(Eye of Orion, Rigel, 2354)
The Master still isn't entirely sure how he let himself be talked into this. But here they are: sitting side-by-side on the Doctor's spread-out coat, his feet bare and toes wiggling a bit in the grass, which stretches out around them in rolling misty green hills dotted with ruins. The whole place is pervaded with a pleasant, soft sort of silence.
"It's not working," the Master announces after a moment. "Actually it just makes them worse. All the quiet." He taps out the drumbeat against the Doctor's arm, just to be annoying.
The Doctor turns to look at him, seemingly quite calm. "Stop that," he says without venom. "Honestly, I think you must like it or you would have got rid of it a long time ago. Can't I just take a look?"
"No," the Master says flatly. "You've spent more than enough time in my head lately, thanks."
"Well," the Doctor says, and runs a hand through his hair, an unconscious nervous gesture that certainly signals something, although the Master hasn't quite figured out what yet. It makes the Doctor look stupid, his hair sticking up in all directions like that. "I didn't touch anything," he adds after a moment, like he thinks the Master's suspecting him of rearranging the mental furniture.
The Master huffs out a breath and eases back to lean on his elbows and squint up at the pale blue sky. "I expect the sunsets here are just yellow," he says.
"What?" The Doctor turns to stare at him. With his hair still in silly spikes, he looks even more floored than usual at this non sequitur.
"Calm misty atmosphere, no wind to pick up the dust particles ..." The Master sits up properly again. "I love Earth after a good volcanic eruption. Those brilliant orange sunsets." He laughs shortly. "You know, I honestly had no idea how easy it is to be homesick when it's not around to remind you it hasn't really been home for years."
The Doctor's quiet for a long moment. "Yeah," he says. He stares sightlessly out at the misty hills, and the Master, unobserved, watches his face: the tight skin at the corners of his eyes, the way his eyelashes flutter a little, the drawn set of his mouth. These are all things the Master had no time to appreciate when he was busy subjugating the Earth and building his army, and rather idly he wonders why. In the power vacuum left by Gallifrey's obliteration, he'd needed to create order, something new; but there is order and newness in this too: the Doctor, the Master, the quiet, the drums. He's always had trouble keeping ambition and the Doctor separate in his head.
He notices that the Doctor has turned to look at him, with a slightly wry curve to his mouth now. "What?" the Master snaps.
"I think," the Doctor says, turning from him and leaning forward to retrieve his trainers (cream, a little grass-stained now); "I think if you're not going to let me have a go at the drums, we're going for a walk."
"Is it really this dull traveling you?" the Master demands, but he reaches for his own socks and shoes, begins pulling them on. "No wonder they all leave you."
The Doctor ignores this entirely, which just goes to show he shouldn't be allowed into places like the Eye of Orion, where he actually manages to lose enough of his habitual tension to ignore the Master's lazier barbs. He just pulls on his trainers, waits until the Master has pulled himself to his feet, and retrieves the coat, shrugging it on in a protective sweep. "There's a memorial," he says. "Come on."
"Seriously, though," the Master goes on, casually, "it's considerate of you to let me out once in a while and so kindly show me the wonders of the universe."
The Doctor glances back at him, eyebrows going up. "If you'd rather stay in the TARDIS ..."
The Master sneers. The Doctor shrugs and resumes walking; walking in front of the Master, like he expects the Master to follow him. The Master's more than tempted to find a convenient rock and bash his head in, just to see if the next regeneration is any less infuriating, no matter how inelegant this idea is. He doesn't. He sets his teeth and follows.
"Do you remember," he says after a few minutes' silent walking become too much, "when you were in your third body, and I was in my thirteenth?"
The Doctor shoots him a puzzled sideways look. "My memory's still fine, yeah."
"No, no, I was just thinking, it's a bit funny -- I'm only on my second, and you're -- what? Your ninth?"
"Tenth," the Doctor says, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.
"And just think," the Master goes on, grinning now, "you've destroyed two whole civilisations now! We should form a club."
"Don't," the Doctor says tiredly. "Going to tell me we're not so different after all? That's not going to happen, not unless I stop feeling --" He cuts himself off abruptly, coming to a halt.
"Yes?" the Master prompts, annoyed.
"That's funny," the Doctor mutters, apparently to himself. "I can't have got turned around ..."
The Master snorts. "You're lost."
"No," the Doctor says. "No, there's -- there's a memorial here. There's supposed to be a memorial, right here, and great big stones don't just get up and walk away." The Doctor pauses. "Well. Some of them. But not the ones here!"
Rolling his eyes, the Master drawls, "So your TARDIS got the century wrong. This is hardly news."
"But she didn't," the Doctor says, and the look he throws the Master is clearly convinced of this. "Something must've intercepted the causality that led to its being built." And he looks angry now, as though some great heap of rock really is one of the only things keeping his guilt at bay. The Master feels a flare of disappointment at this. So it's true: when he died in the Doctor's arms, it really was just the Time War all over again. What arrogance to suppose otherwise.
"You look for it, then," he snaps, and stalks off in the direction of the TARDIS. The Doctor doesn't follow him. Of course.
He slams his way inside, gives the central console a kick as he passes it (despite the fact that it probably hurts him much worse than it hurts her) and stomps down to the library to deface the Doctor's first edition hardcover Lord of the Rings by writing bits of advice to Saruman in the margins.
At some point the Doctor returns, because the TARDIS rumbles to life around him and there follows the unmistakable feeling of travel into the Vortex. The Master finishes scrawling in and if you leave him on top of the tower he's just as likely to die too soon as get rescued and tosses the book aside. The Doctor is bound to find him in the library, so he leaves.
The one good thing about the Doctor's TARDIS, he's willing to concede, is that she's had quite a lot of time to accumulate interesting rooms. The Doctor's wardrobe is located halfway down a dizzyingly long helix staircase, separate from the one that leads to the library; on the platform above the wardrobe there's a somewhat impromptu-looking bowling alley, and on the ground floor below, a fairly impressive collection of tropical plants. Next door is the zeppelin hangar, so dusty the Doctor's obviously forgotten about it for quite some time, and down the corridor from there the Master finds a ballroom, with gramophone and impressive record collection. Up the sweeping ballroom stairs and through the double doors is a fencing gallery that apparently does time as a real gallery as well, at least judging from the da Vinci sketches pushpinned into the far wall. The Master wanders past the rack of fencing foils and amuses himself for quite some time reading all the backwards notes in among the sketches.
Then he hears the ballroom doors swing open, and freezes.
The doors close; there, the unmistakable squeak of trainers across the shining floor. The Master grits his teeth. After a moment, the Doctor asks, cautious: "What have I done?"
The Master blinks. That isn't actually what he was expecting.
"I suppose -- well, I've been trying to think what it was," the Doctor goes on, "and I know you hate being on the TARDIS with me but there really isn't anything for it; you know I can't trust you, and honestly wherever you go I'm bound to get there eventually so this saves a bit of time, all told."
That tears a short harsh laugh from the Master. He's been staring at the same sketch of a stupid little flower for at least the past thirty seconds.
"Or," the Doctor ventures, "well, is it the drums? I know you don't want me in your head but I can't imagine it's very nice having that in your head either, so --" He must see the Master's shoulders stiffen, because he adds hastily, "Or, well, it's your mind, I just -- I'm sorry, I'm --"
"No you're not," the Master says.
Into the ensuing silence, the Doctor says, "What was that?"
The Master spins to face him: out of his coat, hair a bit saner now, trainers still grass-stained, and even from here the Master can see his freckles, can see that his tie's come a bit loose. The Master's fingers itch. He bites out, "You're not sorry. You're unhappy and you don't know what to do about it so you just go around apologising all the time as though it's supposed to make a difference. Do you know how pathetic that is? Really?"
Through this recitation the Doctor looks steadily more indignant and alarmed, and he finally makes a sort of spluttering noise and protests, "That's -- absolutely, that's not at all --" and stops when the Master laughs at him.
"What," the Master says, "go on, tell me how you plan to make me better."
"Stop it," the Doctor says quietly.
The Master laughs again. He's feeling jittery, and the rack of fencing foils is still right there, so he walks over and pulls a foil out, tosses it absently from hand to hand without looking at the Doctor. "How comforting to know you only want to talk to me when you're trying to talk me out of something." He adopts a mocking falsetto. " 'Oh no, Master, don't hurt the humans! They're my favourite! Can't we just talk about this?' " He looks up. "So talk," he says, and freezes.
The Doctor is eyeing him warily and -- quite sensibly, the Master concedes -- holding a foil of his own. The Master giggles. "Seriously?"
"You'll forgive me if I don't like the idea of you being armed," the Doctor says with great steadiness.
"If that's how you want to play it," the Master says, shrugging loosely, and brings his blade up in a vicious arc. The Doctor blocks the upswing with a resounding clash -- real steel then, the Master decides with a grin -- and slides back a step, smoothly. This body is more graceful than the Master's given him credit for.
"No," the Doctor says, still in tones of great calm, "but I expect you want to get a bit of anger out."
That's true enough to be angering all by itself, so the Master darts forward, a series of blows from above that the Doctor blocks neatly, one after another. By the end of this first attack, though, his eyes are shining and his breathing has picked up. He's not as collected as all that, but the Master knows that; the Master always knows that. The Master goes back a step, holds his foil out from his body -- pause -- and one-handed shrugs out of his suit-jacket. The Doctor sees this and does the same, which surprises the Master a little, although not enough to bring the foil up again nearly before the Doctor's jacket is off. The Doctor parries only just in time, which is just typical, and the Master darts forward again, laughing, attack after attack, with the Doctor simply defending.
"Fight back," the Master snarls finally.
"No," the Doctor says, a bit breathlessly, foil snaking around the Master's and twisting away with another smooth step backwards, his tie starting to come undone; for a moment the Master can't breathe either, and then he's suddenly so angry he can barely see.
"You," he says, "I can't believe," and leaps forward again, speaking with a catch around each attempted hit, "You didn't take me to the Eye of Orion for the drumming, you took me there for the memorial --" The Doctor stumbles back, his hair falling into his eyes, nearly tripping over his own feet; the Master swings his foil around and hisses, "It's not about me, you just don't want to be alone, you --" and each word punctuated with a blow "-- selfish -- pathetic -- arrogant --"
And on that last the Doctor darts forward neatly and knocks the foil from the Master's hand.
The Master freezes, the tip of the Doctor's blade pressed to his throat just above his shirt collar. He doesn't even swallow. These aren't practice foils, they're the genuine article, and while the Master doesn't think the Doctor's about to do something rash, he's not about to make any sudden movements, either.
"I know," the Doctor says, breathing hard. His hand doesn't waver but there's something unsteady about him, in the look he's giving the Master. "And I knew. I was given a message, a long time ago, you are not alone, and do you know how hard I tried not to think it? I knew it was you -- I hoped it was you -- do you know how awful that is? When Martha told me about the fob watch, before you opened it, I knew then, too. I didn't think for a moment it would be some stuffy old chancellor, or someone barely out of their first century, because --" he shudders, outstretched arm taut "-- it wouldn't mean I wasn't alone, do you see? It had to be you, it -- it always ..."
He trails off and slowly, slowly, lowers the blade. His eyes haven't yet left the Master's face.
Something peculiar is happening in the Master's chest, a sensation halfway between terror and triumph. He can't think of anything to say.
"Well?" the Doctor prompts after a moment. There's a peculiarly mischievous glitter in his eye. "Pick up your foil, we're not done yet."
The Master crouches slowly to retrieve his foil, keeping his eyes on the Doctor. The moment his hand closes around the hilt he's back on his feet and at the Doctor, and this time the Doctor responds in earnest, blow for blow, riposte after parry and it becomes a dance.
Halfway through a lunge, with the Doctor sidestepping neatly, a manic grin on his face and his trainers squeaking along the floor, the Master is visited with the peculiar notion that he is witness to one of the most beautiful things in the universe. It isn't a sentimental thought; it's nearly a frightened one.
With a burst of adrenaline he drives the Doctor back against the double doors; the Doctor fumbles with the handle for a moment, manages to yank one door open, and still parrying blows backs his way down onto the ballroom staircase.
"Show off," the Master says.
"A bit, yeah," the Doctor concedes, still grinning like mad, navigating his way backwards down the stairs pursued by the Master's blade as though he does this sort of thing every day. It's possible. The Doctor's delight is catching; the Master finds himself grinning too, his feet hitting level floor before he has to skip back up a step and back down.
The last two Time Lords in existence, he thinks, full of a strange wild happiness, fencing together in their shirtsleeves across a ballroom floor.
This time when he backs the Doctor into a corner there is no door to save him. The Doctor slams back into the wall, their blades caught pressed tight at the hilts. The Doctor's eyes go very wide.
"Surrender," the Master says, half hiss, half laughter.
And the Doctor does something unexpected. He does.
He lets go of the foil, letting it clatter to the floor, and suddenly it's all defenses down, his mind opening up so quick and smooth that for a moment the Master has an overwhelming sense of vertigo, and far from a bombardment, it's a fall: headlong in, and this time there is no shattering grief, no terrifying overwhelming gratefulness; the Doctor's mind is a familiar thing, an endless brilliant constellation of jokes and eccentricities and mad slapdash solutions, wellings of quiet sadness and fierce joy. For a moment the Master has the mad disorientating sensation of seeing out of the Doctor's eyes and his own at once, something in his own face he can't recognise, and though the Doctor can he's good enough to say nothing.
"How do you know I won't use this to ruin you?" the Master asks, but he asks it wrong, with the Doctor's voice and the Doctor's moving lips, and both of them shudder. "You never could," the Doctor says, neither challenge nor hope but a simple observation, and it's only when the Master hears himself saying it, that quiet fact, that he realises the Doctor's in his head too. Not fixing, nor changing, nor uninvited, and he says -- his voice? he doesn't know -- "We should --" which is maybe a protest, and maybe too dignified for a plea, but his fingers are tugging the Doctor's tie the rest of the way undone and the Doctor, with those thin graceful hands, is fumbling with the Master's tie too, and the buttons of his shirt. It must be the Doctor again that says, "I know," with a wealth of meaning: what they should and should not do, what he has always known and ignored until the War tore away those defenses.
For just one moment the Master is only himself, sees from the outside how the Doctor looks right here right now and memorises it, collar askew and throat bobbing and mouth a little open, eyes wide and dark and not lost at all.
The stupid tragic wonderful thing is quite simple, really: even immersed in each other's minds, they're not going to change anything and risk ruining a single moment. The Master laughs and laughs and the Doctor seizes firm hold of his shirt collar and drags him in for a kiss.
It's nearly a torture to kiss slowly after so long, but they do, gentle, taking their time, feeding the sensation carefully back and forth between their minds, another game. It builds nearly to fireworks behind their eyes, but the Master hates to lose; a moment longer and the Doctor makes a soft keening sound, arching against him, in their heads more please more. He's too far gone already to laugh but he slides careful hands under the Doctor's shirt and skimming down his sides; too skinny by half it's just right thank you and the Doctor makes that little sound again. Understands. Breaks the kiss and throws back his head gasping so the Master doesn't have to, takes all they're feeling and pulls it through and amplifies it, a willing conduit.
The Master swears and suddenly it's no longer teasing; they tear at each other's clothes, neither of them remembering -- caring -- to close the loop on this, an exponential build of desperation. Kiss again, while the world narrows: just each other, no War, no heroics, not even the drums, not even the TARDIS; just the Doctor and the Master, starved for it and clinging together body and mind. The Master leaves bruises on the Doctor's hips and they both feel it, the Doctor scratches at the Master's shoulders and they both feel it; the Doctor chokes on a little whimper, just one, and the exponential feedback inside their heads goes into overload, breaks.
They collapse together in a trembling heap, sticky and laughing breathlessly with buttons scattered about them and the Doctor's left shoe still on. "I --" he says, mostly just himself, and the Master says, "I know, I know," all shades of meaning understood.
The Doctor's mobile rings.
They stare at each other. "Oh, perfect," the Master says.
"Must be Martha." The Doctor flops forward and manages to snag a leg of his trousers. He drags them over and fumbles through the pockets for a moment; glowing marble, rubber duck, mobile. He flips it open. "Martha! Hi."
The Master has a brief internal debate: get dressed, or take advantage of the Doctor's lack of clothing while on the phone? Then he imagines the trouble the Doctor might get into with Martha if he chooses the latter option, and the idea of the Doctor on the receiving end of Martha Jones' wrath is not one he relishes, perhaps not so oddly after all. He gets to his feet, stretching, and goes to assess the damage done to his shirt.
"Good, we're -- I'm good," the Doctor's saying meanwhile. "Hmm? No," he glances over at the Master, "hasn't made any trouble. Oh, well. Got a bit of a mystery -- disappearing memorials and things -- not urgent, no." Then, to the Master's interest, he goes a bit pale. "Tomorrow? Martha, you've got to give me a bit of notice with these --" He gulps. "Fine. Yes. Of course I'll be there. Yeah. See you."
He hangs up, eyeing the phone.
"What things?" the Master asks with mild interest, shimmying into his trousers.
"Wedding," the Doctor says in tones of faint horror. "I'm invited to Martha's wedding."
The Master smirks. "You're rubbish at those. Here." He tosses the Doctor his tie.
"I know," the Doctor says, rubbing the back of his neck, a habit that looks even more endear--ridiculous when he's naked. "I'd better go. Blimey, you don't think I could go in wearing something normal? I have really bad luck whenever I wear my tux."
"Stop babbling," the Master instructs him, doing up his own shirt as best he can given that it's missing half the buttons, "find your tux, try to look a little bit less shagged, and go to her stupid wedding."
"And what'll you do?" the Doctor asks, obviously hoping the Master's planning to get up to something suspicious.
The Master completely fails to look pious, although he might manage smug and maybe innocent. "I thought I'd do a bit of reading."
After all, the Doctor does have quite a lot of books to deface.
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