaned in closer, breathing against the Doctor’s cheek, whispering words and phrases from long-dead languages, ancient promises and curses and poems and funeral rites. He whispered death and life and death again, and the finality of all things; he whispered of wars and the falls of cities and the loss of generations. He whispered of extinction. And always, always, the words came back to one point: this is what you did.
“You drowned the children of the Racnoss. You burned Gallifrey. You’ve killed mothers and fathers and friends and lovers, and sometimes you meant to, and sometimes it was only because they made the mistake of being on the same planet as you. The Oncoming Storm does not even notice the land over which it sweeps. But now the storm’s lost all its thunder—” The Master’s right hand caressed the Doctor’s neck, fingertips sliding across the edge of his jaw, and all he could remember to do was breathe, in and out, soft and even, stay calm and clearheaded, though it was harder to think with every passing moment, and the air in the TARDIS felt stale and sour. “—and here he is, reduced to one little cloud, drifting apart in the wind.” The hand on his wrist made its way back to his upper arm, still rubbing circles through the fabric.
The Master licked his lips. “I wonder,” he whispered, “how much your body could handle before you regenerated? Your dear friend’s too easy—in a variety of ways—but you would require a little more finesse, Doctor. It’s a bit boring, really, on this ship. I could always use something else to do.” He slid a hand over the Doctor’s chest, coming to rest on the left heart, kneading his fingertips into the suit. “I could let a Toclafane have a go at you. They can be slow if I tell them to be. But that would be so impersonal, wouldn’t it? You deserve something better than that.” The hand on the Doctor’s upper arm moved to his suit collar, fingering the top button, slipping it undone.
The Doctor snorted. “Don’t be silly, Master. You never were that good at torture. Too much talking, not enough action. I’d almost say you didn’t have the stomach for it—”
The Master’s fingernails dug into his skin. “But you wouldn’t say that, would you, Doctor. Maybe I just haven’t had enough practice with it. Everything gets better with practice. And I’ve got just loads of time to improve, and, oh look, something to practice with…” The next few buttons fell prey to the Master’s fingers. A hand skimmed lazily along the edge of his hip.
“Of course, you never did care that much about your own physical pain,” the Master said casually. “You were always prone to temporarily sacrificing yourself to save the lives of others—it’s amazing, Doctor, how you flip-flop from being the most important being in the universe to being worth less than a single insignificant human life.”
“A human life is never insignificant—” the Doctor started, but the Master pressed a finger to his lips again. “Shhhh. It’s beside the point. The point is, you’re supposed to be one of those people who can handle physical torture so long as nobody else has to go through it—but really, I’ve got the time, I’ve got the equipment, and I’d like to see just how far that bravery extends.” The Master slid the finger from the Doctor’s lips down his chin and his jaw, down his throat, resting for a moment on the nape of his neck before proceeding onto his chest, moving across the remaining bare skin and skimming down across the fabric, running circles on his hip. “Certainly,” the Master whispered, leaning in, brushing his lips against the Doctor’s neck, “you’re not brave enough to push me away, regardless of whatever consequences there might be. If you’re so pliable under my fingers—” He swiped a finger along the inside of the Doctor’s thigh, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. “—then it suggests to me you’re not quite as resilient as you’re supposed to be.”
“Well,” the Doctor said, reflectively, if a little haltingly, “you did say I could handle a little discomfort if it meant no one else had to. I’d say this falls under that.”
“A little discomfort?” the Master said, incredulous. “I’m offended, Doctor! Does all my hard work mean so little to you? This takes effort, you know!”
“You’re moving your fingers,” the Doctor said. “Slowly. It’s not much in the way of exertion. Well, all that talking probably takes some energy.”
“I’m shocked and appalled. Oh, what must I do to fulfill the Doctor’s requirements?” The Master leaned in, breathing against the Doctor’s mouth. “What sort of things would he consider truly…uncomfortable?”
“Do whatever you like,” the Doctor said, raising an eyebrow. “You won’t gain anything from it, and it’s not like I have much more to lose.”
The Master narrowed his eyes. “Let’s put that to the test, then.” He leaned his head in as far it could go, brushing his lips against the Doctor’s mouth. The Doctor wondered where Martha was right now. Egypt, maybe? Egypt was a nice place to go. Probably not these days, but it still had rather a lot of people. That would be helpful. The Master ran the tip of his tongue across the Doctor’s lips. He’d rather liked Egypt the last time he’d been there. Fascinating person, Cleo, if a bit forward. Was the Master actually kissing him now? No, it didn’t feel like it. He wondered if this was going to end any time soon. He should probably get back to attuning himself to the network. My, the Master was handsy these days. He tried to recall if the Master had ever been like this before. It was vaguely familiar. He hadn’t thought much about it in a while.
“How long is this going to take?” he murmured (it was hard to be loud with someone blocking your mouth). “If you’re trying to make things uncomfortable, I’m not the only one who has to stand up for a long time.”
The Master glared at him. It was oddly soothing.
“Your choice,” the Doctor said, shrugging. “Since you seem so fond of reminding me who’s in control.”
“You’re no fun,” the Master said irritably, withdrawing. “I think I liked you better when you were quiet and hopeless.”
“Like I said the last time, Master,” the Doctor said, stretching, “I was never hopeless. Which way is it back to the main deck?”
It was a very long year. But it did have its highlights.
