The Road to ... Understanding (Chapter 2, Part 5)
The final part of Chapter Two ... finally! I've already written bits of Ch3 and Ch4, so they should come a bit more quickly now.
When the Doctor awakes and joins the Master in the console room, there is a feeling of morning, even though there is no time, as such. Both could be forgiven for awkwardness, even for anger - it has been such a long time - but instead there is none.
The Doctor rubs his hands through his air and looks around. “Was I ... was I asleep long?”
“Yes. You must have been … very tired.” The Master gives him a filthy look, but grins as he does it.
The Doctor can’t help but grin back.
“So, what did you do, while I was asleep?” He asks conversationally, walking around the console, checking lots of things, but touching nothing.
“Not a lot. It’s not like I’ve got a lot to do, is it? I watched some DVDs I found upstairs - which, by the way, go some way to challenging my status as the resident egomanic. Not even I had a DVD made of nothing but my face and a senseless conversation.” He grins again, and the Doctor chuckles in reply.
“So, did the 1969 thing happen yet?” He asks, settling down in a chair.
“No,” the Doctor replies, still running his hands through his hair. “Not yet. I’ll have to get round to that. You know, at some point.”
“Well, it looks like just the sort of thing you’ll enjoy. Saving the world, in an absolutely bizarre manner - I have to say, I like your style - from more thirty years in the past and … oh, would you look at yourself?”
The sudden change in direction jolts the Doctor from his thoughts. “What?”
“Could you leave your hair alone for five minutes? You look like a recently electrocuted hedgehog.”
“What? Oh.” Flattening his hair down a little, he drops his hands to his sides, stuffing them into his pockets. “Sorry. Just a habit.”
The Master grins; flirtatiously, confidently. “I bet it feels better when I do it …”
The Doctor grins, raises his eyebrows, and nods slightly, still looking down at the console. “Well, everything does.”
“Well, if you’re a very good boy, we could see about that later. But I’m sure you’ve got something terribly serious planned for today. Which great battle will we be visiting?”
Suspiciously, the Doctor looks at the Master, but the grin has gone from the other man’s face, and there is an uncertain note held within the confident tone of his voice. Wasting no time, the Doctor grabs the screwdriver and reattaches the link between their wrists. “Follow me.”
But instead of heading for the door, he turns and heads back into the TARDIS. The Master has no choice but to follow, but he can’t resist a dig. “I must have blown your mind in more ways than one. The door’s the other way, you know.”
“I know. We’re not going outside.”
“You mean that humanity’s fighting an epic battle in the middle of your ship? Impossible. One cannon firing would blow this creaky wreck apart.” It’s quite hard for the Master to keep joking when he’s tethered to the Doctor; he can move incredibly quickly on those long legs of his, and the Master doesn’t fancy a dislocated shoulder.
The Doctor laughs, and gently corrects him. “It’s not a human battle.”
The Master’s actually intrigued, now. Goodness knows what oddity he’s being taken to, but he’s relieved not to be witnessing another human battle. The last one left him with a sense of discomfort, and intense frustration. And as much fun as that was to … work out, he has no desire to see another so quickly.
“Well, hold on,” he stops in his tracks, bracing his arm so that it’s the Doctor that gets tugged back, gracelessly. “If we’re stopping in, why do we need these?” He points to the ring on his wrist, lifting his arm to illustrate his point.
The Doctor gazes into his eyes, in that imploring way of his, and pushes the Doctor’s wrist back down. “Trust me.”
The Master laughs out loud. It’s a ridiculous notion - the person who’s holding him prisoner, who’s got him bloody handcuffed - asking to be trusted. The Doctor’s expression, however, doesn’t change.
“All right, all right. Go on then.” His voice is hurried and uncomfortable; he just wants the Doctor to stop looking at him like that.
They keep moving, into rooms the Master never even got close to on his explorations of the ship. Eventually they come to a sealed door, which the Doctor opens with the sonic screwdriver, and pushes open. The room is pitch black, and he has to turn the lights on sonically as well.
The Master blinks as his eyes become accustomed, and then his eyes become wide. “What the hell is that?”
He’s looking at the only object in the small room, and it’s an unusual artefact. Circular, about two feet in diameter, vaguely resembling a mirror, but made of frosted glass. The most surprising thing, however, is the edging. The edge of the circle is not fixed or solid, but moving, as if it is made of some sort of fluid. The Master feels deeply uncomfortable looking at it, as if a small part of him were terrified; wanting to run away, but too scared.
“I dunno … it hasn’t got a name.”
The Master is no longer in the mood for games. “Well, where did it come from?”
“Haven’t a clue. It’s always been here. Ever since I … requisitioned this TARDIS. Took me ages to find it. I’d sort of hoped you might know what it was, seeing as it was almost certainly put there by the Time Lords.”
“I’ve never seen one of those things before in my life. Any of my lives.”
The Doctor sighs and moves towards the strange object. “Well, it took me ages to find it, and even longer to work out what it does.”
“And what exactly does it do?” The Master edges as far away from the object as their links will allow.
“It shows thoughts.”
The Master’s visibly uncomfortable now; the Doctor can feel the strain on his wrist as the other man tries to pull away. “Well, don’t bring it anywhere near me!”
With an expression of intense seriousness, the Doctor turns to look at him. “It’s not for you. It’s for me.”
The Master relaxes, the tiniest bit. “So it’s … like the psychic paper?” The Doctor can tell he’s not as scared any more, because there’s curiosity in his voice. It’s one of the things that join them, and that even linked them to all the other Time Lords, when they existed: neither of them could every resist a revolutionary bit of technology. A gadget.
“Nope. Psychic paper shows whatever I want it to show. It lies … if I want it to. This can’t lie. This shows pure thoughts … memories, mostly.”
“So what are you going to show me?”
“Another battle, of course.”
“Well, why don’t we just go and see it?”
“We can’t. This battle … this place … we can’t go there. It doesn’t exist in time or space. Not anymore …”
He trails off, but it’s too late. The Master has caught up completely with his thoughts and the fear is back, multiplied. The strain on the links is back, too, as he tries to escape the room, taking the Doctor with him if he has to.
The Doctor stands firm, and his expression is steady and almost cold. “We’re going to watch the end of the Time War.”
“No … no!” The Master continues to pull, to tug at the links, but they hold firm. “You can’t. You can’t make me watch that. How can you watch that? What’s the matter with you?”
Displaying a pure physical strength the Master didn’t know this body of the Doctor’s possessed, he overpowers him and turns to face the silvery object. “It’s something we both need to do.”
***
The first image that appears is not a chaotic, terrifying one, but a scene that’s comforting and familiar in its dullness. Time Lord Senators, deep in conversation, deep within the Citadel. Only one thing in the scene draws the Master’s attention … the Doctor. Looking much different than he does now, and not at all happy.
“What … what’s happening?” The Master’s voice is croaky, little more than a whisper, full of trepidation for what he’s about to witness. He turns to look at the Doctor, the real Doctor, and sees his eyes are closed.
“Sorry,” the Doctor murmurs, and closes his eyes more tightly, as if concentrating. Sound begins to emanate from the mysterious object; coming, it seems, from the strange, fluid edges.
“It has to be you,” says the rusty old voice of one of the Senators.
“No,” says the Doctor’s younger self. “There has to be another way. We’ll find it. We’ll think of something.”
“Don’t you see? It’s over. We have one more thing we can try, but if that doesn’t work …”
“No,” the Doctor repeats, but with less conviction.
“Don’t be foolish. We haven’t time. The Daleks have control of the cruciform. The Master’s dead. You’re the only one left.”
The Master twitches at this last part. He, of course, was not dead. He’d made himself human and ran to the end of the universe. He sees the old Senator hand the Doctor something. He looks upwards, at the Doctor’s face, and the look stuns him.
Absolute resignation. Defeat. He’s always dreamed of seeing that look … but now he sees it, he wonders why. It looks horrible, hateful … wrong. Would it be any better if he himself had put it there?
He grabs the Doctor’s arm, breaking his concentration, and both the sights and sounds vanish. “What was that? What did he give you?”
“A sample of a microbe that lives on dense gases.”
“Why?”
The Doctor merely raises his eyebrows. “You know Gallifrey burned. This is how.”
“You mean …”
“The heat from those two suns was … intense. The atmosphere was all that protected it. Such a strong atmosphere … a tough shell. Even with those great fires burning such a short distance away … it was still a cold planet.”
The Doctor pulls his arm away, and concentrates once more.
Now the Master can see the Doctor’s TARDIS hovering, in orbit around their home planet. He watches as streams of Daleks come pouring in, ships upon ships upon ships. Devouring his home, it appears. And then the Doctor appears in the doorway, and throws what looks like a hand grenade. The view of the planet becomes clearer as the shell fades away, the horrific scenes all the more vivid.
The Master can barely stand to watch. But it lasts only a few seconds, and then the fire begins. The planet reaches its burning point quickly, the twin suns consuming it from both sides.
Quickly the white and yellow flames turn red, and become deeper. The Master, desperate to escape this horrible spectacle turns to look at the Doctor. His face is screwed up tight, whether in pain or concentration. The Master risks one more glance at the screen, and then turns and screams at the Doctor, as near to hysteria as he’s ever been.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Under his horror and desperation, he’s livid. The Doctor should never have this power over him. He’s never wanted it. And the Master wants it finished. Now. He lashes out at the Doctor, punching him in the face and the stomach, anything to stop this.
The Doctor’s concentration is broken, but it takes the images more than a few moments to fade. He catches a glimpse of the Master’s face and instantly releases their link.
The Master runs from the room, and the Doctor lies on the floor, winded, hurting less from the attack than the memories he’s just been forced to relive.
***
When the Doctor pulls himself together, he leaves the room and seals the door behind him, surprised at how steady his hands are. He has no intention of ever returning to this place. At least, he thinks, it will save him the bother of ever having to name that device.
His hands are lying. They may be steady, but inside he’s deeply shaken. Slowly, he makes his way to the console room. He’s not surprised to see no sign of the Master.
The last time the Master saw something like that, he ran to the end of the universe, hid himself as a whole different person. He might be stuck on the TARDIS, but he’s still going to run, still going to hide.
The Doctor comforts himself for many hours, fixing and tightening things on the TARDIS. He loves the old ship, but she needs constant repairs. He doesn’t mind; the familiar, careful actions are soothing.
And he needs to keep his mind off the Master. He needs to give him time.
But not too much time, he knows. The seconds are ticking away in his mind, towards an invisible breaking point only he knows exists. The Master needs time to accept what he has seen, and to realise what it means to him. But if he thinks on it too long … he’ll become aggressive and uncaring. It’s a habit so long cultivated it borders on instinct.
Of course, no-one else in the universe knows this. No-one knows how the Master’s mind works. Except the Doctor. The Doctor understands it, precisely and perfectly, like a science. The seconds tick loudly in his head, the anticipation building until even his steady hands start to tremble.
He walks away into the depths of the TARDIS, slowly and purposefully. He can sense the Master’s presence, and he heads towards it. There’s plenty of time, still. The science of the Master is very exact, but he is an expert.
He climbs staircase after staircase, feeling himself get closer and closer to the Master. On the last staircase he reaches him. He’s sitting on the steps, resting against the railing, his face frozen and ashen. He glances at the Doctor, then looks away. He doesn’t speak.
The Doctor sits down on the same step, but stays quiet. For many minutes they sit there in silence. The seconds continue to tick away in the Doctor’s mind. He feels the critical moment approach.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Master shudder. Cautiously, but determinedly, he moves closer. He wraps his arms around the Master and holds him tight.
The Master lets him. The Doctor can almost feel the Master collapsing into him, and it makes him feel afraid. But he keeps his arms strong, keeps holding his oldest friend and enemy, and breathes deeply.
***
After many long moments, he runs his hand, cautiously but protectively, across the Master’s hair, and moves away.
“Is that how you imagined it? Did it make me powerful?”
Given the Master’s current condition, the questions seem cruel, but he needs to know.
The Master shakes his head dumbly. “Did you think you’d survive?”
“No,” the Doctor answers, softly and honestly. “I didn’t know it would burn that fast. I thought it would expand, consume me too.”
“I’d probably left only a few hours before … you saw … they all thought I was dead.” His voice is hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it for a long time.
The Doctor takes a deep breath. “I thought you were dead, too. They said it was all over, and I believed them.”
The Master doesn’t speak. The Doctor hates the thing he has to do next, but he closes his eyes and ploughs ahead anyway.
“So how can that noise in your head possibly be a call to war? You were a warrior in the greatest battle ever fought. And you ran away. You ran. If the drums were a summons, you’d have answered and been glad. But you ran as far as you could. And you saw me fighting in the same battle, and you ran again. You ran then and you ran now! It’s not a call to war. Stop using that as an excuse!”
All the colour has drained from the Master’s face, but when he speaks his voice is still low and steady, still angry.
“Then tell me, Doctor. What is it? Why do I hear the drums? Why won’t they ever stop?”
The Doctor reaches out his hand an gently grips the Master’s chin, turning his head to face him. He looks into the Master’s eyes, and for the first time his voice shows the love he feels. “I don’t know. I don’t know what they are. But I’ll help you find out.”
For the briefest moment, the Master rubs his cheek against the Doctor’s hand, and then lifts his head. “Will you?”
“I won’t stop until we find it. And remember … when you and I work together, there’s not much we can’t do!” He smiles confidently, charmingly and the Master, who shakes his head and laughs.
“Okay, then. Let’s do it.”
Laughing, a true, honest laugh, the Doctor leans against the Master’s shoulder. He feels the Master’s strong arm wrapping around his middle, and his spirits soar. He can be the strong one, the protective one, the dominant one when he has to, but that role’s always suited the Master better.
Mimicking the other’s gesture, the Master uses his hands to tilt the Doctor’s face upwards for a kiss. The action is less angry and aggressive than it has been, the Doctor thinks, but it’s still demanding and forceful. And he loves it.
When the Doctor awakes and joins the Master in the console room, there is a feeling of morning, even though there is no time, as such. Both could be forgiven for awkwardness, even for anger - it has been such a long time - but instead there is none.
The Doctor rubs his hands through his air and looks around. “Was I ... was I asleep long?”
“Yes. You must have been … very tired.” The Master gives him a filthy look, but grins as he does it.
The Doctor can’t help but grin back.
“So, what did you do, while I was asleep?” He asks conversationally, walking around the console, checking lots of things, but touching nothing.
“Not a lot. It’s not like I’ve got a lot to do, is it? I watched some DVDs I found upstairs - which, by the way, go some way to challenging my status as the resident egomanic. Not even I had a DVD made of nothing but my face and a senseless conversation.” He grins again, and the Doctor chuckles in reply.
“So, did the 1969 thing happen yet?” He asks, settling down in a chair.
“No,” the Doctor replies, still running his hands through his hair. “Not yet. I’ll have to get round to that. You know, at some point.”
“Well, it looks like just the sort of thing you’ll enjoy. Saving the world, in an absolutely bizarre manner - I have to say, I like your style - from more thirty years in the past and … oh, would you look at yourself?”
The sudden change in direction jolts the Doctor from his thoughts. “What?”
“Could you leave your hair alone for five minutes? You look like a recently electrocuted hedgehog.”
“What? Oh.” Flattening his hair down a little, he drops his hands to his sides, stuffing them into his pockets. “Sorry. Just a habit.”
The Master grins; flirtatiously, confidently. “I bet it feels better when I do it …”
The Doctor grins, raises his eyebrows, and nods slightly, still looking down at the console. “Well, everything does.”
“Well, if you’re a very good boy, we could see about that later. But I’m sure you’ve got something terribly serious planned for today. Which great battle will we be visiting?”
Suspiciously, the Doctor looks at the Master, but the grin has gone from the other man’s face, and there is an uncertain note held within the confident tone of his voice. Wasting no time, the Doctor grabs the screwdriver and reattaches the link between their wrists. “Follow me.”
But instead of heading for the door, he turns and heads back into the TARDIS. The Master has no choice but to follow, but he can’t resist a dig. “I must have blown your mind in more ways than one. The door’s the other way, you know.”
“I know. We’re not going outside.”
“You mean that humanity’s fighting an epic battle in the middle of your ship? Impossible. One cannon firing would blow this creaky wreck apart.” It’s quite hard for the Master to keep joking when he’s tethered to the Doctor; he can move incredibly quickly on those long legs of his, and the Master doesn’t fancy a dislocated shoulder.
The Doctor laughs, and gently corrects him. “It’s not a human battle.”
The Master’s actually intrigued, now. Goodness knows what oddity he’s being taken to, but he’s relieved not to be witnessing another human battle. The last one left him with a sense of discomfort, and intense frustration. And as much fun as that was to … work out, he has no desire to see another so quickly.
“Well, hold on,” he stops in his tracks, bracing his arm so that it’s the Doctor that gets tugged back, gracelessly. “If we’re stopping in, why do we need these?” He points to the ring on his wrist, lifting his arm to illustrate his point.
The Doctor gazes into his eyes, in that imploring way of his, and pushes the Doctor’s wrist back down. “Trust me.”
The Master laughs out loud. It’s a ridiculous notion - the person who’s holding him prisoner, who’s got him bloody handcuffed - asking to be trusted. The Doctor’s expression, however, doesn’t change.
“All right, all right. Go on then.” His voice is hurried and uncomfortable; he just wants the Doctor to stop looking at him like that.
They keep moving, into rooms the Master never even got close to on his explorations of the ship. Eventually they come to a sealed door, which the Doctor opens with the sonic screwdriver, and pushes open. The room is pitch black, and he has to turn the lights on sonically as well.
The Master blinks as his eyes become accustomed, and then his eyes become wide. “What the hell is that?”
He’s looking at the only object in the small room, and it’s an unusual artefact. Circular, about two feet in diameter, vaguely resembling a mirror, but made of frosted glass. The most surprising thing, however, is the edging. The edge of the circle is not fixed or solid, but moving, as if it is made of some sort of fluid. The Master feels deeply uncomfortable looking at it, as if a small part of him were terrified; wanting to run away, but too scared.
“I dunno … it hasn’t got a name.”
The Master is no longer in the mood for games. “Well, where did it come from?”
“Haven’t a clue. It’s always been here. Ever since I … requisitioned this TARDIS. Took me ages to find it. I’d sort of hoped you might know what it was, seeing as it was almost certainly put there by the Time Lords.”
“I’ve never seen one of those things before in my life. Any of my lives.”
The Doctor sighs and moves towards the strange object. “Well, it took me ages to find it, and even longer to work out what it does.”
“And what exactly does it do?” The Master edges as far away from the object as their links will allow.
“It shows thoughts.”
The Master’s visibly uncomfortable now; the Doctor can feel the strain on his wrist as the other man tries to pull away. “Well, don’t bring it anywhere near me!”
With an expression of intense seriousness, the Doctor turns to look at him. “It’s not for you. It’s for me.”
The Master relaxes, the tiniest bit. “So it’s … like the psychic paper?” The Doctor can tell he’s not as scared any more, because there’s curiosity in his voice. It’s one of the things that join them, and that even linked them to all the other Time Lords, when they existed: neither of them could every resist a revolutionary bit of technology. A gadget.
“Nope. Psychic paper shows whatever I want it to show. It lies … if I want it to. This can’t lie. This shows pure thoughts … memories, mostly.”
“So what are you going to show me?”
“Another battle, of course.”
“Well, why don’t we just go and see it?”
“We can’t. This battle … this place … we can’t go there. It doesn’t exist in time or space. Not anymore …”
He trails off, but it’s too late. The Master has caught up completely with his thoughts and the fear is back, multiplied. The strain on the links is back, too, as he tries to escape the room, taking the Doctor with him if he has to.
The Doctor stands firm, and his expression is steady and almost cold. “We’re going to watch the end of the Time War.”
“No … no!” The Master continues to pull, to tug at the links, but they hold firm. “You can’t. You can’t make me watch that. How can you watch that? What’s the matter with you?”
Displaying a pure physical strength the Master didn’t know this body of the Doctor’s possessed, he overpowers him and turns to face the silvery object. “It’s something we both need to do.”
***
The first image that appears is not a chaotic, terrifying one, but a scene that’s comforting and familiar in its dullness. Time Lord Senators, deep in conversation, deep within the Citadel. Only one thing in the scene draws the Master’s attention … the Doctor. Looking much different than he does now, and not at all happy.
“What … what’s happening?” The Master’s voice is croaky, little more than a whisper, full of trepidation for what he’s about to witness. He turns to look at the Doctor, the real Doctor, and sees his eyes are closed.
“Sorry,” the Doctor murmurs, and closes his eyes more tightly, as if concentrating. Sound begins to emanate from the mysterious object; coming, it seems, from the strange, fluid edges.
“It has to be you,” says the rusty old voice of one of the Senators.
“No,” says the Doctor’s younger self. “There has to be another way. We’ll find it. We’ll think of something.”
“Don’t you see? It’s over. We have one more thing we can try, but if that doesn’t work …”
“No,” the Doctor repeats, but with less conviction.
“Don’t be foolish. We haven’t time. The Daleks have control of the cruciform. The Master’s dead. You’re the only one left.”
The Master twitches at this last part. He, of course, was not dead. He’d made himself human and ran to the end of the universe. He sees the old Senator hand the Doctor something. He looks upwards, at the Doctor’s face, and the look stuns him.
Absolute resignation. Defeat. He’s always dreamed of seeing that look … but now he sees it, he wonders why. It looks horrible, hateful … wrong. Would it be any better if he himself had put it there?
He grabs the Doctor’s arm, breaking his concentration, and both the sights and sounds vanish. “What was that? What did he give you?”
“A sample of a microbe that lives on dense gases.”
“Why?”
The Doctor merely raises his eyebrows. “You know Gallifrey burned. This is how.”
“You mean …”
“The heat from those two suns was … intense. The atmosphere was all that protected it. Such a strong atmosphere … a tough shell. Even with those great fires burning such a short distance away … it was still a cold planet.”
The Doctor pulls his arm away, and concentrates once more.
Now the Master can see the Doctor’s TARDIS hovering, in orbit around their home planet. He watches as streams of Daleks come pouring in, ships upon ships upon ships. Devouring his home, it appears. And then the Doctor appears in the doorway, and throws what looks like a hand grenade. The view of the planet becomes clearer as the shell fades away, the horrific scenes all the more vivid.
The Master can barely stand to watch. But it lasts only a few seconds, and then the fire begins. The planet reaches its burning point quickly, the twin suns consuming it from both sides.
Quickly the white and yellow flames turn red, and become deeper. The Master, desperate to escape this horrible spectacle turns to look at the Doctor. His face is screwed up tight, whether in pain or concentration. The Master risks one more glance at the screen, and then turns and screams at the Doctor, as near to hysteria as he’s ever been.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Under his horror and desperation, he’s livid. The Doctor should never have this power over him. He’s never wanted it. And the Master wants it finished. Now. He lashes out at the Doctor, punching him in the face and the stomach, anything to stop this.
The Doctor’s concentration is broken, but it takes the images more than a few moments to fade. He catches a glimpse of the Master’s face and instantly releases their link.
The Master runs from the room, and the Doctor lies on the floor, winded, hurting less from the attack than the memories he’s just been forced to relive.
***
When the Doctor pulls himself together, he leaves the room and seals the door behind him, surprised at how steady his hands are. He has no intention of ever returning to this place. At least, he thinks, it will save him the bother of ever having to name that device.
His hands are lying. They may be steady, but inside he’s deeply shaken. Slowly, he makes his way to the console room. He’s not surprised to see no sign of the Master.
The last time the Master saw something like that, he ran to the end of the universe, hid himself as a whole different person. He might be stuck on the TARDIS, but he’s still going to run, still going to hide.
The Doctor comforts himself for many hours, fixing and tightening things on the TARDIS. He loves the old ship, but she needs constant repairs. He doesn’t mind; the familiar, careful actions are soothing.
And he needs to keep his mind off the Master. He needs to give him time.
But not too much time, he knows. The seconds are ticking away in his mind, towards an invisible breaking point only he knows exists. The Master needs time to accept what he has seen, and to realise what it means to him. But if he thinks on it too long … he’ll become aggressive and uncaring. It’s a habit so long cultivated it borders on instinct.
Of course, no-one else in the universe knows this. No-one knows how the Master’s mind works. Except the Doctor. The Doctor understands it, precisely and perfectly, like a science. The seconds tick loudly in his head, the anticipation building until even his steady hands start to tremble.
He walks away into the depths of the TARDIS, slowly and purposefully. He can sense the Master’s presence, and he heads towards it. There’s plenty of time, still. The science of the Master is very exact, but he is an expert.
He climbs staircase after staircase, feeling himself get closer and closer to the Master. On the last staircase he reaches him. He’s sitting on the steps, resting against the railing, his face frozen and ashen. He glances at the Doctor, then looks away. He doesn’t speak.
The Doctor sits down on the same step, but stays quiet. For many minutes they sit there in silence. The seconds continue to tick away in the Doctor’s mind. He feels the critical moment approach.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Master shudder. Cautiously, but determinedly, he moves closer. He wraps his arms around the Master and holds him tight.
The Master lets him. The Doctor can almost feel the Master collapsing into him, and it makes him feel afraid. But he keeps his arms strong, keeps holding his oldest friend and enemy, and breathes deeply.
***
After many long moments, he runs his hand, cautiously but protectively, across the Master’s hair, and moves away.
“Is that how you imagined it? Did it make me powerful?”
Given the Master’s current condition, the questions seem cruel, but he needs to know.
The Master shakes his head dumbly. “Did you think you’d survive?”
“No,” the Doctor answers, softly and honestly. “I didn’t know it would burn that fast. I thought it would expand, consume me too.”
“I’d probably left only a few hours before … you saw … they all thought I was dead.” His voice is hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it for a long time.
The Doctor takes a deep breath. “I thought you were dead, too. They said it was all over, and I believed them.”
The Master doesn’t speak. The Doctor hates the thing he has to do next, but he closes his eyes and ploughs ahead anyway.
“So how can that noise in your head possibly be a call to war? You were a warrior in the greatest battle ever fought. And you ran away. You ran. If the drums were a summons, you’d have answered and been glad. But you ran as far as you could. And you saw me fighting in the same battle, and you ran again. You ran then and you ran now! It’s not a call to war. Stop using that as an excuse!”
All the colour has drained from the Master’s face, but when he speaks his voice is still low and steady, still angry.
“Then tell me, Doctor. What is it? Why do I hear the drums? Why won’t they ever stop?”
The Doctor reaches out his hand an gently grips the Master’s chin, turning his head to face him. He looks into the Master’s eyes, and for the first time his voice shows the love he feels. “I don’t know. I don’t know what they are. But I’ll help you find out.”
For the briefest moment, the Master rubs his cheek against the Doctor’s hand, and then lifts his head. “Will you?”
“I won’t stop until we find it. And remember … when you and I work together, there’s not much we can’t do!” He smiles confidently, charmingly and the Master, who shakes his head and laughs.
“Okay, then. Let’s do it.”
Laughing, a true, honest laugh, the Doctor leans against the Master’s shoulder. He feels the Master’s strong arm wrapping around his middle, and his spirits soar. He can be the strong one, the protective one, the dominant one when he has to, but that role’s always suited the Master better.
Mimicking the other’s gesture, the Master uses his hands to tilt the Doctor’s face upwards for a kiss. The action is less angry and aggressive than it has been, the Doctor thinks, but it’s still demanding and forceful. And he loves it.