Chapter 1: The Road to ... Nowhere (part 2)
Changing instantly from an insolent sneer to his most charming grin, he asks, cockily, “Do you think I’m broken, Doctor? Do I really need to be fixed?”
“You tell me. The drumming. You want it to stop. You know you do. Just ask me. Ask me to help you. Ask me to make it stop.”
He’s right. He wants the drums to stop so much. But not at this price.
“I don’t know, Doctor. I think maybe life would be too quiet without them. Kind of dull. I’d be bored.”
The Doctor meets his gaze for a long time. He can tell, there’s no point, yet. There’s no point trying to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.
* * *
For about a week - who knows, in the Void? - they barely speak to each other. The Doctor spends much of his time at the console, staring at a screen, smiling from time to time.
For the most part, the Master avoids the console room. For a day or two it is interesting to simply explore the TARDIS. Last time he was here, his mind was on other things. In the end, boredom drives him back. Perhaps he can fill in some hours tormenting the Doctor. It is such fun. The trouble is, the Doctor’s been very patient, so far. Irritating, superciliously, infuriatingly patient and forgiving.
Still, the Master enjoys a challenge.
* * *
“So tell me, Doctor, have you ever spent so much time on your ship? Without hopping off to perform acts of infinite good on some wretched planet?”
By now, the Doctor even sounds bored. “I don’t know. I don’t keep count.”
The Master peers over his shoulder at the console screen. “Ah, the history of the universe. Anything happening?”
The same bored response. “Not a lot.”
The Master seethes. Apparently, the Doctor can take this boredom much better than he can. Even as he watches a universe’s worth of adventure flying past.
“And how many distress calls have you had to ignore? All so you can hang around here, not helping me?”
The Doctor doesn’t respond and really, the Master understands why not. He’s made a decision to be patient and understanding, and he’s excruciatingly stubborn. The Master will have to be a lot more barbed with his next comment. Something about Gallifrey, perhaps?
Or …. No. Wait. Perhaps that’s not the right approach. Of course. Boredom’s made him slower than usual. The Doctor will ignore taunts, but he can’t refuse an invitation to help …
Turning and walking away, the Master stumbles slightly, reaching out for something to hold on to. The Doctor rushes to his side, his arms supporting the Master’s weight, concern filling his face.
The Master conceals his grin.
“What is it? What’s the matter? What’s happened to you?” The Master can hear the note of genuine panic in the Doctor’s voice, and for a brief moment he wonders if the kindness and understanding he’s showing are more than just patronising superiority.
The thought passes as quickly as it arrived.
“It’s just … the drumming,” he gasps, putting on the performance of his life, even though there’s really no need for it. The Doctor’s so desperate to believe the Master can be saved, he sees what he wants to see. “It gets so loud … so loud I can’t hear or see or think …” He trails off, almost panting.
The Doctor lowers him to the floor and sits beside him. “Let me help you.”
The Master looks at him through eyes half-closed. “Can you?”
“I can try.” The Doctor’s voice is so soft, so hopeful, so sweet. The Master closes his eyes - almost - and nods. The Doctor kneels, facing him directly, tense with concentration. He reaches out towards the Master, towards his temples, reaching out to connect -
Whack!
In one fluid movement, the Master stands, backhanding the Doctor across the face, sending him sprawling on his back. The Master stands over him, sneering, and he can see the hurt radiating from the Doctor’s face.
“You didn’t really think I’d let you violate me like that, did you?” He turns and storms out of the room, his footsteps thumping and echoing all the way.
The Doctor lies, blinking and gasping, trying to tell himself that he shouldn’t be surprised. And he wonders if, perhaps, a change of approach is necessary.
* * *
The Master sits on a staircase deep in the TARDIS, seething with rage. He is furious. He is furious that the Doctor felt happy to share their minds, when the thought terrified the Master. He is furious that, even after an act of deliberate violence, the drums haven’t quieted. He is furious that he is trapped in here.
But he is more furious that in the last tiny second before he’d attacked the Doctor, he’d wanted the other’s fingers to make contact. Not to help him, not to stop the drums, just for the pure sake of touching him. Feeling that contact, skin to skin. And he is furious that he hadn’t pressed his advantage; that, seeing the Doctor lying prone on the floor, wounded in mind if not in soul, he had turned and ran.
He is so furious he reaches out and punches the stair-rail, bringing more pain to his already-throbbing fist.
* * *
The next day the Doctor follows the Master everywhere, pestering him with memories. He is talking nineteen to the dozen again, disgustingly cheerful, animatedly alive. Right now, they’re in the wardrobe. The Master was adamant he would not wear any of the Doctor’s clothes, but the soot-stains on his suit have really started to irritate him.
“Do you remember when it would snow, back on Gallifrey? Looking out from the Citadel, out from the dome, watching the snow fall all around? I thought it was weird when I first saw snow-globes on Earth; I mean, it looked bizarre to have snow falling inside a dome!”
The Master grabs a heap of clothing and stalks off, to a room that must function as storage, so full is it with random artefacts, trying to shake off the Doctor, hoping he won’t follow. He is not in luck. He dumps the pile of garments and begins sorting through them, while the Doctor makes himself comfortable, sitting on a large silver box.
“That wasn’t the only thing that was weird, though, was it? I mean, everything on Earth’s green! The grass, the trees, everything. Imagine seeing that for the first time. Green trees. And green grass. Ridiculous!”
The Master rolls his eyes, throws a very nasty look at the Doctor, and storms out again. This prattle is incredibly annoying - inane and meaningless. And all delivered with the speed and excitement of a child. If it continues, the Master feels like he’s going to rip off his own ears.
At least he’s chosen an outfit, such as it is. He carries it into a tiny bathroom and locks the door firmly, but he can hear the Doctor take up residence outside the door and continue his babbling. The Doctor’s being so repellent right now, he can’t bear to wear any of his clothes. Not that they provide much of a temptation. And he knows that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and he would hate for his outfit to be taken the wrong way. No, he’s chosen the only other clothes he could find: the black-and-white outfit he’d worn when he last regenerated. Not that he wanted to be reminded of his time as a human, but … it would do, at least until he could get his suit cleaned, or better yet, buy a new one. Something about this body just feels right in a crisp, tailored suit.
He stalks out of the bathroom, ignoring the Doctor’s raised eyebrows at his choice of clothing, and takes a seat in the console room. The Doctor, however, refuses to give up.
“Oh, now, I remember that suit. Funny, I thought, that old-fashioned style at the end of the universe. Would’ve imagined it to be more … tight. Or … I don’t know … metallic or something. Humans always seem to imagine metal in their future. I’ve never been able to figure that out. I mean, it’s not like it’s new … Bronze Age, Iron Age, all thousands of years ago, and yet, they always associate metal with the future, even though they’ve been working with it for thousands of …”
The Master has had enough. He stands but doesn’t face the Doctor, his back to him, as he interrupts, pure exasperation in his voice. “Oh, don’t you ever pause for breath?”
The Doctor grins; he’s gained a response from the Master, something real and natural, and he’s not about to stop now.
“Do I talk too much? Really? Yes, I suppose I do. Always have. Can’t seem to help it. Like people who can’t help sticking their tongues out when they write. Or people who have to close their eyes to think of things. Or … people who use their hands when they talk, even when they’re on the telephone! I love that one!”
The Master has raised his hands, fingers clenched in frustration. The Doctor pushes his advantage a little further
“You know, I never noticed anyone but humans doing that sort of thing. Humans are so … brilliant, aren’t they? You must have noticed by now. All those funny little human things they do, living their amazing little lives, no idea what’s going on in the rest of the universe, but it doesn’t matter, they just …”
This is more than the Master can stand. He had no plan to attack the Doctor physically again - he fears the contact may be more than he can bear - but his temper gets the better of him, and he lashes out.
This time, however, the Doctor is expecting it, and he deflects the attack, pushing him away. The Master comes right back and for several minutes they grapple with each other, both determined not to lose this fight.
In the end they are both exhausted. The Master pulls himself away and glares at the Doctor, but once again sees only patience and forgiveness in his eyes. This is truly his breaking point. Filled with new energy, he grabs the Doctor by the lapels of his jacket, throwing him up against the nearest solid object …
… and kisses him, furiously and intensely, pouring all of his hatred and love and obsession, his fear and his frustration and his desperation, into the action. He takes some pleasure that in this, much more than when he attacks the Doctor, or even asks for help, he has been able to shock his adversary. He releases his grip on the Doctor’s jacket but doesn’t break the kiss, reaching instead for his hands, gripping them tightly, pinning them at his side. After a moment, as the clouds of shock clear, the Doctor responds.
* * *
He’s only faintly aware of what is happening. His plan worked: he got the Master to react, but who could have known this would be the reaction? He knows he shouldn’t be allowing this to happen, should’ve stopped it right away. Their situation is intense and complex enough without adding this into the equation, and doubtless, that’s the Master’s intention. But …
… he doesn’t want to stop. He wanted a reaction and he got one, more real than any of the mocking taunts or threatening jibes he’s come to know so well. And perhaps, for now, they’re better off with physical communication; certainly, verbal interaction seems to be getting them nowhere.
He feels the Master pin his wrists to his side, and doesn’t fight him. Instead, he kisses him back, going with the current rather than fighting it. The feeling he’s had whenever he’s touched the Master is back, but multiplied. Taking over.
Eventually the Master releases the Doctor’s hands, but he doesn’t move them. The Master’s hands are everywhere now; running over his hips, up his chest, in his hair. Grasping his face firmly and then moving back down.
The kisses have become short and hurried now, lips pressing against lips before moving away, then returning. Eventually the Master pulls away. He looks at the floor, laughs a little to himself, and then marches from the room.
The Doctor pulls his back away from the wall, straightening his jacket and tie, still looking stunned. Then he smiles, knowingly, his hands now in his pockets. For in those heated moments the Master’s guard was down, and the Doctor saw for the first time the real nature of the drums.
And now he thinks he knows how to help.