The Road to ... Understanding (Chapter 2, part 3)
I haven't posted to this story for a while, so here's a "previously" section:
With Lucy Saxon's help, the Doctor retrieved the Master's still-living body from the fire. After arranging a new life for Lucy elsewhere, the Doctor took the Master back to the TARDIS, where they drove each other crazy for a good long while before a couple of ... physical ... encounters helped break the tension. Using a "handcuff" device of his own making, the Doctor is taking the Master out of the TARDIS for the first time.
***
The Master steps out of the TARDIS first; the Doctor follows behind, closing the door and pulling on his coat. Outside, it is dark, but one glance up at the constellations above confirms the Master’s suspicions about their destination.
“Oh, why am I not surprised? I thought you might want to keep me away from this soggy dump after what I did to it, but you just can’t keep away, can you?”
The Doctor steps forward, his hands in his pockets. “Oh, don’t worry. Anyone you … knew … last time you were here won’t be born for at least another fourteen hundred years.”
“So where are we?”
“Can’t you tell? Look at the ground.” He scuffs at the floor with the toes of his trainers; they’re on a road of sorts, but it’s covered in sand. In fact, sand dunes rise up all around them. The air, although it is night, is hot and dry. It is, undoubtedly, a desert.
“I’m not one of your starry-eyed humans, Doctor. I don’t need a lesson on distinguishing features of Earth geography, thank you very much.”
The Doctor sighs deeply, and speaks very patiently. “We’re in the Desert.”
The look the Master gives him could kill a lesser life form from fifty feet away. “I know we’re in the desert, Doctor. All that time here really has made you slow-witted, hasn’t it?”
As usual, the insult just washes straight over the Doctor without even ruffling a hair. Not that the hair needs ruffling, the Master knows. It’s still standing as evidence of the Master’s handiwork, but even so, it’s barely any wilder than normal. “We’re in Syria. August, 636 AD.”
“Right. And we’re here because …?”
The Doctor takes the Master’s arm, turning him towards the eastern horizon, where the sky is a little lighter; clearly, dawn is not too far away. He points to a gap in the dunes, where the rough road they’re standing on disappears. “Just over that ridge, the road goes down to the plains of Yarmouk. And in about … oh, less than an hour, the second day of the Battle of Yarmouk will begin. Possibly the bloodiest field battle in human history.” He tries to keep his tone dispassionate, knowing the Master will exploit any weaknesses.
At the moment, however, the Master is too genuinely confused to notice subtle changes in the Doctor’s tone of voice.
“Right …” he drawls, and then smiles unexpectedly. “So where’s the big alien nasty?”
“What?” The Doctor gives him a puzzled look.
“Well, that’s what you do, isn’t it? Drop in to some time of devastation, root out the hidden alien cause, destroy it, and then disappear, leaving behind another hero myth? And now you want me to try it, so I can see how wonderful it feels to save humanity from the evil extraterrestrials and join you in your happy crusade? Well, I’m quite bored enough by now, so come on: let’s have it.” He claps once and rubs his hands together, his eyes wide in mock anticipation.
“There’s no alien threat here,” the Doctor tells him, his voice low, as if he wished it were otherwise. “Just huge armies of humans, fighting over land, fighting for supremacy. The Byzantine Roman Empire on the one side, and the Rashidun Caliphate on the other.”
“So whose side are we on?” The Master still sounds eager, raring to go.
Now the tone of voice turns very firm. “We’re not here to take sides. We’re not here to participate at all.”
“So we’re here to …”
“Watch.”
After a moment’s disbelieving pause, the Master bursts out laughing, and it takes him a few seconds to stop. The Doctor watches in fascination; he’s seen all sorts of moods from the Master, and this regeneration seems particularly manic, but he honestly cannot remember the last time he saw him so caught up in laughter. Mocking laughter, bitter laughter, false laughter … he’s seen them all. But genuine amusement, honest mirth … he suspects it was before either of them had known the feeling of regeneration first hand.
Eventually the Master pulls himself together enough to speak, and it is interesting to note that he has lost none of his intimidating dignity in doing this. “You? You just want to watch? No-one - absolutely no-one - resisted the doctrine of detached observation more fiercely than you did.”
The Doctor doesn’t seem to want to meet his eyes, but the Master waits until he reluctantly looks up, away from the sandy floor, to drive home his point. “Nobody. Not even me.”
“There’s no other reason to be here. This is a human battle in a human war. Look as closely as you want, but that’s all we’re doing.”
The Master wonders just how the Doctor is able to dictate such terms, after the way he submitted to him mere minutes ago, but he carries it off effortlessly, and it doesn’t feel all that strange. He wonders what would happen if he tried to take control, here and now. He doesn’t doubt the Doctor would stop him; he always has. It is only in their most intimate moments that the Master is unchallenged. He feels that this should bother him more than it does.
He closes his eyes and breathes, deeply. The Doctor’s up to something, of course. Now he just has to figure out what. Even as he concentrates, he can hear slight noises coming from over the ridge. He turns and strides determinedly towards it. This time he’s anticipating the pull as their wrist-locks reach their limit, and he stands firm. He doesn’t look back, but as he feels the tautness on his wrist lessen, he knows the Doctor has been forced to follow.
He reaches the top of the ridge and looks down into the valley, barely illuminated by the faintest dawn light. Sounds of activity travel up to him through the dry air. People are stirring, moving, getting ready. He feels the Doctor’s presence as he stands behind him.
“So what’s your plan, Doctor? Why have you brought me here?”
The Doctor moves so they’re standing side by side, following his gaze down into the valley. He shoves his hands into his pockets and answers, lightly, “Thought it might be nice.”
“Please. You brought me to one of the deadliest battles in the history of humanity because you thought it might be nice?”
“Well … at least it’s somewhere where you’ll find it hard to make things any worse.”
The Master gives him a sideways look. He can’t figure out the Doctor’s intention, but it doesn’t matter. This feels so good, this matching of their wits. Especially this time in the middle, before each is aware of the other’s plans. Trying to figure it out is a large part of the fun.
He sits down on the slope, knees bent, resting back on his elbows. “So, how long till the show starts?”
The Doctor conceals his frustrated sigh, knowing that the sound of it will only please the Master. Refusing to give any reaction, he sits down next to the Master, bracing himself for the horrible spectacle he’s about to witness. “As soon as it’s light enough. Sun’s rising fast.”
More and more activity can be seen and heard in the valley as the light grows. The tension is equally tangible up on the ridge, where the Doctor is fidgeting uncontrollably. With equal parts boredom and irritation, the Master grins wickedly. He reaches out with one hand and walks his fingers up the Doctor’s arm.
“You know, I believe it’s traditional to see a romantic comedy on the first date, not a war epic.”
The Doctor sighs, and, ignoring the shivering feelings travelling up his left arm, moves away slightly. He can’t afford for either of them to get … distracted now. He can’t let the Master make this into a game.
“I was never much for tradition. And this is not exactly a ‘first date’, is it?”
The Master narrows his eyes, and the Doctor recognises the danger he has created by denying him. He must act quickly, to avert it.
“We don’t want to miss anything, do we?” He keeps his tone light, and reaches out his hand to the Master’s.
The Master jerks his hand away, but his body relaxes, and his attention returns to the valley below.
* * *
His eyes never leave the battlefield below, not at any time. The battle rages all day, and from time to time the Doctor feels it necessary to tear his own gaze away from the carnage below. When he does, he looks up, at the stars. The view of the stars from the desert is the best on Earth. He focuses intently, remembering the route of past journeys, and planning future ones.
Anything to keep his eyes from where they want so desperately to go. He wants to see how the Master is reacting to the battle, but quick, furtive glances are all he can afford. Any longer and the Master will know.
What he sees in those brief moments tell him little: the Master is showing very little reaction at all. The Doctor doesn’t know how to take this. What he wants to see, more than anything, is horror; the horror he himself is feeling as he watches the bloodshed below. He doesn’t expect to see this, of course. Not yet, anyway.
On the other hand, he dreads seeing rapture. The delight, the delirium on the Master’s face as he watched the savage Toclafane descend on a helpless planet Earth … seeing that now might have driven him to despair. Of course, the Master may not get the same thrill from watching this devastation … because he was not the cause of it.
He was even prepared to see a look of cold calculation, watching a lover of warfare witness it unfolding beneath him, analysing battle tactics and the best way to create maximum horror,
But this … indifference. He wasn’t prepared to see that, and he doesn’t know how to read it. Perhaps, at this early stage, it is the best he could hope for.
Lost in thought, however, he has let his gaze linger on the Master too long, and he is shaken from these thoughts when the Master turns suddenly to meet his eye, and with that one quick movement and a cocky, knowing grin, he knows that he has given himself away. Flustered, he returns his gaze to the battle, fighting the blush that is rising to his face, and trying to pretend he can’t hear the Master chuckling under his breath.
By the time the sun sets and the battle subsides, the Doctor’s attention has long since drifted away. He’s terrified to sit here and watch, in case he stops being horrified at the carnage. He always wants to feel sick at the sight of such destruction.
But he can no longer look at the Master, either; not since the other man realised he was doing so. So for the last hour or two he’s simply been staring at the sky, thinking … remembering … imagining. He’s restless and uncomfortable, unable to sit still. But even though he daren’t look over at the Master, he’s aware that the other is not fidgeting at all. He hasn’t moved or spoken, which leads the Doctor to believe that the conflict below them really has held his attention.
After the sun has set and a dull silence descended, the Doctor stands abruptly, the trial finally over. The Master sighs, and joins him, and the two proceed, in step but in silence, back to the TARDIS.
Inside, the Doctor seals the door and pilots them back into the Vortex without speaking, and then slips away to a distant part of the TARDIS …
… to a room with a bed. He’s exhausted, more tired than he can remember feeling for a long time. He wonders if the Master knows what a sacrifice the Doctor has made for him today. The effort to silently watch such carnage unfold …. it fought against not only his instincts, but hundreds of years of well-developed habits. He intended to put the Master through hell - indeed, he still does - in his quest to bring him back, but he never anticipated how much he himself would suffer.
He’s not sure if he managed to fall asleep or not … certainly his consciousness seemed to drift away for a short while, pure exhaustion taking over, but he’s still awake enough to feel the Master enter the room. A tiny part of him feels some triumph, that the Master sought him out, but mostly he just feels too drained, right now. He’d meant to force the Master to talk, somehow, as soon as they returned, but in the end he’d decided he could wait until after the next … trip.
It’s as if the Master knew the Doctor, for once, was the one who wanted to be left alone. They know how to irritate each other, and the Doctor’s used this to his advantage, but now the tables are turned. The Master sits on the edge of the bed, next to the Doctor’s feet, fixes him with a chirpy grin, and asks.
“So, did you enjoy the show? I thought the conclusion was somewhat lacking, but the characters were utterly convincing. It’s just a shame there wasn’t an interval. I could’ve done with an ice-cream.”
Too tired to conceal his feelings, he gives the Master a filthy look and turns onto his side, away from the Master. Ordinarily his instincts would have protested at turning his back, but strange as it seems, he’s not in any actual danger from the Master.
“Oh, don’t be like that. We’ve had a lovely day together … don’t spoil it by sulking!”
Once again the Master is trying to make the Doctor’s plan into a game, but the Doctor doesn’t want to play, so it’s yet another round in the battle of wills. The Master turns slightly on the bed and begins to run his hand, lightly, up the Doctor’s leg. When the Doctor doesn’t flinch or move away, he grins. Advantage, the Master.
He lies down next to the Doctor, pressing himself against his back, his hands still moving, all the time. He leans over to look at his face, and the Doctor’s eyes are closed, but his face is anything but peaceful.
In an expression of tenderness, he reaches over and strokes the Doctor’s face, running his fingers down the front of the jacket and shirt, undoing buttons almost absent-mindedly. He reaches under the material and strokes the cool skin firmly, his fingers moving lower and lower, watching his face all the time.
He knows he’s having an effect, but he concentrates hard on keeping control of his own body, because he doesn’t intend taking this much further. He will not risk letting the Doctor see inside his own mind at the moment.
As the Doctor starts to breathe more unevenly, the Master leans over him, his lips touching the other’s ear, and whispers, “What, exactly, were you hoping would happen today?”
He gets no reaction. The Doctor’s breathing has steadied and his face his more peaceful, but the Master is sure he’s not sleeping.
Cursing, he stalks from the room. Stalemate.