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."