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Before Martha had even closed the TARDIS door behind her, the Doctor already knew he was going to do something stupid. Spectacularly stupid. Stupid beyond all reasonable parameters of stupidity, even Time Lord stupidity, which tended to be so much more epic in the sweep of its preposterous thickheadedness than the human variety.
He just wasn't sure what it was going to be yet.
But once he found himself, without any conscious planning on his part, poring over goat haunches in a fourteenth-century Turkish market, his course of action was obvious, really. He bought the largest haunch he could find, slung it over his shoulder, and set off for the Cheetah planet. This was by far the worst idea he'd had in several regenerations. Martha would have had some choice words for him on the topic, if she were around. But she wasn't, and she wouldn't, and it seemed like a good time for bad ideas.
At least, it had at the moment. The Doctor squatted on his heels and gazed into the heart of the fire. It was his third night on the Cheetah world, the goat he'd hung from a nearby tree as bait was ripe enough to smell even over the cedary tang of the woodsmoke from the little fire he'd built, and the Doctor was moving beyond mere boredom and into a state his old friend Siddhartha Gautama might have called suññatānupassanā.
Well past midnight, with the fire reduced to a rubble of coals, the Doctor decided it was time to give up. He tilted his head this way and that, cracking his neck audibly, and looked up at the sky. No moon. Just a million stars, a million bright pinholes in the black bowl of the night. No sound, other than the low chatter of innumerable tiny chirruping things in the grass.
The Doctor stood, not bothering to brush the dust from his trousers, and tipped his head back to gaze all the way to the bottom of the vast desert night. “Hooooooooooo,” he called out, on a sudden whim, and heard the echo come back to him from the surrounding hills: who, who, who.
“Damn,” he said, feeling every one of his rather more than 907 years, and not a little foolish. “I must be going senile.” With one scuffed trainer, he kicked a little dust over the dying coals, then turned and started back to the TARDIS. It would be a good hour's walk – though walking was nicer without the goat, the Doctor thought. He couldn't decide which was more galling: having failed, or having bothered to set out on such a patently useless quest in the first place. Though the whole thing was quite funny, really, if you looked at it the right way.
At last, he reached the rocky outcrop where the TARDIS was parked. Nice to be home again, regardless. Perhaps a cup of tea. Yes, that would be just the thing.
Presently, from somewhere near the roof of the TARDIS, the Doctor heard a peculiar sound. It was the sort of sound designed expressly to make a person freeze in their tracks, an eerie noise halfway between a cough and a moan, and the Doctor obligingly froze. Just long enough for the sound's author to drop onto his shoulders from above.
“Oof,” he said, landing face-first in the dust in front of the TARDIS. Something large and heavy was crouched over him, its knees pressing down on his thighs, its forepaws planted firmly between his shoulder blades.
The Doctor tried to twist his head around further, but he couldn't get a clear view of what had him pinioned. “Master?” he wheezed, feeling more ridiculous than hopeful. Surely he was about to be eaten right on his own doorstep, perhaps even mid-regeneration, and thus spared any further humiliation by a universe that lately seemed bent on cutting him down to size.
The great cat roared again, this time inches from his face. It bent its muzzle close to the Doctor, chuffing, its breath hot on his cheek. The Doctor squeezed his eyes shut and steeled himself, waiting for the animal to break his neck.
Sharp claws sank into his shoulders, piercing flesh through fabric, and the Doctor let out a strangled yelp. But it didn't seem intent on dismembering him, at least not yet. The cheetah shifted its weight from side to side on the Doctor's shoulders, claws rhythmically gripping and releasing.
It was kneading him. The Doctor groaned. Definitely the Master, then. He struggled to get a purchase against the rocky ground, to no avail.
“Look, I came here to find you. Glad to see you too. Really. Can you just – ow – get off me for a minute, we can have a nice chat – cup of tea for me, shinbone for you – maybe see about doing something about your – aaaaaaah.”
The Master's formidable teeth bit down on the scruff of the Doctor's neck and gave it a little shake, putting an abrupt end to the Doctor's prattling. Satisfied, the Master lowered himself onto his elbows, settling comfortably against the Doctor's back, and began to purr, a low thrum that vibrated throughout the length of the Master's body.
The Master's claws kept kneading, but less piercingly now that his full weight wasn't behind them. The Doctor shut his eyes and breathed slowly into the pain, trying to think clearly. The deep thrum of the Master's purring, resonating along his spine and through his hipbones, was terribly distracting, and even the Master's claws were beginning to feel rather nice.
The Doctor let out a tiny, involuntary sigh, and the Master took hold of the back of his neck again, nipping and nosing at him. The Doctor stopped struggling, letting his muscles unclench, and relaxed bit by bit under the Master's none-too-gentle ministrations. A rough tongue dragged along the back of his neck, smoothing his hair flat and rasping a tender spot behind his right ear.
“Master,” he said, more quietly now. “Please. Let me up.”
The Master churred wordlessly into his ear, flexing the claws on one hand, digging into the Doctor's shoulder blade. But he let go, and eased his weight off the Doctor's back, letting him move a little.
The Doctor rolled gingerly onto his back and looked up at the Master, now crouched over him with an arm on each side of his head, his feline bulk a looming black cutout in a riot of stars.
“Can you speak?” The Doctor reached a tentative hand up to the Master's furry chest, still thrumming, more softly now. “Can I...” He reached with both hands for the Master's face, so catlike now that he hardly recognized the shape of it, and listened intently.
For a moment, the Doctor's vision swam, and he saw his own face through the Master's eyes superimposed on the dark shape above him, distorted and strange. The Master was more cat than Time Lord now, and the simple, physical force of his yearning made the Doctor gasp, flooding his body with a hot pulse of desire. He tightened his long fingers around the Master's ears, pulling him down on top of his body, held him hard and close.
But there was intelligence there, more than he'd bargained for. The Master waited for his moment, waited for the Doctor to underestimate him, then moved quick and fluid into the Doctor's mind, rifling for information.
The Master tensed. He coughed sharply, the hair on his body standing up in alarm, and leapt back from the Doctor, growling.
“Oh, don't. Don't be like that, I'm...I'm sorry,” said the Doctor. He got to his feet, opened the TARDIS door and beckoned to the Master. “Come with me. Please come. I'll explain. We can sort everything out, just please come.”
The Master hung back, wary, golden eyes gleaming in the light from the time rotor.
“I can help you,” said the Doctor, hoping it was true. He squatted on his heels in the doorway, extending a hand toward the Master. “Aw, c'mon, Master. Pssst, pssst.”
The Master uttered a low, musical growl, but didn't move from where he was crouched.
The Doctor's eye fell on a straggly bush just outside the TARDIS door. He broke off a long crooked branch and retreated farther into the TARDIS, scratching the tip of it along the grating.
It was irresistible, and it made the Master's skin twitch all over. His pupils dilated into wide black pools, and he leapt across the doorsill with a single bound. The Doctor slammed the door shut behind him.
The Doctor turned to the Master, who was now sprawled on the grating, alarm forgotten, happily chewing one end of the stick. “Where to now?” the Doctor asked brightly.
The Master responded by rolling over, baring his teeth and rubbing his cheek against the Doctor's shoe.
“You are going to be the worst copilot. And I've had some rubbish ones,” said the Doctor, reaching down idly to scratch behind the Master's ear.