Fic: What It Means To Care For Him (Doctor Who) 10, Master
What It Means To Care For Him
By: Amproof
Fandom: Doctor Who/Surprise (see notes at end)
Disclaimer: The shows mentioned are the property of their creators and parent broadcasting companies. This is simply for fun. Please do not archive anywhere.
Characters: Martha, Doctor, Master, Other (see notes at end)
Pairings: None
Notes/Warnings/Spoilers: An alternate end of Series 3. Suitable for all ages. Angst.
The Tardis was quiet when Martha came in. She saw none of the usual beeping and running about the Doctor usually engaged himself with. She found him, finally, near the back, sitting next to the Master.
"Doctor, you can't do this." She stood behind him as he fiddled with a valve that was attached to a tube that ran into the Master's arm.
"I promised that I would care for him, and I will."
"He wanted to die."
"No he didn't. He wanted to win."
"He's in a coma. How is that winning?"
The Doctor looked up; the over-focused glint in his eyes that she once saw as determination now appeared to her as the first sign of madness.
"What's in the I.V.?"
"Something to make him comfortable." He touched the Master's hair tentatively. "Do you think he can hear us?"
"There are studies…" Martha trailed off. What did she know if the studies applied to Time Lords the same as they did to people? "If he can, you might want to pretend you're someone else."
A small, grim smile. "You mean he won't wake up if he knows it's me with him. He'll refuse." A slight purse in his lips on the final syllable, a conscious mimicry of the Master's final words to him.
"Yes."
To the Master: "Hold a grudge, forever, can't you?"
To Martha: "He can, you know."
"Yeah, I think he pretty much proved that this last year. The one that didn't happen."
"I'll be everything to you," The Doctor said.
As happened so often, Martha's gut twisted when she saw that the Doctor was leaning over the Master, talking to him and not to her.
“What if he never wakes up?”
“All I have is time. And now I have him, too. I can wait.”
“Doctor…”
"The medicine will make him forget a little while he's sleeping. Not all of it, just enough so he can get some rest and get himself better."
"I'm not going with you," Martha said. "You won't be needing me anymore." This was why she had come to see him.
"I…what?" He looked up at her, but she noticed that his hand stayed on the Master's chest.
"I'm sick of being the one you don't see."
He looked surprised, as if it had never occurred to him that she could be seen. She gave him her mobile phone, said it wasn't really goodbye, and left.
The Doctor fired up the Tardis, securing the Master's cot first, and him on it, so the inevitable bumps wouldn't send him flying around the ship and cause him more injury. He landed, for once, exactly where he wanted-in a quiet place where they could wait until the Master was healed. Then they could start again. It would be better, this time. He would protect the Master from the drums. And the Master would protect him from the loneliness.
The Doctor talked to him.
The Master's face had no expression-not the coldness that he did so well, nor the childish joy that the Doctor so often reflected in his own countenance. In coma, the Master was blank, and this broke the Doctor more than anything as he sat beside him for hours on end, waiting. He replaced the I.V. bag every four hours, and remembered to feed himself only because the bags were kept in the refrigerator next to his meals.
He undressed the Master every day, bathed him with a soft sponge, dried him with the fluffiest towels, and dressed him again. As he wiped the sponge over the Master’s pliant limbs, lifting them one at a time, he had the impression that he was handling a lion knocked down by a stun gun, a creature that would kill him the moment it awoke. The Master would not see kindness in the Doctor’s attentions, but indignity. And somehow, knowing this made the Doctor care for him more.
He kept him in pajamas, which were covered in a rubber ducky motif, not from any desire to humiliate the Master, but because this was what the Tardis had turned up when the Doctor requested pj's. The stuffed bear the Tardis had produced along with them was perched on top of the consul, though the Doctor had been tempted to tuck it into the bed alongside the Master.
The Tardis played a soft, quiet jazz, a background noise that kept him from going crazy. He talked to the Master constantly, and since he usually talked too fast for anyone to interrupt, he didn't mind that the Master didn't answer back. It was kind of nice to finish a thought for once. After awhile, he started making up stories about someone young and idealistic, who always tried to do the right thing-someone the Master could have been if not for those damned drums driving him mad. All the while, the Master slept on.
The Doctor started falling asleep next to him, tumbled forward in his chair, his head just touching the Master's side, always thinking as he drifted off that if the Master woke up in the night, the first thing he would probably do would be to grab his throat and strangle him. After this, he started putting the Master's hand on his neck as he fell asleep. Not that he wanted to be killed--even in this place where hope seemed suspended, he had too much joy de vivre for that, but he liked the weight on him, as if the Master cared for him, too and wanted to keep him close.
He turned so he could watch the Master's face, still as blank as it had been when he first carried him to the Tardis-and he had carried him, alone-- even Captain Jack had refused to help. Like Valjean bringing Marius out of the sewers, like Lear bringing Cordelia from the gallows, the Doctor had held the Master like a babe in arms, weeping still, the Master's head slumped at an unnatural angle, his arms and legs flopping bonelessly, and brought him to the Tardis where he had stabilized him. Not dead, just sleeping. It had been long enough now, felt like years, and the Master still slept. Some days, the Doctor thought that if the Master died, he would die, too. He felt a connection between them as surely as if a rope tied them together. He knew that if he had just let the Master die before, he would be grieving, but normal, relatively. Probably have another companion. Going on adventures. Living, but not alive.
He set his hand over the Master's. "Where are you?" His voice came out a whisper, having talked so much that it was almost gone.
The Master felt gravel digging into his palms. He opened his eyes and saw a policeman in a huge hat hovering over him.
"Are you some kind of joke?"
"I don't get your meaning, sir?"
"The hat… Never mind. Is this Hell?" He sat up, brushed himself off. Nothing but gravel and factory buildings around.
"It's Manchester, sir."
"There's a difference?"
"Sir?"
"Am I dead?"
He looked down his shirt to see his wound. His chest was unblemished. It was wrong. But not as wrong as what the policeman next said.
"Well, I think not, D.I. Tyler. We'd have a lot of explaining to do at your home office if you were."
The Master looked up. "What did you call me?"
The policeman held an I.D. out to him. He took it. There was his picture, D.I. Sam Tyler, it said. 1973. The year he could handle, but of all the bloody… He was a copper. This was what he got for trying to one up the Doctor, was it? And the thing, the thing that really pissed him off, the thing that made him want to toss the I.D. right down and run for it, was that he found himself, just then, thinking that maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He could be a copper. He could do some good for once, for someone else. He hadn't always been evil, had he? That was cultivated. Years and years of hating everyone and loving himself… This urge to do good was a feeling he had forgotten how to understand, and he was almost too scared to explore it. But then he realized-there was a place in his mind that had changed, gone empty. He closed his eyes, listened. He heard birds, traffic, the policeman, who was still talking (reminded him of someone equally annoying), but no drums.
That was it. The drums had stopped. He pocketed the I.D. and smiled a great, huge smile.
The End
Note: The Master 'wakes up' as Sam Tyler, John Simm's character in Life On Mars, a character who is in a coma in present day and, as he sleeps, imagines himself in 1973. In that show, Sam hears the voices of his contemporaries bleeding through into the past, and I thought, what if Sam is the Master, and what he's hearing is the Doctor telling him the story of Sam Tyler and all the people around him, past and present as he lies in a coma on the Tardis? That's where this story came from.
By: Amproof
Fandom: Doctor Who/Surprise (see notes at end)
Disclaimer: The shows mentioned are the property of their creators and parent broadcasting companies. This is simply for fun. Please do not archive anywhere.
Characters: Martha, Doctor, Master, Other (see notes at end)
Pairings: None
Notes/Warnings/Spoilers: An alternate end of Series 3. Suitable for all ages. Angst.
The Tardis was quiet when Martha came in. She saw none of the usual beeping and running about the Doctor usually engaged himself with. She found him, finally, near the back, sitting next to the Master.
"Doctor, you can't do this." She stood behind him as he fiddled with a valve that was attached to a tube that ran into the Master's arm.
"I promised that I would care for him, and I will."
"He wanted to die."
"No he didn't. He wanted to win."
"He's in a coma. How is that winning?"
The Doctor looked up; the over-focused glint in his eyes that she once saw as determination now appeared to her as the first sign of madness.
"What's in the I.V.?"
"Something to make him comfortable." He touched the Master's hair tentatively. "Do you think he can hear us?"
"There are studies…" Martha trailed off. What did she know if the studies applied to Time Lords the same as they did to people? "If he can, you might want to pretend you're someone else."
A small, grim smile. "You mean he won't wake up if he knows it's me with him. He'll refuse." A slight purse in his lips on the final syllable, a conscious mimicry of the Master's final words to him.
"Yes."
To the Master: "Hold a grudge, forever, can't you?"
To Martha: "He can, you know."
"Yeah, I think he pretty much proved that this last year. The one that didn't happen."
"I'll be everything to you," The Doctor said.
As happened so often, Martha's gut twisted when she saw that the Doctor was leaning over the Master, talking to him and not to her.
“What if he never wakes up?”
“All I have is time. And now I have him, too. I can wait.”
“Doctor…”
"The medicine will make him forget a little while he's sleeping. Not all of it, just enough so he can get some rest and get himself better."
"I'm not going with you," Martha said. "You won't be needing me anymore." This was why she had come to see him.
"I…what?" He looked up at her, but she noticed that his hand stayed on the Master's chest.
"I'm sick of being the one you don't see."
He looked surprised, as if it had never occurred to him that she could be seen. She gave him her mobile phone, said it wasn't really goodbye, and left.
The Doctor fired up the Tardis, securing the Master's cot first, and him on it, so the inevitable bumps wouldn't send him flying around the ship and cause him more injury. He landed, for once, exactly where he wanted-in a quiet place where they could wait until the Master was healed. Then they could start again. It would be better, this time. He would protect the Master from the drums. And the Master would protect him from the loneliness.
The Doctor talked to him.
The Master's face had no expression-not the coldness that he did so well, nor the childish joy that the Doctor so often reflected in his own countenance. In coma, the Master was blank, and this broke the Doctor more than anything as he sat beside him for hours on end, waiting. He replaced the I.V. bag every four hours, and remembered to feed himself only because the bags were kept in the refrigerator next to his meals.
He undressed the Master every day, bathed him with a soft sponge, dried him with the fluffiest towels, and dressed him again. As he wiped the sponge over the Master’s pliant limbs, lifting them one at a time, he had the impression that he was handling a lion knocked down by a stun gun, a creature that would kill him the moment it awoke. The Master would not see kindness in the Doctor’s attentions, but indignity. And somehow, knowing this made the Doctor care for him more.
He kept him in pajamas, which were covered in a rubber ducky motif, not from any desire to humiliate the Master, but because this was what the Tardis had turned up when the Doctor requested pj's. The stuffed bear the Tardis had produced along with them was perched on top of the consul, though the Doctor had been tempted to tuck it into the bed alongside the Master.
The Tardis played a soft, quiet jazz, a background noise that kept him from going crazy. He talked to the Master constantly, and since he usually talked too fast for anyone to interrupt, he didn't mind that the Master didn't answer back. It was kind of nice to finish a thought for once. After awhile, he started making up stories about someone young and idealistic, who always tried to do the right thing-someone the Master could have been if not for those damned drums driving him mad. All the while, the Master slept on.
The Doctor started falling asleep next to him, tumbled forward in his chair, his head just touching the Master's side, always thinking as he drifted off that if the Master woke up in the night, the first thing he would probably do would be to grab his throat and strangle him. After this, he started putting the Master's hand on his neck as he fell asleep. Not that he wanted to be killed--even in this place where hope seemed suspended, he had too much joy de vivre for that, but he liked the weight on him, as if the Master cared for him, too and wanted to keep him close.
He turned so he could watch the Master's face, still as blank as it had been when he first carried him to the Tardis-and he had carried him, alone-- even Captain Jack had refused to help. Like Valjean bringing Marius out of the sewers, like Lear bringing Cordelia from the gallows, the Doctor had held the Master like a babe in arms, weeping still, the Master's head slumped at an unnatural angle, his arms and legs flopping bonelessly, and brought him to the Tardis where he had stabilized him. Not dead, just sleeping. It had been long enough now, felt like years, and the Master still slept. Some days, the Doctor thought that if the Master died, he would die, too. He felt a connection between them as surely as if a rope tied them together. He knew that if he had just let the Master die before, he would be grieving, but normal, relatively. Probably have another companion. Going on adventures. Living, but not alive.
He set his hand over the Master's. "Where are you?" His voice came out a whisper, having talked so much that it was almost gone.
The Master felt gravel digging into his palms. He opened his eyes and saw a policeman in a huge hat hovering over him.
"Are you some kind of joke?"
"I don't get your meaning, sir?"
"The hat… Never mind. Is this Hell?" He sat up, brushed himself off. Nothing but gravel and factory buildings around.
"It's Manchester, sir."
"There's a difference?"
"Sir?"
"Am I dead?"
He looked down his shirt to see his wound. His chest was unblemished. It was wrong. But not as wrong as what the policeman next said.
"Well, I think not, D.I. Tyler. We'd have a lot of explaining to do at your home office if you were."
The Master looked up. "What did you call me?"
The policeman held an I.D. out to him. He took it. There was his picture, D.I. Sam Tyler, it said. 1973. The year he could handle, but of all the bloody… He was a copper. This was what he got for trying to one up the Doctor, was it? And the thing, the thing that really pissed him off, the thing that made him want to toss the I.D. right down and run for it, was that he found himself, just then, thinking that maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He could be a copper. He could do some good for once, for someone else. He hadn't always been evil, had he? That was cultivated. Years and years of hating everyone and loving himself… This urge to do good was a feeling he had forgotten how to understand, and he was almost too scared to explore it. But then he realized-there was a place in his mind that had changed, gone empty. He closed his eyes, listened. He heard birds, traffic, the policeman, who was still talking (reminded him of someone equally annoying), but no drums.
That was it. The drums had stopped. He pocketed the I.D. and smiled a great, huge smile.
The End
Note: The Master 'wakes up' as Sam Tyler, John Simm's character in Life On Mars, a character who is in a coma in present day and, as he sleeps, imagines himself in 1973. In that show, Sam hears the voices of his contemporaries bleeding through into the past, and I thought, what if Sam is the Master, and what he's hearing is the Doctor telling him the story of Sam Tyler and all the people around him, past and present as he lies in a coma on the Tardis? That's where this story came from.