The Road to ... (Chapter 4, Part 1)
Firstly and most importantly, huge apologies for how long this update took. Nightmare writer's block, coupled with work problems, coupled with the chest cold/stomach bug combo from hell .... but I'm back now. The fic's finished, and I'll be posting the final three parts over the next day or two. Hope you enjoy, and are happy to know I have a zillion more fic ideas up my sleeve (shorter ones, thankfully!)
Also, this is by *far* the mushiest chapter - ie, the one where things are likely to go most OOC. Look at it as a balance - everything will be back in sync by the end.
Eventually, the Master pulls away and sighs. He stands, dusts himself off, and reaches for the Doctor’s hand, to help him up. Stunned at this action, too stunned even to anticipate a trap, the Doctor reaches up and takes it.
The Master is stronger than he looks; he hauls the Doctor to his feet with little effort. The Doctor wonders at this sudden thoughtfulness, but doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t want to draw attention to it.
They walk back to the TARDIS together, shoulder to shoulder, in silence. Back inside, the Doctor feels very tired. After he has performed all the necessary locks and guided the TARDIS back into the Vortex.
“I’m going to go … rest, or something … for a little while.” His tiredness can be heard in his voice. The Master nods, and fiddles with the data screen on the console, which the Doctor has not made off-limits. He appears disinterested, but he watches the Doctor’s retreating back curiously. The Doctor is never tired, ever. He is constantly possessed with boundless energy, and always has been. In this body, it seems more so than ever before … ever since the first. He’s not … worried … exactly. Just … curious.
He waits a good long while before he follows the Doctor. He knows that patience has always been one of his virtues. When he finds the Doctor he is lying on the bed the two of them left earlier that day. He’s not asleep, the Master feels sure, but he’s lying very still, his eyes closed, still fully dressed.
The Master stands at the foot of the bed and folds his arms. He coughs, to alert the Doctor to his presence, even though he’s sure he already knows.
The Doctor opens his eyes and smiles, slightly, as if nothing could make him happier than waking to find the Master standing over him.
This makes the Master uncomfortable. Tilting his head, he asks, “Did you really think that would work? Did you really think I would suddenly want to join you on your little crusades?”
Sighing, and rubbing his face hard, the Doctor sits up. “No. I didn’t. I wanted to show you a different way, and to show you that it’s not stupid or pointless. And I did that. You told me, you understood. It’s not right for you - that’s fine, I suppose - but you saw it, and you understood it. That’s enough for me.”
The Master narrows his eyes. The Doctor acts so much like an overenthusiastic child, he’d forgotten how truly sharp his wits are. A match for his own. “You knew it wouldn’t work.” His tone is slightly accusatory, as if the Doctor has tricked him.
With a shrug, the Doctor nods his agreement. He looks - to the Master - far too smug, too self-assured. But he can stop that in its tracks.
“So, tell me, Doctor. What’s next?”
Now it’s the Doctor’s turn to narrow his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You want to help me. You’ve shown the drums are not really a call to war. Well done. But you haven’t solved the problem. I still hear them. What are they? How am I going to live with them, if not by running around saving the universe? There must be something; without anything else to do, I’ll just go back to trying to take over…”
“Why would you?” the Doctor asks, sharply.
The Master rolls his eyes, sure this innocent, optimistic naivety of the Doctor’s is a pretence, put on to annoy him. “Because I still hear the drums. All the time - da da da dum, da da da dum -“ he taps the rhythm on the bedstead to reinforce his point. “It can’t be ignored, can’t be reasoned with. So without anything else to do …”
Now, maddeningly, the Doctor sits bolt upright and smiles once more. “That’s why I did it. That’s why I took you to the evacuation of Earth. I think the drums are a call to action. Not necessarily war.”
Dumbstruck for a second, the Master stares. In that moment, before the idea settles, he can’t honestly see the difference. A call to war, a call to action - it’s the same thing, isn’t it?
But, no. The Doctor must have thought - or at least hoped - that an act of heroism would be as good as an act of war.
Suddenly feeling a little tired himself, the Master sits on the edge of the bed. “War was the only natural conclusion.” His tone is cold, logical. “I always loved to see things … ending. Burning, exploding, disintegrating, cracking, tearing.”
The Doctor nods as if this is obvious. “I know.”
Turning sharply on the Doctor, the Master demanded, “And what about you? I played your game, looked into your world, and I said I understood it. What about you? What do you see when you look into my world? Do you understand it? Can you see the … beauty of destruction? Can you grasp the satisfaction that comes with causing it?”
The Doctor shifts uncomfortably. Everything about the Master has suddenly become much more intense. His face, his body language, his tone … it’s not pleasure, not rapture, exactly - but it has an intensity that seriously unnerves the Doctor.
This discomfort is not lost on the Master. Without ever pausing in his speech, he reaches around with his right hand and begins to run it up and down the Doctor’s leg. The Doctor twitches, slightly, but there is nothing particularly sexual about the movement, just the lightest touch of fingertips moving along a shinbone. No, his voice if far more seductive than his actions.
“Do you see how … amazing it can be? A world, in a delicate but enduring balance … no-one understands that balance but you. And because you understand it, you can undo it. It’s such an intricate process … drawing people to you, switching them to your point of view. You convince them to take part in their own destruction, and they do it so easily. And the balance starts to tip … the world starts to crumble, and nobody can see it but you. And once it starts, there’s no stopping it. There’s nothing left for you to do but watch as it unravels. It’s different every time, but they’re all beautiful.” His hands stop moving, and he grasps the Doctor’s knee tightly as he repeats, “Burning, exploding, disintegrating, cracking, tearing.”
In a flash, the Doctor moves his hand and grips the Master’s wrist, his grip and his voice harder than they usually are with the other Time Lord. “Is that what you’re doing with me?”
He doesn’t expect the honesty in the reply. “Yes. Or, at least, that’s what I used to think. There’s always been something … inescapable about you, Doctor. So much more … intricate … than any of those worlds. Just think of the satisfaction of watching you break … but there was always a bigger purpose.”
The Doctor just looks at him, the question in his eyes.
“If I broke you, I wouldn’t destroy you completely. You’d join me, and all of this could end.” He turns and looks at the Doctor directly, aware of the irony. “So it seems we both want the same thing, after all. We just have different ways of getting it.”
Raising his eyebrows, the Doctor withdraws his hand, but doesn’t speak.
Changing his tone completely, the Master stands up. “Now, all this sharing has got me completely sick. I’ll be in the console room whenever you decide what you’re doing next.”
The Doctor falls back on the bed and runs his hands through his hair. He has no idea what to try next. He has the feeling that if only this had all happened a century or two back, perhaps things could be different. But surely it was almost - almost - too late, now, to change.
But one thing has given him cause for optimism. At no point in this last conversation had the Master sounded mad. He hadn’t sounded insane at all. Buoyed by this thought, he smiles, and allows himself another moment or two of rest.
* * *
Eventually the Doctor lifts himself from his bed and walks slowly down the corridor to the console room. His steps are heavy with trepidation; he feels like the whole situation is coming to a critical point … a point at which everything will change forever. For the better, or for the worse, he can’t say.
He finds the Master staring at the data screen. Peering over his shoulder, he sees that he has been reading early theories on Time Lord biology. He can’t imagine what he’s gaining from these texts - which were, after all, written not long after the discovery that their species had two hearts - but it’s nice to see him taking an interest in something besides destruction. And drumming.
The Master doesn’t turn around, but sits back in his seat. The Doctor rests his hands on the back of the seat and asks, without preamble, “If I ask you one question, just one, will you promise to answer with the truth?”
“And where’s the fun in that?”
“No fun at all. But unless you want this ridiculous, pointless stalemate to go on forever … I can’t find the answer to this question myself.”
“Okay, then.”
“You’ll do it?”
“One question, one truthful answer. You have my word. And it better not be anything about San Francisco.”
The Doctor almost grins before he speaks. “It’s not. What I want - what I need - to know is, if I were to land on any planet right now and just let you walk away, you’d begin your campaign of control and destruction again. You said it yourself. My question is, why?”
The Master is silent.
“I want you to take as long as you need to think about that, because I want as much of the truth as you can give me. I’m not even sure if you know yourself, now. But I want you to think about it until you do.”
He walks away until he’s almost back in the corridor, and turns to find the Master has watched him leave. He looks directly into his eyes for a long moment, before asking again, “Why?”
***
Knowing he must occupy himself, he’s settled into the library and chosen a book he knows is gripping. He’s been reading it for the last two hours but he hasn’t absorbed any of the words. He’s just flicking his eyes, turning pages … waiting.
Eventually, the Master appears in the doorway, more silent and calm than he’s looked in an age. He enters the room and sits on the desk, looking down at the Doctor in his chair.
“I have your answer.”
The Doctor doesn’t speak, merely waits. He closes the book and rests it on his lap.
“But before I tell you, I want you to promise me something, too.”
Anxiety grips the Doctor immediately, and he’s mentally kicking himself. He should’ve anticipated this; the Master never gives anything away without demanding something in return. He still doesn’t speak, but looks askance at the Master.
“I want you to promise me that you won’t interrupt me until I’ve finished. I know you’re a good talker, Doctor. Now you need to learn to be a good listener, too.”
Nodding, the Doctor hopes his face doesn’t show his surprise at the Master’s astonishingly simple request.
The Master takes a deep breath before he speaks, and this, coupled with the promise he’s just asked for, makes the Doctor wonder if it wouldn’t have been simpler to just communicate telepathically.
“If I were left alone an a new planet, I would do something you’d disapprove of. I’d take it over, or start a war with a neighbour, or at least severely disrupt the social balance of the place. And it wouldn’t be about power, or control, or war, or destruction, or chaos.
It would be about you.
The only way I know you get you back … alongside me, against me, doesn’t matter. That’s always what it’s been about. Some of it’s been about impressing you … forcing you to see and admire my brilliance, my power. But don’t be flattered, because it’s been about so much more than that.
It’s been about hurting you. More and more as the years - the centuries - have rolled on, I’ve wanted to hurt you, Doctor. And if you want to know why … well, you already know the first reason. But the second is that … if all I can make you feel is pain, then so be it.
So I control, I kill, I destroy. I create chaos. Because I know it’s the one thing you truly can’t resist.”
Exhaling as if that has cost him more effort than anything else in his life, the Master stands and turns to leave. He’s kept his end of the bargain, now he wants to leave here and never have to deal with the consequences.
But now the Doctor’s seen he’s finished, he’s got plenty to say.
“Wait.”
The Master stops, but doesn’t turn back to face him. The Doctor stands up and walks up behind the Master, until their bodies are almost touching. He doesn’t move in front, doesn’t force the Master to face him.
“So … what if I promise to always be there, so you’ll never have to draw me back? What if I promise never to leave?”
The words hang in the air like the atomic bombs they really are.
***
The Master feels a surge through his mind and body as one image floods his mind. It’s an image of pure peace … pure contentment at the very idea of knowing that the Doctor will always be there. Not on his way, not having just defeated him, just … there. For a moment the drums seem to slow, until there is a second of silence in between the beats.
He doesn’t deny that the schemes and battles between them have been fun, challenging and engaging, but they always end. This is something … different.
But as the image settles and the drums resume their normal tempo, he realises that he can’t actually picture this life. For a moment he doesn’t know why, but then it hits him. He spins on his heel.
“You’ll still go off all the time to save worlds. Even if you don’t visit any new worlds, or make any new friends, that lot on Earth seem particularly capable of getting themselves in over their heads. You’ll go off to save them, and where will that leave me? What will I do? That’s all I’ve done for centuries … strive for power, be stopped, and start again. What else am I supposed to do?”
The Master is at his wits’ end. He’s just been promised the one thing he’s sought for all his long life … and realised it won’t be enough. His mind is at breaking point, so it’s something of a shock to see the Doctor laughing.
He’s laughing softly; ruefully, and fondly, as he smiles at the Master. Almost unaware of his action, he reaches up and brushes the Master’s face gently with the back of his hand. The Master is too stunned to stop him.
“You know what you sound like? Someone just retired! Like someone who doesn’t know how to spend their time now they don’t go to work anymore … or now they’re no longer trying to take over the universe, in your case!”
For an instant, the Master wants to lash out at the Doctor, hurt him for being so flippant, but something stops him. He’s not sure what, something about the way the Doctor’s smiling at him …
“It’s not just a question of how to spend my time, you floppy-haired idiot. It’s more than that …” His voice quietens as he speaks. “It’s … everything. My purpose. My identity.”
He walks once more towards the door, turning at the last to face the Doctor. “I’m the Master. If I’m not Master of all things, what am I Master of?”
The Doctor pauses, not sure how to answer. And he never does, because in that instant, sirens echo from the console room.