Chapter Text
Unsurprisingly, human-style travel is hell. They have to get up before the sun does, which in the Master’s opinion is completely unjust, and perhaps the worst thing ever to happen to him. Then they have to take a taxi, which involves social interaction, all while the sun is still not up. They’re at the airport when it’s still dark, and only once they’re on the first plane, a tiny thing that won’t even take them out of the country, does the sun peek over the horizon.
The Master gives it a death glare, and subsequently has spots in his eyes for the next few minutes, which means that he can’t even read the safety handbook to make fun of it.
“You haven’t rigged this plane, have you?” the Doctor asks. The Master thinks she intends it as a joke, but her voice is a little shaky, which makes him turn his head.
“I’d have to be pretty dumb to rig it without an escape route,” he says.
“But you are dumb,” the Doctor says. The engines start, and they’re very loud in a plane this small. She closes her eyes. “The dumbest.”
The Master doesn’t quite know what to say to that, but as it turns out, he doesn’t have to say anything. The Doctor’s hand finds his, and her fingers are cold. It’s instinctive to thread them through his own and hold hers tightly, even as she threatens to cut off his circulation. His heart beats fast, and he wills his grip not to become sweaty. Then the plane starts to accelerate down the runway, the air catches beneath its wings, and they’re in the air.
“Doctor?” he tries tentatively, rubbing a thumb over hers.
One eye opens, and then the other, and her face relaxes.
“I’m fine,” she says, unconvincingly.
“I promise I didn’t rig the plane, if that’s really what you’re worried about.”
“It’s not that. I mean, it’s sort of that. I don’t - it doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”
“I am,” he says. “I promise. No more lies.”
Her eyes fix on his, and a small smile draws her mouth up.
“Then tell me. What’s in the briefcase?”
The hand that isn’t occupied with the Doctor’s touches the briefcase by his side automatically. His prototype medical scanner sits safe and snug inside. He’s not sure why he bothered to bring it, really, only he didn’t want to leave it behind.
“It’s a surprise.” He’s not sure why he doesn’t want to tell the Doctor about it, either. He has a feeling she’d be horribly smug.
She rolls her eyes. “Isn’t everything with you?”
“That’s why you love me,” he shoots back, and freezes for a moment in which his brain is too busy screaming to do anything else. Play it off, he tells himself, and forces his expression to unfreeze, resuming an easy, practiced grin.
She huffs and takes her hand out of his, digging around in her bag and producing the puzzle book.
“If you’re going to be annoying, I’m going to ignore you,” she announces, opening it and sniffing pointedly.
“Fine,” he says.
Ten seconds of ignoring the Master later, she turns to him and asks, “Do you have a pencil I can borrow?”
They surprise themselves by making it through the first and second flight without any major incidents. No cockpit bombs, no wings falling off, nothing of any interest whatsoever. Not until the third plane, the very long one that’s actually going to take them to Britain, does something unexpected happen.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your attention. There’s no need to panic, but one of our passengers is experiencing severe abdominal pain, so if there are any doctors on board, could you please make your way to the front of the plane. Any doctors on board, please make your way to the front of the plane. Thank you.”
The announcement is short and grainy, and startles the Doctor out of her doze. The Master, though, appears wide-eyed and alert.
“Did they say doctors…?” the Doctor mumbles, rubbing her eyes. The cabin is lowly lit by blue strips running down both aisles, and most passengers seem to be asleep, aside from the occasional face flickering in the light of tv screens.
But the Master is already on his feet, and then on his knees, fumbling around beneath his seat for something.
“Master?” she asks, sitting up.
“It’s alright,” he says, “I’ll handle it.” He produces the small black briefcase, the one he’s been so mysterious about, and sets off up the aisle.
The Doctor tries to follow, realizes she’s still wearing her seatbelt, swears loudly, apologizes in a whisper to the people around her for swearing loudly, and finally manages to get her seatbelt off to follow the Master.
She finds him crouched down by a young man sitting with his head in his hands.
“Where does it hurt?” the Master asks, and the man, wincing, pats the right side of his navel.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” says the man, but when he looks up at the Doctor, his face has a noticeably sheen of sweat glinting in the faint light. “Are you a doctor?”
“Yes,” she says automatically, and then, “Er.” It occurs to her that the only medical advice she knows how to give is for periods (of which she has experienced two) and the food pyramid, which she still hasn’t really gotten to grips with.
“In fact,” says the Master, “This is the Doctor. My research assistant, you understand. I’ve been working on a special scanning tool, and if it’s alright, I’d like to have a look at what’s going on with you. It’s non-invasive, so the worst thing that can happen is it won’t work.”
“Go ahead,” says the man weakly.
The Doctor is trying to process the sentences the Master is saying, and having a hard time of it. He opens the briefcase, and she reaches out a hand to blindly stop him, because surely this is an evil plan, surely the briefcase contains a gun or a bomb or a poison gas. But it doesn’t.
Inside the briefcase is a crude prototype of a galactic standard medscanner.
The Master picks it up, switches it on, and bleeps a slow circle pointing at the man’s abdomen. The Doctor watches, her hand falling lame to her side. She’s never seen the Master like this, caring and gentle and so very human in his human body. Except, of course, she has, because he’s been like this for months now, but her brain is jumbled and the medscanner is starting to show results so she focusses on that instead.
The Master peers at the little screen, and fiddles with the noise dial on the side of the scanner.
“It’s your appendix,” he says. “Not burst, but inflamed. You should get it checked out when we land, alright? Have you got painkillers?”
The man nods, and gives them a weak smile.
“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “That’s such a relief to hear.”
“You’re welcome,” says the Master, and puts the scanner back in his briefcase, clipping it shut.
The Doctor’s brain jumble is starting to get louder and harder to ignore. The Master meets her gaze, and she’s struck by just how open it is. How vulnerable. His fingers twitch on the briefcase, and she realizes that he’s nervous.
She lets the beginnings of a smile show on her face, can feel the rest of it well on its way, and by the time they’re back in their seats, her face must almost be split in two by her grin.
“So,” says the Master, looking down at his seatbelt to click it into place.
“So,” says the Doctor. “You made a medscanner.”
“I did.” The Master still isn’t looking at her.
“For helping people.”
“Something like that.”
“And you hid it from me, because…?”
“Because I wanted it to be a surprise,” he confesses, looking up at her from beneath shaky, beautiful eyelashes. “I wanted to impress you.”
The Doctor’s brain unjumbles itself all at once. It feels like being back in her Time Lord body; like being able to see all the hidden, lovely points of time stretching out in front of her. She knows what to say; she knows what to do; and it feels so good to be sure of it.
“It worked,” she says, taking his face in her hands. “I’m very, very impressed.”
And she kisses him, just as she should have done centuries ago, just as she should have been doing every day of every year that’s passed by without them ever once taking this first step. His lips are so soft that she just wants to sink into them and drown forever, but he lets out a strangled sort of whimper in the back of his throat, which makes her backpedal for a second.
“Are you -” she begins to ask, but she’s cut off by his mouth on hers again.
It feels a little frantic, a little desperate, but it also feels certain. Like an anchor, but not the kind she’s always hated, not the kind that tethers you in place. It feels like a TARDIS, the certainty of home combined with the certainty of freedom, of a future, of a life.
She adores it.
However, her seatbelt is proving to be an uncomfortable and entirely unwanted restraint. She reaches down with one hand to unclip it and breaks the kiss for a moment to launch herself at the Master, straddling him in his seat and curling her fingers in his hair. She feels dizzy with the rush of it, a heady sort of power running through her as she does exactly what she wants, brings him as close as possible, presses their foreheads together.
His breath is coming fast, and it smells like aeroplane toothpaste. She huffs a breathy laugh and kisses him again. It’s slower this time, and she lets him lead it, gentle and deep and so caring. It makes her knees go so weak that she’s glad she’s not supporting her own weight. Time is starting to go a bit wibbly around the edges, and the clear surety the Doctor had been gifted just a few moments ago fades into a hazy glow of contentment. She doesn’t know exactly what’ll happen, but whatever it is, it’ll be okay. Just as long as they never stop this.
Time wibbles onwards, and eventually they do have to stop, but only because the Doctor thinks her heady feeling might actually be from oxygen deprivation. She pulls back, taking deep breaths, and slides her hand down to his cheek. He leans into it, his eyes still closed, his hair a little mussed, looking thoroughly - well - snogged.
“Hrgh,” he manages, his eyelids fluttering open. “I…”
The Doctor runs her thumb along his cheekbone, and he emits a faint whine before falling silent. She does it again. On the third time he frowns at her.
“You’re not allowed to make fun of me for being touch-starved,” he says, pushing her hand off his cheek only to take it between his.
“Aren’t I?” she teases.
Then the Master puts a hand to her cheek and copies her. She has to lean forwards and rest her forehead against his to cope with the dizzying rush of affection.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Fine. We’re both completely deprived and deeply pathetic. Now please take off my shirt.”
As she says it, something niggles the back of the Doctor’s brain. Some reason why she shouldn’t be shirtless in her current situation.
Oh, right.
“Um,” says the Master, glancing from side to side at the rows of mostly-sleeping people, “If that’s what you’re into, sure.”
“Not actually,” she says quickly, feeling her face go bright red. “I, er, forgot. About, you know. Being in public.”
The Master’s mouth twitches. “I see.”
She pulls the vortex manipulator out of her pocket and stares at it. “If I just put us forwards in time, maybe we could materialize when the plane’s landed and everyone is off.”
“Or maybe,” the Master says, taking the manipulator from her, “Just maybe, we’d materialize in the middle of the fucking sky with no plane to speak of and fall to our deaths.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’s what’d actually happen.” The Doctor’s cheeks feel hot enough to fry an egg. “How long till the end of the flight?”
The Master checks his watch. “Er, three hours.”
“Right.” She stares at him, words falling away from her.
It keeps hitting her, like a very persistent but very welcome boomerang, that she loves him. It’s such a huge revelation that she thinks everything looks just a little different now, a little warmer, a little more vibrant. His eyes, too, are warm. But they’ve always been warm. She just hasn’t seen it.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts out. “For taking so long, I mean. I only just figured it all out now. Silly, really. Plastic daffodil should have been a right giveaway.” It seems like so long ago that she’d held the autonated flower beneath her nose, wondered what secrets it might hold.
A red undertone creeps across the Master’s skin, and he pulls at his collar. “I only figured it out a couple of weeks ago, actually.”
“Really? But you’ve always been so…”
“So what?” He raises his chin in defiance, which is undercut a little by the tips of his ears remaining tinged by pink.
“Single-minded? Obsessed? Eager to impress?”
“I was only being a good enemy.”
The Doctor traces his lower lip with her finger, and smirks at the silence that follows.
“Sure.”
“You’re going to use this to your advantage, aren’t you?” the Master sighs. “And people think you’re so good.”
“But you know better?” Her smirk grows. Is this what flirting is? She likes it. It makes her feel powerful, but not in the evil-dictator, oppressing the oppressed way. A sexy way.
“I’m your best enemy. Of course I know better.”
There’s not much that matters after that, just a lot of getting off the plane and getting into a taxi and trying to find a hotel that isn’t designed for obscenely rich people and eating food that satisfies most parts of the food pyramid (they settle on Thai takeaway). They sit with it beneath a large maple tree rustling in the breeze. It’s a spring night, warm enough not to immediately flee the outdoors, but with a cold bite in the wind that results in the Doctor pressing against the Master’s side.
He smiles, and lets his cheek rest on her hair. And it’s not like they haven’t been touching all this time, cuddling and spooning and taking each other’s hands, but there’s a clearer intention behind it now. The Master thinks he could get used to this.
Intentions are made clearer and clearer as the sun sets, and they walk to their not-too-expensive hotel together. The Master lets his the back of his hand brush hers repeatedly, thrilling in the sensation, now allowed, now meaning something.
“Oh, just take it already,” she says after the tenth time, and slides her fingers in between his. He looks across to see her duck her head awkwardly and stumble over the perfectly smooth pavement.
That’s my Doctor, he thinks, and gets hit with a tidal wave of affection that he’s been repressing ever since they graduated from the Academy. It gives him all the courage he needs to tug on her hand, and when she turns to him, he kisses her. He had had an idea that it might dissolve the awkwardness between them, but it doesn’t, and it’s actually… fine. It’s fine that they bang noses, and clack teeth, and it’s fine that they get disapproving stares from a smart businessman in the hotel elevator, and it’s fine that his head thunks against the hotel room door where the Doctor pins him before kissing down his neck.
Better than fine. Much better than fine. So much better than fine that it’s quite extraordinary.
“Keycard?” he gasps when she’s tugging at his shirt and they’re still in the hallway.
“Keycard,” she mumbles. “Keycard!”
Her mouth leaves his collarbone, and he would regret saying anything about it, but then she’s opening the door and tugging him in by the collar of his shirt, and the Master is never going to regret anything ever again.
He wakes the next morning and is, for a moment, disoriented. The sheets smell all wrong, and they’re too slippery, his feet sliding around with barely a twitch on his behalf. He’s also naked, which should really have been the first thing he noticed.
Then he remembers. He’s just had the best sex of his life. With the Doctor. The Doctor.
He rolls over, wanting to discuss the turn of events with no-one other than aforementioned mortal enemy, only to find an empty bed. Bile rises in his throat as familiarity hits, and he thinks: not again. This time meant more, this time is so much worse, and -
“Morning,” says the Doctor from the foot of the bed. She’s wearing a hotel dressing gown, sitting cross-legged and poking at her vortex manipulator with her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth. “Sleep well?”
He relaxes as quickly as he’d tensed up, and feels a big, dumb grin spread across his face. To hide it, he rolls over to faceplant into his pillow.
“Mmmf,” he mumbles, fully intending to go back to sleep.
Something soft hits the back of his head.
“You can’t lie in all day. Come on, help me with this.”
The Master pushes himself up, grumbling half-heartedly, and shuffles to the Doctor’s makeshift workspace.
“Whassit?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.
“I was thinking,” she says, tapping the medscanner which the Master hadn’t noticed was out, “That if we combined these, we could actually figure out how to reverse the DNA switch.”
“Turn ourselves back into Time Lords,” he breathes, suddenly wide awake. “We could. We’d just have to -”
“- reverse the polarity of the neutron flow,” they say together.
“We’re geniuses.”
“It’s true,” the Doctor agrees with him, and grins. “Well. Shall we get on with it, then? Back to the future?”
“Really? Back to the future?”
“It’s a perfectly accurate statement in this context,” she sniffs.
“That’s no excuse.”
“Oh, shut up. Come on, we should get dressed. Can’t turn up to the future in just a dressing gown.”
“What about a towel? If it’s good enough for interstellar hitchhikers, it’s good enough for us.”
The Doctor flicks his nose. “Get dressed, or I’ll hop forward a day without you.”
“You wouldn’t,” he says, but he gets up and rummages around his bag for clothes all the same.
Ten minutes later they’re standing in the centre of the room, facing each other, both holding the vortex manipulator with one hand.
“It’s time,” the Doctor says, and the Master wonders why she always calls him the dramatic one.
He nods, screwing up his eyes, and feels misery building in his gut at the thought of going their separate ways. Especially after all the kissing and the sex and the things that he desperately wants more of.
“Get it over with, then,” he hisses.
The Doctor sighs. “Hang on. Landing in 2020 is tricky. The last time I tried it, well, let’s just say lizard people are real and they’ll probably never forgive me.”
The Master opens his eyes and peers at the tiny feed of space-time continuum visible on the manipulator screen. It reminds him of spaghetti that’s been trampled into thick carpet.
“What the hell is wrong with it?” he demands. “That’s not just wibbly-wobbly, that’s wibbling right off the track and catapulting into the wrong universe for a day.”
“A lot of fixed-time events,” the Doctor grimaces, fiddling with the knobs. “And psychic perception effects are a bitch. See that? That spot right there?”
It’s less of a spot, and more of a hulking mass taking up roughly half the screen. The Master nods.
“That’s March.”
“That’s one month?”
“Like I said,” the Doctor mutters, biting her tongue in concentration, “A bitch.”
“What’s the other, uh, spot?”
The Doctor winces. “November.”
“And we’re avoiding those how, exactly? Because if we’re not careful, we’re going to jump right into the middle of them.”
“I know, I know. Look, it’s not going to get any less risky. That’s the best I can do.” She indicates the screen, and he peers at it doubtfully.
“Fine. But if we end up getting chased by some wackos in hazmat suits, I’m blaming you.”
The Doctor’s finger hovers over the travel lever, and the Master keeps his eyes open this time, watching her face, bracing for the horrible staticky flow of vortex around them.
But it doesn't come.
The Doctor looks up at him, her eyes wide and worried. She frowns. He frowns.
“We’re basically idiots, aren’t we?” she says, lowering the manipulator.
The Master blinks. “Wait. Do you not want to go to the future either?”
“I thought you wanted to go!”
“But I thought you wanted to go!”
They stare at each other, and the Master realizes that they’re quite possibly the biggest dumbasses ever to grace the planet with their dumbassery.
“Well,” says the Doctor, and throws the vortex manipulator down on the bed. “That’s that.”
The Master feels, again, as if the rug has been pulled out from under him.
“What now, then?”
“I know a surefire way to get to 2020,” she tells him, grinning. “It might take a while, though. Fifteen years, to be exact.”
The Master stares at their joined hands, his heart rising like a balloon in his chest. He doesn’t want to dare to hope. Fifteen years? Fifteen years to spend with the Doctor?
“Are you sure?” he asks, swallowing audibly. “I mean, you won’t get bored of me?”
“Master.” She leans forwards and kisses his forehead. “I love you, idiot.”
He feels his hands begin to shake.
“I love you too,” he manages, and then she’s kissing him again, and it’s more than he deserves, more than he could ever deserve, but there’s no way he won’t take it.
“Koschei,” the Doctor says.
“Theta,” he whispers back, and feels her lips smile under his.
He pulls back then, twists his fingers in her hair, looks into her eyes. Unflinching. Unyielding. She meets his gaze with equal intensity, and it’s bone-achingly familiar, but with a new layer of acceptance and acknowledgement that makes him weak at the knees.
“Doctor,” he says, a question, an answer, a lifetime.
She smiles more broadly.
“Master.”
And maybe they do deserve this. A break from it all. A fifteen-year holiday to spend with each other, human and Earth-bound.
Human, Earth-bound, and happy.