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."