Chapter 4, Part 4: The Road to the Unknown.
Author's Note: Here we finally are. I really do apologise for the several, erm, months it took me to write this last chapter. It's completely finished now, even the epilogue, and will be posted through the next 24 hours. And I'm never, ever attempting a project this size again!
The Master watches on a fuzzy data screen as Peliera and the Doctor squeeze into the maintenance pod. The Doctor’s having trouble folding his long legs inside the tiny cabin without whacking his head on the roof, and the Master would’ve been mildly amused by this if it hadn’t been for the way Peliera - a sharp, hard-bitten, middle-aged scientist - was suddenly grinning and giggling like a teenager. The Master’s eyes narrow and his fingers grip his chair tightly. An involuntary noise, not quite a growl, escapes his throat.
Unfortunately, the remaining crew members notice his rage.
“Hey, mate, keep those feelings to yourself. People are prosecuted for that sort of thing around here, you know.”
His nerves close to snapping, the Master turns and gives the buffoon a blistering glare. “You’d do well to shut up. I haven’t survived countless deaths and a Time War to listen to ignorant ranting from two idiots who were too stupid to get the hell away from a planet that’s about to go into a ten-thousand-year deep freeze. Now be silent, before I fuse some of these wires and create a spring thaw that’ll drown you all.”
He’s not serious about that … he’s far too distracted by the data screen to form a coherent scheme, even after all these years of practice. But he knows his own tone, his own power, well enough to know that he’ll hear nothing more from the crew.
He can hear, just about, the voices coming from the maintenance pod.
“It’s just such a good thing you arrived when you did. I mean, we’re well prepared, but nobody here had any idea about this problem. And then you arrive … and you know what it is instantly! And you think you know how to stop it. We could’ve done with someone like you in the crew from the beginning.”
The Master rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. Flattery. He dislikes it intensely. Flattery is only effective on a wounded, insufficient ego.
He recognises the feelings rising inside of him … jealousy, and possessiveness. Neither are new to him. His irritation is growing and the pounding in his head intensifies. He’s almost sure his vision is starting to blur …
Then, suddenly it calms. From a tiny, rational corner of his mind, he notices that the flattery and flirtatiousness is having absolutely no effect. The Doctor is chattering away about Illethian viruses and isn’t remotely affected by the mood of the woman pressed against his side. Indeed, he doesn’t seem to have noticed.
A wry smile crosses the Master’s face. Before their latest meeting, in these young, strong bodies, he would’ve witnessed this behaviour and accused the Doctor of being irritatingly chaste, even frigid. But he’s sure, now, of something he suspected all along … that demeanour was never real. He’s tasted the fire that burns in that cool body, that composed and controlled mind. It’s always been there, but highly selective. It’s only for him, for the Master. The smile on his face is changing, and even he’s aware that it’s unbearably smug … it’s fuelled by satisfaction and another emotion, one he can’t identify but has felt increasingly frequently in recent days …
He notices that the maintenance pod has reached its destination, and the Doctor has leapt out and begun, he assumes, to investigate the generator. He can no longer see him; only the empty interior of the pod.
Then he sees a flash, hears a bang and a rumble, and the picture disappears. Seconds later he feels the ground under his feet tremble. The crew members leap into action, noisy and panicking. The Master sits, dumbstruck. For a second, even the drums are silent. When they return, they are low and quiet, but steadier and more insistent than ever.
He stands, his face set. He sees a protective suit on the wall and pulls it down, shrugs off his jacket, and starts to dress.
A crewman spots him. “Hey, you can’t go out there! We don’t know what happened. It isn’t safe.”
The Master doesn’t even bother to silence him with a glare. He simply ignores him, closes some fasteners, and descends the ladder, heading for the water duct.
Even moving at a surprisingly fast speed, the journey down the tunnel seems to take forever. He wonders, in some part of his mind, why he’s doing this, why he’s bothering. The Doctor has been in many worse scrapes than this before, and many of them have been as a result of the Master’s scheming.
Something has changed, now. He enjoyed their old life, their old battles. Not the ends, unsurprisingly, but the plotting and scheming, the matching of wits and wills, the inevitable confrontations … he’d loved those moments. He knows, now, that they are gone forever. That time has passed. They can never go back to being that way. Things have changed too much. He has changed too much.
As the generator starts to come into view he breaks into a run. He’s not surprised at the scene of devastation. The maintenance pod is in pieces. Peliera is dead, he can tell that just by looking at her. The Doctor lies, unmoving, next to the generator.
The Master approaches him and sees his chest is rising and falling slightly; he is, after all, alive. Then he sees the nest, the pulpy mass the virus had been living in, attached to the generator. It is no longer moving or pulsating or shimmering. The Doctor killed it and, with it, the virus. The base is safe.
Chances are, the Master realises belatedly, that the Doctor himself caused the explosion. But before he passed out, he did manage to see the job done.
The strange feeling rushes back at him, and suddenly he recognises it. It’s pride. It’s such a strange sensation to be proud of another person. And, perhaps oddly, it doesn’t make him feel disgusted. It feels natural to be proud. It feels good.
The Doctor won’t wake - he’s clearly not ready yet - so the Master gathers up his surprisingly light body and carries him back to the base. The crew members dash out immediately, as he tells them about Peliera.
It’s many minutes before the Doctor comes around. He has many questions, but the Master insists they go back to the TARDIS before the crew return.
* * *
The Doctor sleeps for many hours after learning he saved the Habitation Station, leaving the Master to wander listlessly through the many rooms. In some ways he feels better than he has for many long years, but at the same time he feels chaotic and a little panicked, as though everything he has known and counted on is gone.
The Doctor, on waking, finds the Master in the library. The Master looks up from his book and nods at him, still uncertain. The Doctor lifts his own head and smiles.
“I have the answer to your question.”
The Master looks at him, puzzled. “What question?” He can’t remember asking the Doctor anything recently.
“You asked me what you would be Master of, if you weren’t Master of all things.”
The Master looks away in trepidation, not certain he wants to hear the answer. The Doctor has a way of turning things on their heads, and the Master has seen enough of his world view destroyed in recent days. The Doctor rarely tells him anything he wants to hear.
In the end, though, his curiosity gets the better of him.
“And what will I be Master of?”
The Doctor smiles once more. “Me.”
He doesn’t breathe for a moment. “You?” His tone is neutral in shock.
“Isn’t that enough?”
The shock deepens. Of course it is. What a foolish question. As far as the Master’s concerned, you could add up every galaxy, every star, every wisp of matter in the universe and it wouldn’t come close to equalling this. He stands and faces the Doctor, and willingly initiates their contact for the first time, firmly but gently kissing him, his head held between his hands. All of the time showing him images and notions … how much he wants this, wants to be the Doctor’s Master. But only as he is. No more, no less.
Deciding some of the images he’s sharing are too good to ignore, he turns the Doctor’s back against the desk and pushes him down, never breaking their contact. Something about this, this time, seems more tempting than ever before. Perhaps that which is given freely is better than that which is taken, after all.
The striped pyjamas worn by the Doctor are soon discarded, draped across books which have fallen from the desk. The Master falls on top of him, their bodies pressed together tightly. The Master is still fully clothed, and he can feel the frustration in the Doctor’s mind, yet he doesn’t attempt to remove the expensive garments … until he is told to. Then, slowly, the suit, shirt and tie fall next to the pyjamas on the floor.
Eventually, at the Master’s suggestion, the Doctor rolls onto his front. The desk is large, and made of solid wood, but it’s not really up to the challenge they’re putting it through, and soon it’s creaking and groaning. Not that they notice.
The Doctor can’t really think, but if he could, he’d think that this was the happiest he’d felt for several regenerations. He’s not alone, he’s with the Master, the way they should be. And there’s no threat, no peril, no dangerous game. Just the Master, and him, connected deeply, perhaps more deeply than they’ve ever been. And it feels good to submit to this, to let go completely.
The Master feels simply ecstatic. Powerful and energetic, and … free.
Eventually both are exhausted. The Master collapses on his back next to the Doctor, who rests his head on the other’s chest.
The Doctor asks his question half-teasingly, in a tone that suggests a joke but that conceals the barest hint of concern. “Are you sure this life will be … fulfilling … enough for you?”
The Master, in an uncharacteristically agreeable manner, ruffles the Doctor’s hair and whispers into his ear, “I can’t wait to find out."