Work Text:
As far as prison cells went, the Master had been in worse. This one was at least dry and quiet, partially illuminated by a single dim light suspended from the ceiling by a length of wire. When a cool draft sent the bulb swaying, the shadows cast by the simple furnishings — a cot, a metal chair, a toilet — slid gently back and forth across clean floor and smooth stone walls. Night had fallen heavy and dark outside, but even with the drop in temperature, the cold seeping into the room wasn’t unbearable.
All things considered, the standard of living was far higher than what the Master would ever dream of allowing his own prisoners. Even the narrow cot was still spacious enough to sleep a single occupant comfortably.
For two prisoners, however, it was a bit cramped.
The Master stared at the ceiling and thought wistfully of his private bedroom back on the TARDIS when a sharp kick nailed him right in the shin.
If there was one thing in this universe he could count on, one regrettable constant, it was that the Doctor never, ever stopped running. And this was apparently true even in his sleep.
Biting back a curse, he wrenched his body around to face the wall. He tried to take some of the thin sheet with him, but all of it save a small corner was tangled around the lanky mess of limbs the Doctor had starfished across the bed. He gave up, instead folding his arms across his chest, drawing his legs up, and scooting as far to the edge of the mattress as he could. As if forcing himself to be smaller had ever afforded him a break from the Doctor’s shameless, ever-expanding hold on the universe, he thought glumly.
The shushing sound of wind weaving through trees floated in through a gap in the wall that served as a small window. The opening was already too tiny for any of the planet’s native species to squeeze through, but in keeping up with the prison theme, it was still barred with heavy iron grates. The Master focused on the gentle noise as he pressed his face into the pillow, hoping to smother the intrusive flashes of memories that kept sparking in his brain. Most of what he could remember of the last few days was no more than a blur, but his thoughts refused to settle.
They’d spent nearly a week on the run, pursued by a group of Androzyan Peace Enforcement Officials that had caught the Master pocketing a rather expensive piece of electronic equipment from a local shop. Ironically, it wasn’t a gadget he even needed to steal (he’d already pilfered at least seven sub-spatial capacitors from the Doctor’s supplies, more than enough for the fleet of explosive drones he’d been meaning to build). But in his defense, the Doctor had been haggling for parts to repair the TARDIS for well over an hour, and the Master had grown incredibly bored. It was actually a relief when the armored officer snatched the Master’s wrist and twisted, forcing him to drop the device onto the floor. The Doctor barely had enough time to hold his hands up, palms out with all the placating gentleness he pretended to embody, when the Master leered up at the other alien and brought his heel down to crush the capacitor underfoot.
The chase forced them out of the capital city and into the jungles, where the Doctor suggested they hide until nightfall when it would be safer to sneak back to the TARDIS. Of course, the Doctor in all of his brilliant stupidity failed to realize how the natives of Androzya were able to manufacture technology as sophisticated as they’d seen in the city: they’d over-mined the planet’s natural resources for millennia, and as their machines dug deeper, they stirred up an alloy dust composed of the rare metals that concentrated near the core. The alloy reacted violently with the nitrogen-rich air, and the atmosphere had been dying ever since.
A century prior, there had been an ongoing debate around environmental regulations in the wake of the the planet’s most economically prosperous year. All this while the population suffocated. Sensing a revolt, the Planetary High Council decided the best way to protect their twenty billion citizens was to allow the mining to continue while massive electron barriers capable of filtering out the toxins were constructed around the major cities. The planet was still decaying, but the Androzyans could at least breathe a collective sigh of relief without succumbing to a coughing fit.
Fortunately, the toxic air was not lethal to Time Lords, as the protective barriers stopped just short of the jungles where the Doctor and the Master had hidden themselves. Unfortunately, it did cause terrifying hallucinations within the first 45 minutes of exposure.
When gas masked officers discovered the pair five days later, filthy and huddled at the base of a massive, moss-covered tree, their voices were raw from screaming, and it took two tranquilizer darts each to subdue them.
The Master caught himself rubbing at the tender spot on his neck where the second dart had landed hours before and winced when he felt a bruise puffing up under his skin. He was exhausted. They both were, really, but he was apparently the only one having trouble falling asleep. He knew they needed to plan an escape soon, but he would be useless at plotting until he slept off the lingering effects of this wretched planet’s poisonous air and the double dose of sedatives.
A bony jut of a limb gouged into the small of his back, and he whipped around again, frustration finally peaking to where he was ready to give the other Time Lord a rough shove onto the floor. But the Doctor, with all the grace of a drunk ostrich, had already flopped over at the exact same moment so his head rested on the Master’s chest and his arm draped over the Master’s waist, hand dangling over the edge of the bed. The cot was low enough that his fingers grazed the floor.
The Master went rigid, only allowing his eyes to slide down so he could watch in silent outrage as the Doctor’s head rose and fell with his stilted breaths.
Soft snores tumbled out of the Doctor’s mouth into the Master’s collar where he’d pressed his face. The breaths landed hot and damp against his skin, making him squirm, but he waited until he felt the rhythm even out before attempting to snake out from under—
Aaand that just made the Doctor hug him closer.
Great, he thought. He tried to turn his head and got a face-full of unruly brown hair. He grumbled and made one last single-hearted attempt at freeing himself from the revolting display before his eyes grew too heavy to stay open.
As he drifted to sleep, he could at least take comfort in the fact that he was an innocent bystander in all this. It was the Doctor who would look utterly ridiculous when they both woke. His mouth curled into a smirk as he imagined the other Time Lord blushing stammering out an embarrassed apology, and then he was out.
When the Master’s eyes blinked open a short time later, he was aware of three things: only seventeen minutes had passed since he’d drifted off, the cot was jostling, and the Doctor’s weight was no longer pressed on top of him.
He shivered at the chill that had settled over the room and turned on his side to face his bedmate. The Doctor was curled in on himself with his back to the Master, fussing through a dream, his arms and legs jerking with agitated little movements that shook the squeaky bed frame.
The Master arched his spine and grinned like a cat, stretching to fill the extra space the Doctor had abandoned. Then he peeked one eye open and watched the other Time Lord twitch and gasp in the throes of a nightmare. Reaching out a hand, he wondered absently what sorts of demons haunted the dear Doctor’s dreams.
If anyone were to ask, it was curiosity rather than concern that guided his fingertips forward to brush the Doctor’s temple. He could feel the temporal muscle contracting under the thin stretch of skin as the Doctor ground his teeth. He lingered just a moment before closing his eyes and pushing his way into the Doctor’s mind.
At first, he saw nothing. He was too distracted by how easily he had been permitted access to the other man’s thoughts. Really, the Doctor of all people should be able to maintain at least some semblance of a psychic barrier, even in his sleep. He scoffed and let an exploratory tendril poke deeper into the Doctor’s subconscious until he felt something. It was distant and faint but definitely there. He probed further, wondering what made the sensation seem so familiar. Then it engulfed him.
Fire.
Fire and burning and blazing and screaming.
Billions of mouths shrieking and sobbing and screaming.
Screaming so loud, the sound reverberated through his bones and punched the air out of his lungs.
With a gasp, he tore his hand away as if he’d been scalded, but even with the connection broken, the wailing cries of the dreamscape still rang in his ears. Slowly, the noise was replaced by a crescendoing one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four drum beat that rattled against his skull. He laid there, breathing hard while he waited for his hearts to stop hammering away against his ribs and the drumming to quiet to a manageable din. He debated rolling back over and ignoring the Doctor completely. After all, the memories of the last days of the War were the Doctor’s burden to bear. The Master had been smart enough to flee. Or cowardly enough, depending on who was asking and how much self-hatred he was feeling.
Then the Doctor whimpered, and the Master dragged his hands down his face, wondering if he’d ever get to sleep. He scooted closer, maintaining just enough of a gap so that their bodies weren’t touching, and pressed his fingertips back against the side of the Doctor’s face. He would never admit to how the corner of his mouth turned up nostalgically as he pushed back into the Doctor’s mind, smothering the nightmare with a gentle rush of images: silver-leafed trees bending in the wind; distant mountains jutting up into a clear, orange sky; two boys running through fields of red grass, their laughter floating up through the air; the bright heat of twin suns warming their faces.
The effect was instantaneous. Making a noise that fit somewhere between a whine and a sigh, the Doctor settled back into stillness, his breathing eventually evening out.
The Master let out the breath he’d been holding.
Finally.
Just as he was about to roll back over so they could at least have the dignity of sleeping back to back, the Doctor’s hand shot up, grabbed the Master’s wrist, and pulled his entire arm snuggly around his chest. Then he had the nerve to wriggle backwards until his back pressed flush against the Master’s chest. A satisfied hum gently transitioned into familiar, hushed snoring, and the room fell quiet again.
The Master gritted his teeth and considered shoving the Doctor onto the floor for the second time, but a bone-deep exhaustion tugged him back into unconsciousness before he could get too worked up over the fact that he was now spooning his arch rival. As his eyelids drooped shut, he worried about how this would look when they eventually woke up. Then he convinced himself that he didn’t care and hugged the Doctor tighter. He was asleep within seconds.
By the time the sunrise peeked over the distant horizon, greenish through the haze of pollution, the narrative of the Doctor’s dream was still a pleasant one: he was a child again, tumbling through red fields back home as his best friend cheered him on. Then his dream-body attempted an overeager somersault which sent his actual body tumbling off the prison bed and onto the floor with a startled shout.
But the Master didn’t stir. His own dreams were locked away in the privacy of his mind, betrayed only by the small smile on his lips and the way his hand twitched to reach out for the Doctor. The Doctor watched him for a few minutes, wondering if he was dreaming about butchering the TARDIS or torturing humans again. The Master had no intention of letting him think otherwise.