Away [Master/Ten] (Intoxication)
Pairing: Master/Tenth Doctor
Challenge: Intoxication
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: The Master's attempt to help the ill Doctor is not appreciated.
Note:
yoshiyuki_est has made two extremely good illustrations for this fic, to be found here.
“Damn it, Doctor, where is it?”
The door was thrown open with force as the Master stormed back into the room. The Doctor jerked slightly and his eyes flew open to look at him. He must have drifted off in the short time the Master had been gone. Glassy eyes followed his movements through the room until he sat down on the edge of the bed.
“The medicine, Doctor,” the Master said firmly, grabbing the other’s shoulders. Just held them, lightly but with the possibility of force. “I can’t find it. I’ve seen it just a week ago and now it’s gone.”
Heavy lidded brown eyes were fixed on his face in a way that that was unnerving.
“Don’t need it.” The Doctor’s voice was low and hoarse. “Not that bad.”
“The virus is potentially lethal to Time Lords! How much worse could it be?”
“Then be careful you don’t catch it,” was all the Doctor said in response. He tried to roll away from the Master but the hands on his shoulders kept him from moving.
“I won’t catch it, because I took precautions,” the Master sighed impatiently. “It’s called self-preservation sense. You don’t have it.”
“Just let me sleep,” the Doctor mumbled. “Will be better tomorrow.”
“And if you’re not?”
“Will be. Potentially lethal. Doesn’t have to be.”
“Right. It isn’t when the right medicine is used.”
“Or if the body can fight it off on its own. I can handle it. Am strong.”
“No.” The Master’s voice dropped to a soft murmur. “You’re not. You’ve got a death wish and I’m not going to let you live it out.” He shook the other a little when his eyes started to close. Through the thin fabric of the pyjama he felt the heat radiating off the Doctor’s body. “Where is the bloody medicine? I checked every damn cabinet in the infirmary. It’s gone.”
A few days ago, when the Doctor showed the first symptoms and neither of them knew what they were dealing with yet the Master had seen the little package while looking for a painkiller for the Doctor’s splitting headache. He hadn’t paid much attention to it, but looking back he wondered if the TARDIS had wanted to tell him something by placing it in plain view. Now, however, it was gone. The Doctor couldn’t have taken it - he’d collapsed that same evening and been unable to get out of bed since then.
Now he giggled listlessly.
“Ship has a mind of her own,” he told the other man with a bright smile. “Maybe she mislaid it.”
“Then make her put it back,” the Master growled.
“No.”
“Don’t be an idiot!”
“No,” the Doctor repeated, his voice more steady than it had been in days. “Not that. I’d rather die.”
The Master felt the irresistible urge to slap him and, deciding that a little harmless violence was not what was threatening his life right now, he gave in. The Doctor gasped softly as the fever transported the pain through his entire body - when he was healthy he hardly ever responded to the little punishments the Master liked to deal out. Now he was weak, helpless and easy to hurt, and the Master would have kept him this way for as long as possible had the illness not threatened to take him away completely.
He wasn’t too worried. The cure would work, that was certain. But he had to get hold of it first and right now the Doctor wasn’t helping.
Further arguments would be wasted though, as the Doctor had passed out once again. With an irritated snort the Master left him to his nightmares and slammed the door shut behind him as he walked away.
-
The Doctor wasn’t better the next day. He whimpered softly, his lips moving soundlessly as the Master tried to shake some sense into him. Not much force now, although the fury was eating at him. The other’s breath was laboured and rattled in his chest because the virus was destroying his lungs. The Master gave an injection he knew wouldn’t help. The Doctor slept.
Hours later he came back to his senses, finally aware of the world. He shivered, but struggled to push away the blanket none the less, his entire body covered in sweat. He was losing this battle, the Master knew, and pointedly ignored him as he tried to sit up. Instead he busied himself sorting through the bookshelf, pretending he hadn’t spend the last three hours wiping the sweat off the Doctor’s face.
“Just do me a favour,” he eventually said, and turned around to see the Doctor leaning heavily against the headboard, all his strengths wasted on the simple act of pushing himself upright. “Hand the TARDIS over to me. I have no desire to be stuck in the empty shell of this ship once you’re dead.”
The Doctor’s laugh was interrupted by a coughing fit.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he rasped and despite his bad state seemed to be in a ridiculously good mood. It drew a sharp contrast to his white, tired face and hollow cheeks. The Master knew it was the fever that was making him giddy as it killed him.
“You’re the last person I’d give a TARDIS,” the Doctor added more seriously.
“I’m the only person you could give it to. Do you want her to die? Drag her down with you after all you’ve been through together?”
It sounded pathetic to the Master’s ears - these sentimental words didn’t suit him but he knew they’d get to the Doctor. He loved this excuse for a time capsule too much to let her die.
To his surprise his words merely made the other laugh again.
“That’s entirely up to her,” he was told. “Never listens to me anyway.” The Doctor moved his bony legs until they dangled over the edge of the bed and somehow managed to sit without the support of the headboard.
“Promise me!” he suddenly said, and his eyes where wide and scared when he looked at the Master. “Don’t use it! Even if she gives it back. Promise me!”
His words, random as they seemed, made perfect sense to the Master. He watched in silence as the Doctor tried to push himself off the bed and failed, three times.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked from his place in front of the bookshelf, moving neither to help the Doctor nor to push him down. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“What’s the point?” the Doctor murmured, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere in front of his white face. “What’s the point?” He finally succeeded to get off the bed. Landed on legs that could not support his weight and fell to the floor. Giggled, chocked and coughed painfully, all without moving.
With a sigh and a roll of his eyes the Master wandered over to him without hurry. When he crouched down and touched the Doctor’s shoulder with the intention of turning him onto his back and have a look at his face the Doctor moved away from him and rolled over on his own so he was lying under the bed.
Feverishly bright eyes watched the Master from out of the shadows.
“Don’t touch me,” the Doctor said, casually.
Grimacing, the Master leaned back.
“You plan on staying there?”
“Go away.”
“Gladly. I’ll just stand over at the door and watch you try to get back into bed without my help, if you don’t mind.”
“No,” the Doctor rasped, still without force or anger. “Out. Leave me alone.”
“No way.” The Master chuckled. “You’re too amusing to watch.”
Instead of answering the Doctor rolled over again, until he reached the other end of the bed. By the time the Master had climbed back to his feet and walked over to see what he was up to he had managed to get into a position that was at least close to kneeling.
“Where do you want to go? If you tell me I could wait there for you and stop the time.”
When the Doctor answered the lightness was gone from his voice.
“Away from you,” he whispered without looking up. “You’ll do it. I know. Your promises are worthless.”
So that was what this was about. The Master should have known. With another sigh he bent down and pulled the other to his feet effortlessly, to feel him collapse against his body at once.
“I promised you nothing,” he said softly as he lifted the Doctor back onto the bed.
The Doctor’s breathing became increasingly forced. Now he was close the Master could see the blood on his lips. He wouldn’t last much longer and the Master couldn’t quite suppress the worry anymore.
The knowledge that there was a cure had been reassuring but so far the cure had not shown up again. As long as the Doctor didn’t want her to the TARDIS would not give it back and the other had made quite clear that he wouldn’t take that medicine, even if refusing meant his death. Watching him as his body was shaken by another violent coughing fit the Master began to believe he would really go through with it.
“Doctor,” the Master spoke softly to the half-unconscious man. “I need to give you that medicine. Tell me where it is.” And, after a long moment of hesitation, he added: “Please.”
“Never,” the Doctor told him almost inaudibly. He was drifting away again, the effort of falling out of bed having drained him of the little strength he’d had. “No. No.”
“You’re being childish. What’s so bad about it? You’re suffering. Every movement hurts. Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts. And, plainly, you’re useless like this. A liability. Do you really want to end this way? Are you that much of a masochist that you endure it for nothing?” The Master’s voice dropped to a whisper as he gently stroked the Doctor’s hair. “One little injection and it will be over.”
“No.”
“Damn it, why not?” the Master suddenly exploded, the volume of his voice pulling the Doctor back to his senses. “You’d be fine in a week. The stuff would destroy the virus!”
“It would also destroy my mind,” the Doctor reminded him weakly and with a flicker of horror in his tired eyes. The Master sneered.
“You’re not exactly thinking clearly right now,” he pointed out.
“At least I’m still myself.”
“Are you? The Doctor I remember wouldn’t throw his life away for stupid pride.”
But it wasn’t pride - it was fear that kept the Doctor from giving in. The Master had no way of telling what the psychic component of the cure would pull out of the Doctor’s mind, but as a man obsessed with control over others he could imagine that the complete loss of control over himself was slightly horrifying. In the Doctor’s position he might have been scared as well. In his own position this aspect of the treatment was something he’d been looking forward to all along.
The Doctor had blocked the controls of the TARDIS to his use. The Master couldn’t simply take her to New Earth or a planet with a similar stock of medication and get a new cure. He depended on the Doctor to see reason.
Reason had never been the Doctor’s strong side.
He let go of his consciousness without even attempting an answer. The Master looked down onto his fragile form and estimated his remaining life in days. Despite his anger he didn’t dare leaving him alone for long. This night the Master stayed with the Doctor through long hours of convulsions, wet coughs and missing heartbeats.
-
Three days later the Master stood in the kitchen staring down onto his coffee until it was cold and he had to throw it away. It was impossible to fight the dread now and he shivered whenever he thought of the long, empty future waiting for him. His thoughts refused to wrap around the idea - it made him feel sick, nervous. He did his best not to think about it.
In his room the Doctor had been delirious for a long time before falling into a deep sleep he had not woken up from since. His body was failing bit by bit. The Master had left him alone because there was nothing he could do.
He wondered if the Doctor just accepted death or if he really, truly wanted to die. It had to be the latter. No one would accept death just to escape a few hours of loosing control. Not even the Master would do that.
It didn’t bother him to see the Doctor suffer. It was killing him that he was helpless in the face of something beyond his control. He was a Time Lord. He was the Master. He was like a god.
He couldn’t keep the Doctor from dying.
The prospect of loosing his old enemy reminded the Master how little the universe had to offer. There would be no way for him to pass the time when all his actions ran nowhere.
Maybe the Doctor was getting back at him this way. Maybe this was his punishment.
The cup shattered on the floor. The Master couldn’t remember throwing it, had missed the brief relief of his own violence. He stalked out of the kitchen, through the corridors. Refused to go back to the Doctor. There was nothing for him there. Nothing!
In the end he found himself in the infirmary, between equipment that wouldn’t be able to prolong the Doctor’s life if he didn’t want it to. The Master aimed his fear and fury at the drawers and cabinets, rummaging through their contents and scattering them on the floor. Useless, all this.
The package with the cure hit the floor along with a bottle of little green pills and slithered into a corner. The Master stared at it for a long time before he accepted its existence as fact.
His fingers trembled when he opened it and found the answer to his fears inside, this small, unmarked injection. He swallowed. Then he ran.
There was no reason to think the Doctor had changed his mind. The TARDIS must have given it back because she wanted him to live for her own selfish reasons. It should be impossible for a time capsule to act against her pilot’s will. The Master didn’t think about it much nor did he thank the ship - she hadn’t done it for him.
To his surprise the Doctor was awake when the Master entered his room. He blinked weakly at him, from between unruly sheets, damp with sweat. His breath came in painful gasps. So very, very ill and yet aware enough to recognize him, and recognize his intent.
Any doubt the Master might have had about the TARDIS acting on her own was erased when he saw the look of horror wash over the Doctor’s face at the sight of the injection in his hand. There was no need for questions. No time for discussions. The Master sat on the edge of the bed.
Dry, split lips moved as the Doctor tried to speak. A tear leaked out of the corner of his eye, disappeared into the pillow. The Master knew no mercy. His grip was firm as he took the Doctor’s arm and shoved up the sleeve of his pyjama. The Doctor had no strength to fight him.
“Don’t worry,” the Master chuckled, his humour returning with the needle breaking the Doctor’s skin. “I’ll take care of you. Until the effect wears off you won’t be so useless anymore, I promise. Maybe I’ll even make a tape so I can show you later how much fun we had!”
When the Doctor’s eyes closed in desperation the Master threw back his head and laughed.
-
It took time for the medicine to work. The Doctor fought it. The Master watched him writhe helplessly, shivering and crying. It was pathetic, really - how bad could it be? The Doctor would lose his mind for a while, would be easy for the Master to control. Willing, desperate, begging to be used. The Master didn’t have experience with this cure, only had academic knowledge of its side effects. He didn’t know if the Doctor would remember anything afterwards, and the idea of taping it so he could show his old friend how he humiliated himself was tempting. For now he stayed by his side, however, because it was a delicious sight to watch him struggle and fight in vain now the Master knew him to be saved. These moments had to make up far all the days the worry had kept the Master from enjoying the show.
The Doctor’s face was pale and twisted with pain and fear as he clung to his consciousness. It kept slipping away from him, dragging him down to dark places he never wanted to visit. The Master’s world, perhaps, or something else altogether. Maybe he’d find out.
The Doctor resisted the call of darkness for almost an hour before he lost his grip on reality. His ragged breathing stilled and his movements died. For a while he was very still, beyond the Master’s reach. The Master gently stroked his hair and his cheeks and watched him sleep, a thin figure lost in crumbled bed sheets. For a while he looked peaceful.
When he noticed the rise of the temperature in the room the Master thought nothing of it. The temperature had changed constantly these past few days, the TARDIS always aiming to create conditions comfortable for her ill Doctor. The light was dim already, and when it became even dimmer the Master didn’t even realise for the Doctor was stirring, ever so softly. The Master smiled thinly, mapping out in his mind all the things he wanted to do to the Doctor, and the things he wanted to make him do. The Doctor, a mindless puppet; this was a once in a lifetime chance.
“Welcome back,” he murmured with a smirk, only half aware that he was echoing words from a long time ago. His hand reached out again to touch the Doctor’s face but was stopped halfway. Long, slim fingers wrapped around his wrist even before wide, impossibly dark eyes opened to stare right through him.
The Master gazed into their depths and shuddered.
Without letting go of his arm the Doctor sat up. Long days of being ill had drained his strength and the battle currently going on in his body should have left him weak and helpless.
Yet the grip around the Master’s wrist was firm, and with a touch of worry he realised that he couldn’t sake it off.
“Doctor?” He tried to sound irritated, not insecure. “Can you hear me?”
The Doctor’s head turned in his direction, the movement, abrupt, birdlike. He didn’t speak and there was no recognition in his eyes. No confusion. Just terror and hatred.
For a second the Master forgot how to breathe.
Then his free hand wrapped around the Doctor’s fingers, trying to pry them away from his arm. The Doctor cried out - a strange, strangled sound - and let go of him. Let himself fall onto his back and kicked out with his legs, all in the same moment. The Master didn’t see it coming. The bare feet caught him in the chest and he stumbled backwards, fell down. For seconds he fought for air, only unconsciously registering the Doctor’s flight from the room and the dull sound of the slamming door.
The Master followed him half a minute later. He opened the door, still shaken from the unexpected outburst of violence, and stopped dead.
Beneath his feet grass, once red, lay flat and dead. Dry plants crumbling under his weight. The plain was stretching out in front of him, flat and wide until it ended at the distant mountains. Of the silver trees only skeletons remained. The wind was hot, much hotter than it had ever been. The light flickered, casting erratic shadows, unsteady forms, because above him the sky was on fire.
There were no walls. No corridors. All the rooms were gone and for a second the infinity, the emptiness in front of him threatened to crush the Master. The dead world seemed to stretch on forever and knowing of the dimensions inside the TARDIS the Master knew that, right now, it did.
He had left before Gallifrey had burned. Had never seen it like this but he’d imagined, and it had been nothing like what he saw now. In his mind it had been a moment of glory. There was only devastation around him.
Three steps into the field he turned around - the door was gone. The idea struck the Master that he might be stuck here forever, on this false, dead planet, all alone. It petrified him, until he saw the citadel in the distance. It hadn’t been erected in a place like this but that hardly mattered. Of the Doctor there was no sign and the citadel was the only place he could have gone.
That there hadn’t been enough time for him to cross that distance before the Master followed him was of no consequence in this place.
While he walked a detached part of his mind analysed the situation. He’d misinterpreted the effect the potion would have on the Doctor’s mind. It had indeed shut down his consciousness, but instead of making him a mindless tool for the Master to use it had destroyed all the Doctor’s hold on reality. And the TARDIS, linked to him as he was, was reflecting his nightmares. Images from the war, memories distorted by several layers of horror.
There wasn’t much horror to be found in this dead, empty plane - except that the Master wanted to run, to scream, to hide somewhere until it was all over. He remembered the fear that made him run away from it all, degrade himself by becoming human, just so the Daleks wouldn’t find him. And he began to wonder: how real was this world the TARDIS had created? What creatures lived here? And now that Gallifrey was gone, did the programs that kept her from hurting her passengers still work?
She’d never hurt the Doctor. The Master she didn’t like. Maybe this was all just for him: Look what you did, stupid man, and suffer the consequences.
He felt the arrival of something giant and vicious more than he heard it. A Dalek warship about to rain death on him or a fire-spitting dragon. Something was moving above the fire in the sky, disturbing the flames. The Master didn’t wait for it to come into view. He ran.
The citadel, promising safety, didn’t come any closer. With a clarity he shouldn’t have had in the dream of someone else the Master knew he wouldn’t make it. He was out in the open, far from any shelter, defenceless. The fear pulled at his limps, made it an effort to move while keeping him from stopping even though it was pointless. It was after him. It would always be after him, even if he got away.
Then he found himself inside the citadel with no recollection of how he’d got there. Corridors and halls all round him, and he knew this was the citadel but at the same time it was the TARDIS and the floor he was treading on was made of crate. It rattled as something moved over it, nearby but hidden by the shadows. Edges and junctions everywhere. The Master got lost before he caught his breath. It was silent now but for the occasional screech of metal on metal. Coming closer. He ran, away from it, the Doctor momentarily forgotten. This was his own nightmare now, the terror he had run from, and the knowledge that this wasn’t real only made it worse; nothing made sense here. The laws of logic didn’t work.
Another screech, right in front of him. He’d run towards to source, not away from it. The Master turned on the spot and ran another way, in his hearts knowing that it didn’t matter. The thing was everywhere, and it was out to get him. That was its only purpose: it was slow, but it wouldn’t stop. It would never, ever stop.
The shadows were moving. Reaching for him. In the weak light it was impossible to tell where he’d come from and where he was going. The Master didn’t dare to call out for the Doctor: raising his voice would draw them to him.
The attack happened in the Great Hall he hadn’t been in a moment before. The Master barely had a split second of warning before something crashed into him and he was thrown to the floor. In an instinctive act of self-defence he covered his face with his arms and rolled around, out of the way on another attack that never came. Once the arms blocking his view were lowered he saw the Doctor standing over him. A long, blunt weapon pointed straight at the Master’s face.
The other man’s face was deadly pale, covered in sweat. His lips moved soundlessly, his eyes full of rage and insanity. The skin of his knuckles was split, his hands covered in blood.
“Doctor!” the Master called, his voice loud yet lost in vastness around them. “Doctor, it’s me! Don’t you recognize me?”
No, he didn’t. The Master could see that the Doctor didn’t even register his words. For him the Master was just a figure from his nightmares, neatly integrated into this unreal world. Impossible to tell what the Doctor saw in his place.
Then he moved and the Master realised that the danger he was in was very real. There was murder in the Doctor’s eyes. He carried a weapon, and he would use it. Wasn’t himself here.
The Master managed to block the blow and wrap his hands around the weapon, pulling hard so the Doctor had to either let go or lose his balance and fall. He did both: used the momentum of the Master’s pull to carry him forward but then he let go, and instead of crashing helplessly to the floor he was on top of the Master a second later, pressing him down. He shouldn’t have had such strength, even if he’d been well.
Since the Master’s hands were trapped the weapon he was holding was useless. It was an iron pipe, he now noticed. Probably the only weapon the TARDIS had offered - the Doctor was a danger to himself like this.
His eyes where gleaming with madness and desperation as he stared down at the Master.
“Not this time!” he gasped out. “Not this time!” Over and over again. The way he knelt over the Master, a wild creature, frightened and violent, was disturbing. Alien.
It took the Master some violence of his own to gain the upper hand. For the first time ever in direct combat he was at a disadvantage, because he didn’t really want to cause his opponent any harm. The Doctor on the other hand wanted to kill him. It was terrifying and strangely arousing.
Eventually the Master managed to pin the Doctor beneath him, using his greater weight as an advantage. Still the other’s flailing hands escaped him. Long fingers went for his eyes, failed and wrapped around his throat in an iron grip. Had he really been like this, in the final stages of the war? Or was this side of him just a part of this nightmare, dragged up from the darkness inside him? Was this what the Doctor feared he might become if he ever let go?
The Master was gasping for air by the time he managed to finally pry the hands away and keep a firm grim on the bony wrists.
“Come to your senses!” His voice was hoarse. “You don’t want to kill me, Doctor! You’d never forgive yourself. I’m a Time Lord, don’t you sense it? The last one, safe for you. You’d kill your entire species, again! All of them!”
“All of them,” the Doctor echoed. “Your fault! I’ll kill you, I’ll…” His voice died away, to come back a second later in a hollow scream that echoed ghostly in the hall. He threw back his head and trashed against the Master’s hold until his eyes rolled back and he fell still beneath him.
Only when the other stopped moving did the Master notice how fast he was breathing himself, and how much his body was shaking. A long time passed before he dared to let go of the Doctor’s wrists.
-
When he left the hall and entered the maze of corridors they were just corridors - familiar, normal. The Doctor’s room was behind the first door the Master tried, as he’d known it would be. All the way the Doctor was a dead weight in his arms.
It seemed that this strange, unnatural display of strength and aggression had drained him of all he had left. Which hadn’t been very much in the first place. The virus was defeated but, as he watched over the other Time Lord’s sleep, the Master feared that the exhaustion might still take his life. He didn’t leave once, even though in the beginning he could hardly stand to look at him.
After two days the Doctor opened his eyes. Tired, confused, full of pain.
“I’m alive,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t be.” The Master was too tired himself to shrug off his accusing glare. “You did it. I told you not to.”
“You left me no choice.” Looking down at him, too weak to lift his head, the Master found it hard to believe he was looking at a person capable of murder. He shuddered, as always when the memory returned. “And why complain? You don’t even remember anything, do you?”
“No. It’s all gone. The past few days are blurred, like a long nightmare.” The Doctor sighed, and closed his eyes. “What happened?” he wanted to know, his voice barely audible. “What did I do?”
A strong hand stroked his hair in rare tenderness.
“Nothing,” the Master lied softly. “You just slept.”
June 17, 2008
Challenge: Intoxication
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Summary: The Master's attempt to help the ill Doctor is not appreciated.
Note:
yoshiyuki_est has made two extremely good illustrations for this fic, to be found here.
“Damn it, Doctor, where is it?”
The door was thrown open with force as the Master stormed back into the room. The Doctor jerked slightly and his eyes flew open to look at him. He must have drifted off in the short time the Master had been gone. Glassy eyes followed his movements through the room until he sat down on the edge of the bed.
“The medicine, Doctor,” the Master said firmly, grabbing the other’s shoulders. Just held them, lightly but with the possibility of force. “I can’t find it. I’ve seen it just a week ago and now it’s gone.”
Heavy lidded brown eyes were fixed on his face in a way that that was unnerving.
“Don’t need it.” The Doctor’s voice was low and hoarse. “Not that bad.”
“The virus is potentially lethal to Time Lords! How much worse could it be?”
“Then be careful you don’t catch it,” was all the Doctor said in response. He tried to roll away from the Master but the hands on his shoulders kept him from moving.
“I won’t catch it, because I took precautions,” the Master sighed impatiently. “It’s called self-preservation sense. You don’t have it.”
“Just let me sleep,” the Doctor mumbled. “Will be better tomorrow.”
“And if you’re not?”
“Will be. Potentially lethal. Doesn’t have to be.”
“Right. It isn’t when the right medicine is used.”
“Or if the body can fight it off on its own. I can handle it. Am strong.”
“No.” The Master’s voice dropped to a soft murmur. “You’re not. You’ve got a death wish and I’m not going to let you live it out.” He shook the other a little when his eyes started to close. Through the thin fabric of the pyjama he felt the heat radiating off the Doctor’s body. “Where is the bloody medicine? I checked every damn cabinet in the infirmary. It’s gone.”
A few days ago, when the Doctor showed the first symptoms and neither of them knew what they were dealing with yet the Master had seen the little package while looking for a painkiller for the Doctor’s splitting headache. He hadn’t paid much attention to it, but looking back he wondered if the TARDIS had wanted to tell him something by placing it in plain view. Now, however, it was gone. The Doctor couldn’t have taken it - he’d collapsed that same evening and been unable to get out of bed since then.
Now he giggled listlessly.
“Ship has a mind of her own,” he told the other man with a bright smile. “Maybe she mislaid it.”
“Then make her put it back,” the Master growled.
“No.”
“Don’t be an idiot!”
“No,” the Doctor repeated, his voice more steady than it had been in days. “Not that. I’d rather die.”
The Master felt the irresistible urge to slap him and, deciding that a little harmless violence was not what was threatening his life right now, he gave in. The Doctor gasped softly as the fever transported the pain through his entire body - when he was healthy he hardly ever responded to the little punishments the Master liked to deal out. Now he was weak, helpless and easy to hurt, and the Master would have kept him this way for as long as possible had the illness not threatened to take him away completely.
He wasn’t too worried. The cure would work, that was certain. But he had to get hold of it first and right now the Doctor wasn’t helping.
Further arguments would be wasted though, as the Doctor had passed out once again. With an irritated snort the Master left him to his nightmares and slammed the door shut behind him as he walked away.
-
The Doctor wasn’t better the next day. He whimpered softly, his lips moving soundlessly as the Master tried to shake some sense into him. Not much force now, although the fury was eating at him. The other’s breath was laboured and rattled in his chest because the virus was destroying his lungs. The Master gave an injection he knew wouldn’t help. The Doctor slept.
Hours later he came back to his senses, finally aware of the world. He shivered, but struggled to push away the blanket none the less, his entire body covered in sweat. He was losing this battle, the Master knew, and pointedly ignored him as he tried to sit up. Instead he busied himself sorting through the bookshelf, pretending he hadn’t spend the last three hours wiping the sweat off the Doctor’s face.
“Just do me a favour,” he eventually said, and turned around to see the Doctor leaning heavily against the headboard, all his strengths wasted on the simple act of pushing himself upright. “Hand the TARDIS over to me. I have no desire to be stuck in the empty shell of this ship once you’re dead.”
The Doctor’s laugh was interrupted by a coughing fit.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” he rasped and despite his bad state seemed to be in a ridiculously good mood. It drew a sharp contrast to his white, tired face and hollow cheeks. The Master knew it was the fever that was making him giddy as it killed him.
“You’re the last person I’d give a TARDIS,” the Doctor added more seriously.
“I’m the only person you could give it to. Do you want her to die? Drag her down with you after all you’ve been through together?”
It sounded pathetic to the Master’s ears - these sentimental words didn’t suit him but he knew they’d get to the Doctor. He loved this excuse for a time capsule too much to let her die.
To his surprise his words merely made the other laugh again.
“That’s entirely up to her,” he was told. “Never listens to me anyway.” The Doctor moved his bony legs until they dangled over the edge of the bed and somehow managed to sit without the support of the headboard.
“Promise me!” he suddenly said, and his eyes where wide and scared when he looked at the Master. “Don’t use it! Even if she gives it back. Promise me!”
His words, random as they seemed, made perfect sense to the Master. He watched in silence as the Doctor tried to push himself off the bed and failed, three times.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked from his place in front of the bookshelf, moving neither to help the Doctor nor to push him down. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“What’s the point?” the Doctor murmured, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere in front of his white face. “What’s the point?” He finally succeeded to get off the bed. Landed on legs that could not support his weight and fell to the floor. Giggled, chocked and coughed painfully, all without moving.
With a sigh and a roll of his eyes the Master wandered over to him without hurry. When he crouched down and touched the Doctor’s shoulder with the intention of turning him onto his back and have a look at his face the Doctor moved away from him and rolled over on his own so he was lying under the bed.
Feverishly bright eyes watched the Master from out of the shadows.
“Don’t touch me,” the Doctor said, casually.
Grimacing, the Master leaned back.
“You plan on staying there?”
“Go away.”
“Gladly. I’ll just stand over at the door and watch you try to get back into bed without my help, if you don’t mind.”
“No,” the Doctor rasped, still without force or anger. “Out. Leave me alone.”
“No way.” The Master chuckled. “You’re too amusing to watch.”
Instead of answering the Doctor rolled over again, until he reached the other end of the bed. By the time the Master had climbed back to his feet and walked over to see what he was up to he had managed to get into a position that was at least close to kneeling.
“Where do you want to go? If you tell me I could wait there for you and stop the time.”
When the Doctor answered the lightness was gone from his voice.
“Away from you,” he whispered without looking up. “You’ll do it. I know. Your promises are worthless.”
So that was what this was about. The Master should have known. With another sigh he bent down and pulled the other to his feet effortlessly, to feel him collapse against his body at once.
“I promised you nothing,” he said softly as he lifted the Doctor back onto the bed.
The Doctor’s breathing became increasingly forced. Now he was close the Master could see the blood on his lips. He wouldn’t last much longer and the Master couldn’t quite suppress the worry anymore.
The knowledge that there was a cure had been reassuring but so far the cure had not shown up again. As long as the Doctor didn’t want her to the TARDIS would not give it back and the other had made quite clear that he wouldn’t take that medicine, even if refusing meant his death. Watching him as his body was shaken by another violent coughing fit the Master began to believe he would really go through with it.
“Doctor,” the Master spoke softly to the half-unconscious man. “I need to give you that medicine. Tell me where it is.” And, after a long moment of hesitation, he added: “Please.”
“Never,” the Doctor told him almost inaudibly. He was drifting away again, the effort of falling out of bed having drained him of the little strength he’d had. “No. No.”
“You’re being childish. What’s so bad about it? You’re suffering. Every movement hurts. Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts. And, plainly, you’re useless like this. A liability. Do you really want to end this way? Are you that much of a masochist that you endure it for nothing?” The Master’s voice dropped to a whisper as he gently stroked the Doctor’s hair. “One little injection and it will be over.”
“No.”
“Damn it, why not?” the Master suddenly exploded, the volume of his voice pulling the Doctor back to his senses. “You’d be fine in a week. The stuff would destroy the virus!”
“It would also destroy my mind,” the Doctor reminded him weakly and with a flicker of horror in his tired eyes. The Master sneered.
“You’re not exactly thinking clearly right now,” he pointed out.
“At least I’m still myself.”
“Are you? The Doctor I remember wouldn’t throw his life away for stupid pride.”
But it wasn’t pride - it was fear that kept the Doctor from giving in. The Master had no way of telling what the psychic component of the cure would pull out of the Doctor’s mind, but as a man obsessed with control over others he could imagine that the complete loss of control over himself was slightly horrifying. In the Doctor’s position he might have been scared as well. In his own position this aspect of the treatment was something he’d been looking forward to all along.
The Doctor had blocked the controls of the TARDIS to his use. The Master couldn’t simply take her to New Earth or a planet with a similar stock of medication and get a new cure. He depended on the Doctor to see reason.
Reason had never been the Doctor’s strong side.
He let go of his consciousness without even attempting an answer. The Master looked down onto his fragile form and estimated his remaining life in days. Despite his anger he didn’t dare leaving him alone for long. This night the Master stayed with the Doctor through long hours of convulsions, wet coughs and missing heartbeats.
-
Three days later the Master stood in the kitchen staring down onto his coffee until it was cold and he had to throw it away. It was impossible to fight the dread now and he shivered whenever he thought of the long, empty future waiting for him. His thoughts refused to wrap around the idea - it made him feel sick, nervous. He did his best not to think about it.
In his room the Doctor had been delirious for a long time before falling into a deep sleep he had not woken up from since. His body was failing bit by bit. The Master had left him alone because there was nothing he could do.
He wondered if the Doctor just accepted death or if he really, truly wanted to die. It had to be the latter. No one would accept death just to escape a few hours of loosing control. Not even the Master would do that.
It didn’t bother him to see the Doctor suffer. It was killing him that he was helpless in the face of something beyond his control. He was a Time Lord. He was the Master. He was like a god.
He couldn’t keep the Doctor from dying.
The prospect of loosing his old enemy reminded the Master how little the universe had to offer. There would be no way for him to pass the time when all his actions ran nowhere.
Maybe the Doctor was getting back at him this way. Maybe this was his punishment.
The cup shattered on the floor. The Master couldn’t remember throwing it, had missed the brief relief of his own violence. He stalked out of the kitchen, through the corridors. Refused to go back to the Doctor. There was nothing for him there. Nothing!
In the end he found himself in the infirmary, between equipment that wouldn’t be able to prolong the Doctor’s life if he didn’t want it to. The Master aimed his fear and fury at the drawers and cabinets, rummaging through their contents and scattering them on the floor. Useless, all this.
The package with the cure hit the floor along with a bottle of little green pills and slithered into a corner. The Master stared at it for a long time before he accepted its existence as fact.
His fingers trembled when he opened it and found the answer to his fears inside, this small, unmarked injection. He swallowed. Then he ran.
There was no reason to think the Doctor had changed his mind. The TARDIS must have given it back because she wanted him to live for her own selfish reasons. It should be impossible for a time capsule to act against her pilot’s will. The Master didn’t think about it much nor did he thank the ship - she hadn’t done it for him.
To his surprise the Doctor was awake when the Master entered his room. He blinked weakly at him, from between unruly sheets, damp with sweat. His breath came in painful gasps. So very, very ill and yet aware enough to recognize him, and recognize his intent.
Any doubt the Master might have had about the TARDIS acting on her own was erased when he saw the look of horror wash over the Doctor’s face at the sight of the injection in his hand. There was no need for questions. No time for discussions. The Master sat on the edge of the bed.
Dry, split lips moved as the Doctor tried to speak. A tear leaked out of the corner of his eye, disappeared into the pillow. The Master knew no mercy. His grip was firm as he took the Doctor’s arm and shoved up the sleeve of his pyjama. The Doctor had no strength to fight him.
“Don’t worry,” the Master chuckled, his humour returning with the needle breaking the Doctor’s skin. “I’ll take care of you. Until the effect wears off you won’t be so useless anymore, I promise. Maybe I’ll even make a tape so I can show you later how much fun we had!”
When the Doctor’s eyes closed in desperation the Master threw back his head and laughed.
-
It took time for the medicine to work. The Doctor fought it. The Master watched him writhe helplessly, shivering and crying. It was pathetic, really - how bad could it be? The Doctor would lose his mind for a while, would be easy for the Master to control. Willing, desperate, begging to be used. The Master didn’t have experience with this cure, only had academic knowledge of its side effects. He didn’t know if the Doctor would remember anything afterwards, and the idea of taping it so he could show his old friend how he humiliated himself was tempting. For now he stayed by his side, however, because it was a delicious sight to watch him struggle and fight in vain now the Master knew him to be saved. These moments had to make up far all the days the worry had kept the Master from enjoying the show.
The Doctor’s face was pale and twisted with pain and fear as he clung to his consciousness. It kept slipping away from him, dragging him down to dark places he never wanted to visit. The Master’s world, perhaps, or something else altogether. Maybe he’d find out.
The Doctor resisted the call of darkness for almost an hour before he lost his grip on reality. His ragged breathing stilled and his movements died. For a while he was very still, beyond the Master’s reach. The Master gently stroked his hair and his cheeks and watched him sleep, a thin figure lost in crumbled bed sheets. For a while he looked peaceful.
When he noticed the rise of the temperature in the room the Master thought nothing of it. The temperature had changed constantly these past few days, the TARDIS always aiming to create conditions comfortable for her ill Doctor. The light was dim already, and when it became even dimmer the Master didn’t even realise for the Doctor was stirring, ever so softly. The Master smiled thinly, mapping out in his mind all the things he wanted to do to the Doctor, and the things he wanted to make him do. The Doctor, a mindless puppet; this was a once in a lifetime chance.
“Welcome back,” he murmured with a smirk, only half aware that he was echoing words from a long time ago. His hand reached out again to touch the Doctor’s face but was stopped halfway. Long, slim fingers wrapped around his wrist even before wide, impossibly dark eyes opened to stare right through him.
The Master gazed into their depths and shuddered.
Without letting go of his arm the Doctor sat up. Long days of being ill had drained his strength and the battle currently going on in his body should have left him weak and helpless.
Yet the grip around the Master’s wrist was firm, and with a touch of worry he realised that he couldn’t sake it off.
“Doctor?” He tried to sound irritated, not insecure. “Can you hear me?”
The Doctor’s head turned in his direction, the movement, abrupt, birdlike. He didn’t speak and there was no recognition in his eyes. No confusion. Just terror and hatred.
For a second the Master forgot how to breathe.
Then his free hand wrapped around the Doctor’s fingers, trying to pry them away from his arm. The Doctor cried out - a strange, strangled sound - and let go of him. Let himself fall onto his back and kicked out with his legs, all in the same moment. The Master didn’t see it coming. The bare feet caught him in the chest and he stumbled backwards, fell down. For seconds he fought for air, only unconsciously registering the Doctor’s flight from the room and the dull sound of the slamming door.
The Master followed him half a minute later. He opened the door, still shaken from the unexpected outburst of violence, and stopped dead.
Beneath his feet grass, once red, lay flat and dead. Dry plants crumbling under his weight. The plain was stretching out in front of him, flat and wide until it ended at the distant mountains. Of the silver trees only skeletons remained. The wind was hot, much hotter than it had ever been. The light flickered, casting erratic shadows, unsteady forms, because above him the sky was on fire.
There were no walls. No corridors. All the rooms were gone and for a second the infinity, the emptiness in front of him threatened to crush the Master. The dead world seemed to stretch on forever and knowing of the dimensions inside the TARDIS the Master knew that, right now, it did.
He had left before Gallifrey had burned. Had never seen it like this but he’d imagined, and it had been nothing like what he saw now. In his mind it had been a moment of glory. There was only devastation around him.
Three steps into the field he turned around - the door was gone. The idea struck the Master that he might be stuck here forever, on this false, dead planet, all alone. It petrified him, until he saw the citadel in the distance. It hadn’t been erected in a place like this but that hardly mattered. Of the Doctor there was no sign and the citadel was the only place he could have gone.
That there hadn’t been enough time for him to cross that distance before the Master followed him was of no consequence in this place.
While he walked a detached part of his mind analysed the situation. He’d misinterpreted the effect the potion would have on the Doctor’s mind. It had indeed shut down his consciousness, but instead of making him a mindless tool for the Master to use it had destroyed all the Doctor’s hold on reality. And the TARDIS, linked to him as he was, was reflecting his nightmares. Images from the war, memories distorted by several layers of horror.
There wasn’t much horror to be found in this dead, empty plane - except that the Master wanted to run, to scream, to hide somewhere until it was all over. He remembered the fear that made him run away from it all, degrade himself by becoming human, just so the Daleks wouldn’t find him. And he began to wonder: how real was this world the TARDIS had created? What creatures lived here? And now that Gallifrey was gone, did the programs that kept her from hurting her passengers still work?
She’d never hurt the Doctor. The Master she didn’t like. Maybe this was all just for him: Look what you did, stupid man, and suffer the consequences.
He felt the arrival of something giant and vicious more than he heard it. A Dalek warship about to rain death on him or a fire-spitting dragon. Something was moving above the fire in the sky, disturbing the flames. The Master didn’t wait for it to come into view. He ran.
The citadel, promising safety, didn’t come any closer. With a clarity he shouldn’t have had in the dream of someone else the Master knew he wouldn’t make it. He was out in the open, far from any shelter, defenceless. The fear pulled at his limps, made it an effort to move while keeping him from stopping even though it was pointless. It was after him. It would always be after him, even if he got away.
Then he found himself inside the citadel with no recollection of how he’d got there. Corridors and halls all round him, and he knew this was the citadel but at the same time it was the TARDIS and the floor he was treading on was made of crate. It rattled as something moved over it, nearby but hidden by the shadows. Edges and junctions everywhere. The Master got lost before he caught his breath. It was silent now but for the occasional screech of metal on metal. Coming closer. He ran, away from it, the Doctor momentarily forgotten. This was his own nightmare now, the terror he had run from, and the knowledge that this wasn’t real only made it worse; nothing made sense here. The laws of logic didn’t work.
Another screech, right in front of him. He’d run towards to source, not away from it. The Master turned on the spot and ran another way, in his hearts knowing that it didn’t matter. The thing was everywhere, and it was out to get him. That was its only purpose: it was slow, but it wouldn’t stop. It would never, ever stop.
The shadows were moving. Reaching for him. In the weak light it was impossible to tell where he’d come from and where he was going. The Master didn’t dare to call out for the Doctor: raising his voice would draw them to him.
The attack happened in the Great Hall he hadn’t been in a moment before. The Master barely had a split second of warning before something crashed into him and he was thrown to the floor. In an instinctive act of self-defence he covered his face with his arms and rolled around, out of the way on another attack that never came. Once the arms blocking his view were lowered he saw the Doctor standing over him. A long, blunt weapon pointed straight at the Master’s face.
The other man’s face was deadly pale, covered in sweat. His lips moved soundlessly, his eyes full of rage and insanity. The skin of his knuckles was split, his hands covered in blood.
“Doctor!” the Master called, his voice loud yet lost in vastness around them. “Doctor, it’s me! Don’t you recognize me?”
No, he didn’t. The Master could see that the Doctor didn’t even register his words. For him the Master was just a figure from his nightmares, neatly integrated into this unreal world. Impossible to tell what the Doctor saw in his place.
Then he moved and the Master realised that the danger he was in was very real. There was murder in the Doctor’s eyes. He carried a weapon, and he would use it. Wasn’t himself here.
The Master managed to block the blow and wrap his hands around the weapon, pulling hard so the Doctor had to either let go or lose his balance and fall. He did both: used the momentum of the Master’s pull to carry him forward but then he let go, and instead of crashing helplessly to the floor he was on top of the Master a second later, pressing him down. He shouldn’t have had such strength, even if he’d been well.
Since the Master’s hands were trapped the weapon he was holding was useless. It was an iron pipe, he now noticed. Probably the only weapon the TARDIS had offered - the Doctor was a danger to himself like this.
His eyes where gleaming with madness and desperation as he stared down at the Master.
“Not this time!” he gasped out. “Not this time!” Over and over again. The way he knelt over the Master, a wild creature, frightened and violent, was disturbing. Alien.
It took the Master some violence of his own to gain the upper hand. For the first time ever in direct combat he was at a disadvantage, because he didn’t really want to cause his opponent any harm. The Doctor on the other hand wanted to kill him. It was terrifying and strangely arousing.
Eventually the Master managed to pin the Doctor beneath him, using his greater weight as an advantage. Still the other’s flailing hands escaped him. Long fingers went for his eyes, failed and wrapped around his throat in an iron grip. Had he really been like this, in the final stages of the war? Or was this side of him just a part of this nightmare, dragged up from the darkness inside him? Was this what the Doctor feared he might become if he ever let go?
The Master was gasping for air by the time he managed to finally pry the hands away and keep a firm grim on the bony wrists.
“Come to your senses!” His voice was hoarse. “You don’t want to kill me, Doctor! You’d never forgive yourself. I’m a Time Lord, don’t you sense it? The last one, safe for you. You’d kill your entire species, again! All of them!”
“All of them,” the Doctor echoed. “Your fault! I’ll kill you, I’ll…” His voice died away, to come back a second later in a hollow scream that echoed ghostly in the hall. He threw back his head and trashed against the Master’s hold until his eyes rolled back and he fell still beneath him.
Only when the other stopped moving did the Master notice how fast he was breathing himself, and how much his body was shaking. A long time passed before he dared to let go of the Doctor’s wrists.
-
When he left the hall and entered the maze of corridors they were just corridors - familiar, normal. The Doctor’s room was behind the first door the Master tried, as he’d known it would be. All the way the Doctor was a dead weight in his arms.
It seemed that this strange, unnatural display of strength and aggression had drained him of all he had left. Which hadn’t been very much in the first place. The virus was defeated but, as he watched over the other Time Lord’s sleep, the Master feared that the exhaustion might still take his life. He didn’t leave once, even though in the beginning he could hardly stand to look at him.
After two days the Doctor opened his eyes. Tired, confused, full of pain.
“I’m alive,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t be.” The Master was too tired himself to shrug off his accusing glare. “You did it. I told you not to.”
“You left me no choice.” Looking down at him, too weak to lift his head, the Master found it hard to believe he was looking at a person capable of murder. He shuddered, as always when the memory returned. “And why complain? You don’t even remember anything, do you?”
“No. It’s all gone. The past few days are blurred, like a long nightmare.” The Doctor sighed, and closed his eyes. “What happened?” he wanted to know, his voice barely audible. “What did I do?”
A strong hand stroked his hair in rare tenderness.
“Nothing,” the Master lied softly. “You just slept.”
June 17, 2008