Hours later, Lucy visits him. When she turns on the light, the Doctor buries his face against the pillow. He's curled up in a tight ball and there's plenty of room on the bed for her to sit beside him.
"Poor dear," she says, stroking his hair. "Harry told me what happened. That device of his is really quite amazing. You're really a little child."
"'m not," the Doctor protests, but he sounds like a child, voice thin and hurt. It's also muffled by the pillow.
"Don't be rude, darling," she says. "Come on, let me see your face." Her hand coaxes him to face her. "There now. That's better." She gives a little laugh. "I didn't think your eyes could get any bigger."
The Doctor pouts. "It's not funny."
"Not even a little? Well, I think it is. And those oversized pyjamas..." She looks down on him with doting affection. "I had a child, once. I think he would have been as sweet as you. But I bled him out on the floor." Pain flashes across her face, and he can see the madness in her eyes. "My father wouldn't have let me keep him anyway."
"Lucy, please," the Doctor begs. "This has to stop. I need your help."
"You need to learn to behave," Lucy gently chides. "It's your own fault you're in trouble. If you'd been a good boy none of this would have happened."
"That's not true," the Doctor protests. "He killed a little girl. Can't you see how wrong that is?"
"She was like the rest of them," Lucy says, eerily calm. "He made it a quick death. That's better than most of them deserve."
"You can't mean that."
"Harry promised to end the world for me," she tells him. "I thought it would be quicker but... He knows best, you see. Even if it hurts, it's only for the best."
It's no good. He can't get through to her. He's not even sure there's anything to reach. Hopelessness overwhelms him and he struggles not to cry. He can't seem to control his emotions in this young body.
"There, there," Lucy hushes, and draws him into her arms. She cradles him against herself as she rocks him gently, and hums a broken lullaby.
The next day the Master comes into his room and releases his cuffs from their locked position. When the Master sits on the bed, the Doctor shuffles back against the headboard, as far away from the Master as he can manage. All he can see is poor little Martha, dead on the floor. Her lips blue, her eyes fixed and staring. Accusing.
"I don't want you to be afraid of me," the Master says, as if he's speaking to a child and not the Doctor in a child's body.
The Doctor looks at him in disbelief.
The Master quirks a smile. "Maybe I do. But it's a healthy fear. A good fear. I like to think of at as proper respect, and respect leads to obedience. That's all I ask for. Just do as I say, and no one gets hurt. Maybe not even you."
"Liar," the Doctor mutters.
The Master puts on a comically hurt expression. "You wound me, Doctor. Insults after everything I've done for you. And before you talk back, remember what happened the last time you misbehaved."
The Doctor presses his lips together tightly.
The Master gives him an approving look. "That's a start. I'm going to give you a chance to show you can learn. If you can behave yourself appropriately, I'll let you grow up. If you can't, there are so many eight year olds who'd love to meet their Master."
There's a long silence as that hangs in the air.
"I'll behave," the Doctor says, his voice catching.
The Master smiles. "I'm so glad to hear it. Now come over here." He pats the bed.
The Doctor hesitates, swallows. Forces himself away from the illusion of safety at the end of the bed and crawls over. Sits down. The Master pets his hair, then rests his hand on his shoulder.
"That's my boy," he says, proudly. "Now, first thing we'll do is get you something that fits. Lucy's going to run you a bath."
"Can I shower instead?" the Doctor asks, keeping his tone polite.
"You're too young," the Master says.
Bubbles. Lots of bubbles. The Doctor shapes them into a foamy tower, then flattens it. His hands plunk into the water below. He leans back against the tub and slides down, down, until his nose is just above the waterline.
He hasn't had much time for baths the past few bodies. He's always been in a rush, hurrying from one disaster to the next. The hot water feels good, soothing. He takes a deep breath and slides down the rest of the way, letting it close above his head.
He keeps his eyes closed tight so the soapy water doesn't sting them. It was bewildering enough to have to see himself when he undressed. Being young is far, far stranger than being old. It's been so long. He doesn't remember his first body ever being so gangly, all knees and elbows.
He rubs at the edge of one ankle cuff with his other foot. The blasted things are waterproof on top of everything else. What's he going to do, try to escape down the drain? He's not that skinny.
He doesn't like feeling small and weak, or the way his emotions seem so much wilder, his self-control so much less than his impulses. His brain isn't mature anymore. He can feel the Archangel threads but he can't seem to make any. He has the knowledge but it's like there should be a muscle and it isn't there. He needs the Master to age him back up as soon as possible which means he's going to have to swallow his pride. Go along with this madness. Long term survival, he reminds himself. That's what's important. At this point he hardly has any dignity left to lose.
He rises back to the surface, blinking as water drips down from his hair. There's a light knock on the door and Lucy walks inside, not waiting for a reply.
"I've brought you your clothes," she says, carrying in a small bundle and laying it on the counter. More pyjamas, miniature versions of his adult-size stripes. He's relieved that he's not going to be forced into anything with cartoon characters on it. Just because he's physically eight doesn't mean he's lost all his sense.
"Do you need anything?" she asks.
"I'm fine," he says, with as much politeness as he can muster. He's not feeling very charitable towards either of them at the moment. Worse than turning him into a child is treating him like one.
Lucy kneels down beside the tub and brushes the hair from his eyes. "I'm so glad you're feeling better. Harry's very pleased. It's like we're a family now."
The Doctor pities her. She's so damaged, so lost. Two days ago she was enthusiastically having sex while he was in the next room, and now she's on the verge of formally adopting him. He shudders to think what the inside of her mind must be like. But he can't forget that no matter how much of a deranged innocent she seems, she's a full partner in the devastation below.
"Don't be much longer," she says, and kisses him on the forehead.
Once she's gone, the Doctor scrubs at where her lips touched, and then dunks himself under. Girls, he thinks, petulantly.
He dries off in a towel that seems impossibly large and fluffy, then quickly slips on his clothes. It actually bothers him to be this young. It's such a brief phase of a long life that anything before initial physical maturity is embarrassing, something to be grown out of as quickly as possible. It's the time when one is supposed to be House-bound, learning the very basics of the arts and sciences and traditions in preparation for the Academy. There was little place for children in a society that long-lived in every sense of the word. Which is why at 250 he was proudly in display of wrinkles and grey hair. He thought it made him look distinguished. The human obsession with youth came as quite a shock to him, and was at least part of why Susan adapted so much better than he did.
It took him quite a few regenerations to get used to the idea of physical youth, and even more to properly embrace it. His fourth regeneration was the youngest to date and his outward appearance unsettled him to no end. But that was nothing compared to this.
He makes himself look in the mirror. A stranger looks back, a little boy he never was. He's more pop-eyed than ever, huge brown eyes peering over the countertop. At least his hair is the same, and his features are recognizable under his eerie youth. It's so strange, even for someone used to being surprised by his reflection.
When the Master aged him a hundred physical years, he still felt like himself, just weary and brittle. Aging is inevitable; if he didn't go through bodies so quickly, eventually he would feel that old, though it'd take centuries to reach anything near what the Master did to him in minutes. Regeneration into a child's body is unheard of, probably not even possible. What would be the point of becoming half-grown, undeveloped mentally and emotionally, too small and powerless to be of use? It would be like a butterfly willingly going back to being a caterpillar.
His youth imprisons him far more effectively than any cage, any shackles. And what next? More humiliation, more suffering, except so much worse because of his helplessness. He can't work on his plan to save the Earth, can't use the words that are his only weapon. He can't withdraw from the Master to reject him. He can't do anything. Whatever cruelties the Master plans on putting him through, he has to endure them. The alternative is the death of humanity, individually and then collectively.
He can't even die without someone else suffering as a result. But still he refuses to feel beaten.
"There you are," the Master says, as he walks into the kitchen.
"Yes," the Doctor says, with restrained terseness. He pulls out a chair and pushes himself up onto it. He's been on a few planet inhabited by giants and it's not dissimilar. For a body that ended up so tall, it started out awfully short.
"Grumpy, grumpy. Somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed." The Master smirks as he refills his teacup.
The Doctor reaches for an empty cup, hesitates as the Master looks at his hand.
"Ah, you're catching on," the Master says. "What do we say?"
The Doctor tenses with anger but forces it down. "May I have a cup of tea, please?" he says, evenly. "Master."
"Yes, you may," the Master says, pleased.
The Doctor takes the cup, expending a great deal of effort in not throwing it at the Master's head. The Master fills it, then drops in three sugar cubes. "One extra for good behaviour," he says.
The Doctor concentrates on his tea because if he speaks he's going to say something he regrets, if only because of the consequences. Martha's sightless eyes haunt him.
"Speaking of good behaviour, what would you like for breakfast?"
"What happens if I ask for waffles?" the Doctor asks, bitterly. "Do you burn down Belgium?"
The Master laughs. "Of course not. This isn't a trick, Doctor. It's a reward."
The Doctor looks at him suspiciously.
"I know you've had a difficult time," the Master says, with mild condescension and breathtaking understatement. "Being polite and respectful isn't something you're used to. That's partly my own fault for encouraging all your worst behaviour the first time around. But we're starting fresh as of today, and so far you've done very well."
"And my reward is choosing my own breakfast?"
"My dear, I think he's got it," the Master says as Lucy walks in.
Lucy smiles at the Master and gracefully takes her seat. "I'm so glad," she says, and gives the Doctor's head an affectionate pat.
The Doctor ignores the pat in favour of being frankly amazed by the Master being considerate.
The Master presses a button on his watch, summoning one of his servants. "Waffles, was it?" he asks.
"No," the Doctor says, not wanting the decision taken away from him. "I want an English breakfast. Full. And orange juice." Then adds: "Please, Master."
The Master turns to Lucy. "Isn't he adorable? I should've turned him into a tot ages ago."
"He really is." Lucy looks at him warmly, but all the Doctor feels is a chill.
After breakfast he goes looking for his book, but finds it gone along with the rest of the Master's library. Panic and anger churn in his gut. That was the only thing he had left to do with himself, and he can't face endless weeks without even anything to read. Why does everything have to be taken away? Why can't there be one thing to hold on to?
He stands before the empty bookshelves and aches to have a proper tantrum, but if he gives in to his young body's emotions he might as well hand out the poisoned chocolate milk himself. His nails dig crescents into his palms as he forces himself to stay calm. The Master wants him to slip up, wants him to be the cause of more deaths. He's not going to give him the satisfaction.
He finds the Master on the couch, fiddling with the settings of his laser screwdriver. At the sight of it the Doctor stops cold, both afraid of and tempted by it. If he could get his hands on it, he might be able to age himself back to normal. At least then he'd have some defences, some chance of defeating the Master. He could even use it against the Toclafane. But the sight of it in the Master's hand means only pain.
The Master glances over at him, then back at the screwdriver. "Don't worry, I'm not going to use it."
The Doctor relaxes, but only just. "All the books are gone," he says.
"Mm-hmm," the Master says, distractedly.
The Doctor takes a breath, lets it out. "What did I do this time? Insult you in my sleep?"
"I didn't take them away to punish you," the Master says. "You're too young for them."
"I'm not actually eight," the Doctor says, unable to keep the annoyance from his tone. "And anyway, I was reading advanced philosophy when I was eight."
The Master smirks but doesn't bother to answer that. "Lucy will read to you before bedtime, as long as you've behaved for the day."
"Whatever it is, I can read it myself."
The Master gives him a look of mild warning. "Lucy will read to you," he repeats.
The Doctor backs down, gives a tight nod.
The Master looks at him consideringly, and then points the screwdriver at him. The Doctor flinches and cringes, but nothing happens.
"Here," the Master says, proffering it. "Take it."
"What?"
"Go on, take it."
The Doctor steps forward, wary and disbelieving. Reaches out and very slowly wraps his hand around it and lifts it from the Master's fingers.
He presses a button. Nothing happens.
"It won't work for you," the Master says. "Or anyone else for that matter. Isomorphic controls, just like your cuffs."
"Why are you telling me this?" the Doctor asks, genuinely confused.
"You are a child, Doctor. You will remain a child until I decide otherwise, so the best thing you can do for yourself is to stop fighting it. Is that understood?"
The Doctor's fist is tight around the screwdriver. He wants to be grown again, he'd give anything to be grown again. But once again the decision is taken away from him. With a heavy heart, he gives the Master back his screwdriver. It's useless to him anyway.
"Understood," he says, despondent.
"Now, now," the Master says, taking him by the arms. "It's not all bad. Now that we understand each other, I'm going to let you see your pet again."
"Jack?" the Doctor says, surprised.
"That's right. As long as you behave, I'll give you two hours a day. You can visit Jack and the Joneses as much as you like. I don't want you to feel cooped up. A boy needs to stretch his legs, run around."
The Doctor's so relieved at the prospect of escaping the suite every day that he doesn't care how demeaning the Master makes it sound.
The Master is looking at him expectantly. "I think you're supposed to say something now."
It takes a second for the Doctor to realize what he's talking about, but even that doesn't dent his mood. "Thank you, Master," he says, feeling genuinely grateful.
"You're welcome." The Master says, and ruffles his hair.
The Doctor had hoped to be allowed to see Jack today, but he's not that lucky. He needs to show he can conform to the Master's idea of 'good behaviour' for a whole day before he's earned that privilege. But even the hope of it is enough to carry him through the morning.
With the exception of yesterday's brief visit to the conference room, the Doctor's been holed up in the suite for a whole two weeks. Two weeks once would have been almost meaninglessly small to him, but now even a day has the potential to stretch on forever. There's nothing to do. There's no new planets or times or even the endless rooms of the TARDIS at his fingertips. When he was recovering from his hunger strike he didn't care all that much because he didn't have the energy to care, and besides he could at least read once he was up to it. Books have always been his second favourite form of escape.
By the afternoon his relief has worn off, and the seconds drag by like they've been dipped in molasses.
The Master and Lucy come and go from the suite, but the Doctor is stuck. He's bored. He's sick of the same set of walls. If anything, the possibility of leaving actually makes the wait harder. And of course that's just another test.
He ends up sitting on one of the chairs next to the window, staring out at the world he can't even reach, much less save. He rests his chin on his drawn-up knees and sighs.
He wonders how it's come to this. That the highlight of his week is being allowed out for two hours. How long is the Master going to keep him like this? As a child, as a prisoner? If he fails and Earth is destroyed, is he going to be held prisoner for the rest of his life? Is the Master just going to keep him?
The Doctor doesn't usually succumb to despair. He's always believed in hope, relied on it beyond the point where most would even think it healthy. But he's so trapped, boxed in on all sides. The Master keeps taking and taking and it's starting to feel like there's going to be nothing left of him in the end. If he'd only had the strength to kill the Master when he'd had the chance... but even now the thought of that is worse than all the torture, all the boredom. The thought of no longer being the last, no longer being alone, and then losing the Master... It'd be like losing the Time War all over again.
The Doctor is no stranger to making hard choices. But with the Master it isn't even a choice. The Master has to live. He needs him. Nothing else matters, not really, because the hope that when this is all over he'll save the Master is the hope he's relying on. Restoring the timeline, saving humanity, reversing the devastation below... those are all important, yes, but ultimately if he had to choose he's not sure it would be the choice that someone like Jack would approve of.
Ultimately being the Master's prisoner is better than not having the Master at all. And that realization both scares and comforts him.
When the Master and Lucy return for dinner, the Doctor is subdued. He's burned through all his restless boredom and now he's just relieved to have the company. Even listening to the Master talk about detention camps and factories is easier than the silence of the afternoon.
If he wants to be given anything from the table, he has to ask for it. 'Please, Master,' he says, politely, and 'thank you, Master.' He even feels like he means it, a little. He's grateful for having his glass filled with water to drink. He's grateful for being given roast chicken and vegetables. He's grateful for the salt and pepper shakers.
And the Master is pleased. He gives the Doctor approving glances from across the table, doesn't speak his approval aloud but it's undeniable. It makes the Doctor want to be more grateful because it's the first positive connection he's had with the Master in all this time.
Lucy is delighted by his new obedience. She lights up, smiling her slightly broken smile and alternately touching the Master's arm, the Doctor's shoulder. She wants them to be a family, and the Doctor finds himself in no position to deny her that. At least that way he can do something, make the world better in that tiny way, if only for poor damaged Lucy.
Because he was a good boy, he not only gets to have ice cream for dessert but hot fudge and a dollop of whipped cream. The Doctor eats it as Lucy sits beside him and strokes his hair and talks admiringly to the Master about how wonderful the evening is going, how much better it is now that they've sorted everything out. The ice cream would have been expensive back when there was still money on Earth, banks and shops and actual families and not this twisted mockery of one. Now it's the Master's property, like everything else. But it tastes sweet all the same.
He's allowed to sit with the Master and Lucy as long as he's quiet and still, and so he is. But it seems like all too soon when he's instructed to go wash up and prepare for bed. He doesn't want to be alone, to sleep. The thought makes his chest ache. But still he obeys, because that's all he can do. That's the only choice he has, if it can be called a choice. It's all there is, but at least it makes them happy. If they're happy he'll earn the small freedom he needs so badly.
Lucy tucks him into bed and sits down beside him. She cups his cheek with her hand and smiles down at him.
"Such a good boy," she says, happily. "My little darling. Would you like me to read to you?"
"Yes, please," the Doctor says, even as the lump in his throat makes it hard to talk. Shame and need and fear and hope are a jumble inside him, and just for now he feels like a child, feels the way he did a thousand years ago when he was a lonely little boy and his human mother was still alive. Even the looms couldn't squeeze out all of the human from him, not without making him non-viable. The last time he saw her was the day he was sent off to the Academy.
Humans are so fragile. They die so easily.
"Once when I was six I saw a magnificent picture in a book about the jungle, called True Stories," Lucy reads, in a lilting voice that travels up and down along the sentence. She has a copy of The Little Prince in her hands, and she shows him the pictures on each page.
The Doctor curls onto his side and listens, more to her voice than the words themselves. He can feel her human warmth through the blanket and it eases his weariness, makes him sleepy. His eyelids start to droop.
"My friend never explained anything. Perhaps he thought I was like himself. But I, unfortunately, cannot see a sheep through the sides of a crate. I may be a little like the grown-ups. I must have grown old." Lucy marks her place and closes the book. "That's enough for tonight. As long as you're good, there'll be more tomorrow. Won't that be lovely?"
The Doctor nods drowsily.
"Sleep now," Lucy says, gently. She leans down and kisses the side of his head, pulls up the blanket. The bed dips and rises as she stands. She walks gracefully out of the room and turns out the light, closes the door.
The Doctor closes his eyes and sleeps.