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.