Chapter Text
“Come on, come on, come on!”
The Doctor can’t hear her thoughts over the Master’s yelling. Her hand shakes, her thumb inching closer, just one flinch would do it now and yet -
She can’t.
“For just a moment there, I thought… maybe.” He makes an attempt at a grin, but she can see the tears lining his cheeks. He turns away, paces, turns back. “Oh, Doctor. The universe will suffer for your weakness, I’ll make sure of it.”
“Oh, shut it.”
It’s easier, in moments like these, to fall back to their old ways. Posturing and grandiose. It’s what the Time Lords trained them to be. All the same, the Doctor wishes he wouldn’t.
The Master raises his eyebrows, and holds his hand out. What the hell is that for? She frowns, walks forwards, and holds out her own hand cautiously.
“Not - not that one, I meant - you know - the death particle thingy,” the Master huffs.
“Tough,” she says, and takes his hand. She likes being taller than him, even if it is only because of the steps. “I just realised we don’t need it.”
The Master presses his lips together, angry in the way he always is when he can’t predict her. He tries to pull his hand out of her grip, but she holds tight.
“And are you going to enlighten me as to why that is?”
She smirks. “I’m going to annoy you to death instead.”
And for some completely stupid and unknowable reason, that’s the moment time chooses to uproot them, to take them and hurl them headfirst through space, going, going, going…
Gone.
The Doctor’s familiar enough with a late night out that she knows the feel of waking up on damp morning grass quite intimately. This isn’t the cuddly kind, though, not even when she rolls over and tries to snuggle into it. It’s scratchy and harsh.
Just because you need more water doesn’t mean you need to take it out on the rest of us, she tells the yellow-brown blades. Pricks.
“Doctor? Doctor!”
“Wha- ?” she manages to get out before he’s there, flipping her onto her back and grabbing the front of her coat.
“What did you do, Doctor?” the Master demands.
“I don’t know what you’re -”
“Don’t lie to me! Tell me!” He’s shaking, his hands pale-tight on her coat. She hates seeing him like this, and she knows he hates having to show it to even more.
“I didn’t do anything!” she insists, mostly because she didn’t. “Where are we?”
The Master lets out a yell of frustration and drops her back onto the grass. He stalks off, wind whipping his hair. It would be wonderfully majestic if he’d get rid of his sulky expression.
“No, seriously, where…” she mutters to herself, scanning her surroundings. Grass, more grass, even more grass, this is seriously a lot of grass for one area. Then she sees the football goalpost, and it makes more sense. Why is it always Britain?
The Master, who is halfway to the goal, turns around and begins stomping his way back towards her. He’s got his hands in his coat pockets. The Doctor pushes herself up and does her best to get the sticky grass blades (they are seriously out to get her) off her bum. She feels strange. Lopsided somehow.
“If this is your idea of a joke, it’s not funny,” the Master yells, once he’s within yelling distance.
“I told you,” the Doctor says, folding her arms, “I haven’t got a clue what’s going on. This’d better not be one of your things.”
“My things? Does this look like one of my things?” He spreads his arms out to indicate the field. “My things are death and drama! This is just—grass and boredom!”
And if it is the Master, she has to admit, it’s not his usual style at all. He likes to surprise her, and it’s possible this could all be part of some elaborate reveal, but… maybe. Maybe he doesn’t know what’s going on either.
Then something suddenly becomes very apparent to her. It’s the lopsided feeling, all the brains she doesn’t have packed into her head, the faint whine in her ears of panic that in a Time Lord’s body would sound like one of those cool New York police sirens.
But she’s not in a Time Lord’s body. No funky sirens sound. No second heart to keep her balanced. Just a ringing, a humming that builds in a crescendo and threatens to overwhelm her as the truth comes crashing home.
“I’m human,” says the Master.
“Snap,” says the Doctor.
They stare at each other, incredulity and horror and confusion that doesn’t need to be voiced bouncing between them. It’s a moment as tense as a wire.
Then it snaps, and the Doctor bursts out laughing.
“I knew it!” the Master says, pointing at her. “I knew you did this! You thought it would be so funny, didn’t you? A tiny little human heart, a tiny little human life. A fitting punishment.”
The Doctor barely hears him in between her snorts, huffs, and general noises of amusement. It’s too much, and it’s barely funny enough to tip her over the edge, but it’s better than crying.
“Look at me!” he demands. “Tell me it was you!”
“It,” she wheezes, “wasn’t!”
“Then why are you laughing at me?”
She looks up to see the stupidest puppy dog eyes she’s ever seen on anyone. His new face does it well, she’ll admit, floppy fringe in front of his deep brown eyes. It kills her laughter, anyway, and she sighs.
“I’m not laughing at you. It’s just—this is ridiculous. And if I don’t laugh, I’ll…”
“Cry?” he suggests. They’re both still sporting tear tracks from nearly ending Gallifrey for the second time.
“Punch you in the face, I was thinking.”
The Master scoffs. “And diminish my unending beauty? You wouldn’t.”
She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. She learnt a long time ago that the Master’s vanity was more immortal than any Timeless Child nonsense.
“Let’s think,” she says instead. “We’ve been transported somewhere. How? Why?”
The Master gives her a scathing look. “I’m not going to brainstorm with you.”
“Shut up, I’m monologuing. It didn’t feel like any sort of technology I know… Which means it’s new. Which means it could be dangerous. And it leads to Earth. Which means…”
“The Doctor is off on a mission to save the day again, whoopee.”
“Which means,” she snaps, “The Doctor is pissed, human, and needs a nap. God, how do they manage? I’m knackered.”
“Well, you can stay here and sleep. I’m going to rob a money building and get some - what do humans eat?”
“Chips, mostly. And biscuits.”
“No wonder they die so young.”
“Oy,” the Doctor growls.
“Oh, I’m sorry, is it too soon? Don’t worry, Doctor, I’m sure your little friends are alright.” He bares his teeth. A challenge, one that she’s too tired to accept.
“Oh, piss off,” she says. “Anyway, what I was trying to say before you interrupted -”
“So sorry,” the Master interrupts again, smiling sweetly.
“- I hate you so much. What I was saying is that someone put us here on purpose. Someone who knows you and me. Someone who knows the history of the Time Lords, then.”
“It’s a punishment,” says the Master. “It’s exactly Rassilon’s style, that bastard, I knew he wasn’t really dead -”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” the Doctor sighs. “There’s a lot of people pissed off at the Time Lords, and by extension, us. It could be anyone.”
“It’s Rassilon,” the Master insists.
“I’m ninety percent sure you’re wrong, but if that’s what you want to believe, fine by me. Whoever it is, I’m hoping they’ve put us in the right time-stream to find my fam. It looks like Britain, at least, and it looks twenty-first century ish… Not that football fields ever changed much. Did they? Eh, we’ll find out.”
The Master steps closer. “I don’t want to find out. I don’t want to be human long enough to find out.”
“I actually got that, but you don’t have a choice. Come on.”
“So you’re just—accepting it and moving on? Going to find your ‘fam’?” He says the word scathingly, making little quotation marks in the air with his hands.
“Yeah,” says the Doctor. “Problem?”
“Do you even know where we are?”
“Nah. You coming?”
“No!” the Master exclaims. “No, I’m not! We’re human. We could die if we - if we - you know, blink too hard or something. And how will you find them? The universe won’t rearrange itself around you anymore. Not while you’re mortal.”
“I’ve always been mortal,” she says, but a little trail of unease is finding its way through her. She’s always felt so blessed to have regeneration - mostly because she would have died thirteen times by now otherwise - and the danger of not having it hasn’t sunk in properly yet.
The Master’s watching her. Too closely.
“My fam never let it stop them,” she says, drawing herself up, “and neither will I.”
Then the Master hums thoughtfully, in that would-be-condescending tone, and she knows she’s not going to like what comes next.
“You know, I’ve been stranded on earth before,” he says. “Not human, but still. It’s not impossible to work your way up the ranks.”
The Doctor, who has just about run out of her daily supply of Tolerating-The-Master-Juice, asks, “Can you not be plotting something evil for two minutes? That’s all I need, just a breather every now and then.”
He snorts. “Plotting? How come when I do it, it’s plotting, but when you do it, it’s ‘planning’?”
“Because planning isn’t trying to hurt -”
“That isn’t my goal. To hurt everyone else. You should know that by now, Doctor.”
She clenches her fists and takes a deep breath, in and out. When she’s sure she won’t accidentally punch him in the face anymore, she asks the question.
“Then what is it?”
“To make myself better.”
“Better?”
“Alright, alright, to make myself a dictator with power over everything in the universe.”
“That’s not better.” It’s one of the first things she says that causes a visible tremor in this regeneration’s face.
“It will be. You’ll see.” He smiles a smile that’s all for him and leaves nothing for her. She’s so tired.
“I won’t,” she says, because she has to. He ignores it.
“First stop, a money building. Do you have a gun? Whoever zapped us here conveniently emptied my pockets.”
Not that she would ever have a gun, but it prompts her to feel around her own pockets. She feels the edge of her psychic paper, but apart from that, nothing.
“Mine too.” Then her brain catches up to what the Master was saying. “Wait, are you going to rob a -”
“No rest for the wicked,” he grins. “How’s that for human slang? I do like that one.” With a smug little wave, he starts walking away from her, towards a road that runs past the field.
She grits her teeth and follows.
“I’m not letting you go around unsupervised,” she yells when he starts to run.
His only response is to laugh and run faster. Well, two can play at that game.
Football fields are big. They’re both running considerably slower by the time they reach the road, and the Doctor is uncomfortably aware that her coat armpits are sticky with sweat.
“Ugh,” the Master gasps, and falls to the ground, one hand over his face. “I’ll never walk again.”
“Dramatic sod,” she manages.
They gasp for breath together for a while, an unspoken truce forming as they realise the limitations of these flimsy human bodies. Their usual warmup races won’t be happening this time.
The Doctor looks up to see a car. She’s quick to wave it over, both arms circling wide in the air.
“Is he alright?” asks the driver, having pulled over and lowered her window, looking at the Master.
“He’s fine,” the Doctor says. “In fact, we can just leave him -”
“She’s joking,” says the Master, pushing himself to his feet and offering his most charming smile to the driver. “Obviously.”
The driver smiles uncertainly. “Do you want a lift into town?”
“Yes,” says the Master, at the exact same time as the Doctor says, “No.”
They stare at each other.
“Ugh,” says the Doctor, “Fine.”
“She’s just nervous,” the Master says to the driver as they get into the back seat. “It’s my first time meeting her friends today.” He nudges her with an elbow, and it takes everything she has in her not to smash her elbow into his ribs.
She can do better anyway.
“Don’t mind him,” she says, leaning forwards to peer around the front passenger seat. “He’s nervous about telling them.”
“Telling them what?” asks the driver, who doesn’t look like she really wants to know.
“We’re engaged!” she says. She looks over at the Master, who squints at her in confusion.
Engaged in what? he mouths silently.
“Oh, um, congratulations,” says the woman. “I’m just going to put on some music.”
“Hang on,” says the Doctor. “Sorry if it’s rude, but are you Australian?”
The woman gives her an odd look. “Yeah, I am. Why?”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what brought you all the way over here?”
The woman opens her mouth and closes it again, failing to reply.
“Doctor,” the Master stage-whispers.
“Shut up.”
“Doctor!”
She lets herself be pulled back into her seat.
“What is it?” she asks.
“We’re in Australia,” he says, pointing outside. Sure enough, the sun is streaming down from a blue sky, the dirt by the road is orange, and the woman in the front seat…
“Oh! You’re Australian!” the Doctor blurts.
“Yeah,” says the driver, and turns up the radio.
The rest of the ride passes by to a background of unmemorable pop songs.
“Thanks for the lift!” the Doctor yells as their driver speeds away. They’ve been dropped in the middle of the town, in the middle of a little garden strip with a fountain complete with cherubs.
I never can resist a good fountain, she thinks, and sticks her hand into the water, then brings a finger to her mouth to sample.
But it only tastes of concrete and dirt.
“Human tongues are useless,” she mutters, trying to spit out the foul taste. But she freezes in the middle of her efforts. Shit.
“Master?” she calls. “Where are you?”
He’s nowhere to be seen.
“Here, Master. Here, boy.”
He fails to appear. Worth a try.
Then she sees a building across the road that looks very much like a bank. She swears under her breath (no companions, no filter) and sprints towards the sound. A few cars honk at her as she throws herself in their way, but they stop anyway.
“He doesn’t mean it!” she gasps as soon as she gets into the bank. She halts.
The Master is in line, his arms crossed and an eye twitching. He’s not trying to kill anyone, he hasn’t found a weapon to threaten people with, and he’s not even trying to push in front of the little old man waiting before him.
The Doctor joins him in line, taking his forearm with her hand and murmuring into his ear, “What are you playing at?”
He raises his head, pointing his chin out in a display of mock-benevolence.
“I’m waiting for my money.”
She looks at the tellers behind their desks. They’re all dealing with customers, talking in that polite customer service voice, and indeed, some of said customers are being given cash.
“I don’t think they just hand it out,” she says, but she’s not sure. Has earth, perhaps, got with the times since she was last here? Maybe it’ll be easy for them to get money. Some kind of living stipend.
“Watch me,” says the Master, grinning evilly. A teller comes free and waves him over. He goes with a wink at the Doctor, and she follows him, sighing through her nostrils.
“Hello, how may I help you today?” the man behind the till asks. He has an excellent red vest with a little nameplate pinned on it. His name is Ryan.
The Doctor tries not to let that one sting.
“Hello,” says the Master sweetly. “Could you please give me some money?”
“Er, do you want to take some cash out?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“Alright. Do you have your card on you?”
“No, but that won’t be a problem, will it?” The Master leans his elbows on the counter, coming close to the plastic panel separating them from the teller.
The Doctor rolls her eyes.
“No, sir, if you could just give me your full name, date of birth, and your driver’s licence or passport.”
The Master sighs. “Oh, no, I left it all at home. Won’t you take pity on me?”
The teller looks up at them properly for the first time. “What?”
“I just want enough to live,” says the Master, his voice cracking. “My kids, they’re starving, Ryan. Please.” He wipes the single tear making its way down his cheek. It’s an impressive performance.
Ryan, though, picks up the phone and asks, “Security?”
“Well, that was a waste of time,” says the Master, kicking moodily at a paper cup on the ground.
The Doctor feels mostly relieved, but also shaken. The teller hadn’t listened to them at all, and even if they were lying, well, what if they weren’t? What if some poor human went into the bank as a last hope and got escorted out by security like that?
She feels empty and hollow inside.
“Me too,” says the Master, putting a hand over his stomach. “I think… I’m hungry.”
The Doctor can’t help flinching. I am so hungry. Plates of meat and flesh and grease and juice and -
“Same,” she says, pushing the memory away. And it’s true. That empty feeling starts to squirm inside her, her stomach rumbling in earnest. “Ow. Does it always feel like this?”
“I’ve never actually been a human before,” says the Master, “So I wouldn’t know.”
They look around at the various shops surrounding them.
“Chips?” asks the Doctor.
“If we must,” replies the Master in a resigned tone.
They eat three bowls of chips between them, sitting in stools at tall tables in a slightly dingy pub.
The Doctor starts off eating like a normal person, one chip in one hand at a time, but it soon becomes apparent that she’ll get far less than half that way. The Master uses both hands, taking a handful in each, and crams them into his mouth. So she copies him.
After the third bowl, she sucks her fingers clean one by one. The Master’s watching her when she looks up.
“What?” she demands.
He stammers for a moment, then shakes his head. “I, um, uh, nothing.”
“Let’s go, then,” she says.
They get up and make their way out. It’s dark and cold outside. The Doctor shivers in her thin coat, looking around, when the pub door swings open and their waitress appears looking murderous.
“You need to pay!” she exclaims.
“What?” say the Doctor and Master in unison.
“You have to pay for food here?” the Master asks incredulously. The Doctor wonders if she should have known that. Should she? But the humans who gave her food never asked her to pay. And what sort of monsters charged for basic rights like that?
“I’ll call security if you don’t come inside,” the waitress says, pulling out her phone.
“Vintage,” says the Doctor approvingly, pointing at her flip phone.
The waitress looks at her phone, then back at them.
“This thing can get internet,” she says. “Isn’t it incredible?” Then she dials and puts her phone to her ear.
The Doctor looks at the Master, and he looks back at her.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she whispers.
One corner of his mouth tugs up in a grin. “Thought you’d never ask.”
She shouldn’t, she knows she shouldn’t, it’ll be nothing but trouble, but she takes his hand and pulls him down the street as they run. The waitress is shouting after them, but she doesn’t follow and they duck down a side street, then another, and another, until the Master yanks her into a tiny alley underneath a fire escape.
She skids to a halt, breathing hard, suddenly very aware of the Master’s face even in the dim light. He’s still smiling, and she can’t help but smile back. He laughs, and she laughs, and it’s the least evil moment she’s felt in him for a while. But he’s watching her too closely and she suddenly regrets everything she’s been encouraging, because underneath the new face is the same broken soul, the same shards that cut her when she gets too close.
She pulls her hand away and looks down, tucking her hair behind her ear awkwardly.
“We shouldn’t do that again,” she says, turning away and walking back into the street. “It wasn’t fair.”
“Oh, come on. How were we supposed to know it cost money to eat? And besides, it’ll be the bastard who owns the pub and underpays the staff who loses out. Aren’t you supposed to be on the side of the underdogs?”
She shrugs. “Maybe the bastard who owns the pub actually has a very tough life and the pub profits pay for his husband’s treatments and the loss we gave them will mean he dies and his children get depressed and -”
“Aren’t you sick of pretending to be better than me all the time?” the Master interrupts. “You know you’re supposed to take action based on what you think, not justify what you did based on what sounds good.”
“Shut up,” she says, starting to feel hot even in the chill night air. “Aren’t you sick of trying to get a rise out of me?”
“Never.” He tilts his head to the side. “But that’s why you love me.”
She lets out a groan of frustration and puts her hands over her face.
“Can you just not be yourself for a while? And stay out of trouble?”
He puts a hand on his chin, deliberating, and then smiles a wide and annoying smile at her.
“Nope. You’d better keep an eye on me, or else who knows how many chips I’ll steal.”
“I don’t care if you steal chips. Can you just promise me you won’t hurt anyone?”
She looks at him, properly this time, and she sees the answer before he gives it. He’s not going to make it that easy for her.
“Fine. Fine. Come on.”
It goes without saying that the Doctor’s used to travelling in foreign cities. But there’s something different about this time, and it’s not just because the Master’s with her. It’s a combination of mortality, mortal needs, and all the mistakes she’s been making recently. It makes all the buildings feel hostile, and she avoids eye contact with any passers-by.
They wander the streets for a while, or more accurately, the Doctor stalks the streets with the Master wandering behind her. He doesn’t speak, but he does chuckle under his breath sometimes, and it makes her itch with irritation.
She needs to think. The flip phone - well, it seems like the timestream isn’t exactly what she thought. She wonders where they are - 2005? 2006? That’s only fifteen years to wait, maximum. Then she can get her TARDIS back and sort out this mess. And figure out how to get her Time Lord body back.
Her feet start to hurt. Can she do fifteen years of this? Really? And that’s not to mention the eternally annoying arch-nemesis along for the ride, who is currently humming an eighties song that the Doctor loves. It’s obnoxious, and it’s invasive, and yet the tiny sound emanating through the quiet night air isn’t something she wants to stop.
“Doctor?” the Master asks eventually.
“What?” she snaps, turning around.
He holds up his hands in mock-innocence (it’s never actual innocence).
“Are you getting tired?”
“Of course not,” she says, and turns back around.
But now that she thinks of it, her limbs are oddly heavy. They weigh her down with resistance, inertia struggling to stop all her motion.
She’ll die before she admits that to the Master, though.
“Dooooooctoooooor,” he groans, five minutes later. “I’m tired. I think we need to do that thing that humans do. To recharge, or something.”
She sighs heavily, as if it’s all the Master’s fault they have to stop walking, as if the fight within her wasn’t slowly winning out in favour of getting rest.
“Fine. We’ll stop and rest.”
“So how do we rest?”
The Doctor has a vague recollection of bunk beds in the TARDIS, double beds when Amy put her foot down, and triple beds whenever Captain Jack stayed.
“I think we lie down and close our eyes,” she says. “S’called sleep. It can’t be that hard if humans do it all the time.”
The Master looks down at the pavement.
“That’s disgusting, and I’m not doing it,” he says.
“Not here. Usually they have these sort of soft table things, but they’re only in houses.”
“Let’s break in!”
She looks up at the sky, asks anyone watching to give her strength, and then promptly gets distracted by the timeless starry sky.
“Doctor?” asks the Master, nudging her. “Sleep?”
“We can sleep on the grass,” she says, looking back at him. “If that’s not too far beneath Your Highest Holiness.”
He looks at the grass (which is someone’s lawn, but surely they won’t mind), and shrugs.
“I’ll manage.”
The Doctor throws herself onto the grass, huddling in her coat for warmth. It’s not thick enough to block out the night air, though, and it’s too distracting to focus on the stars for long.
“D-D-Doctor?” asks the Master from where he’s lying next to her. “Are you c-cold?”
“N-no,” she replies through chattering teeth.
“G-good. Me n-n-neither.”
They shiver in silence for a while. The Doctor is horribly aware of the warmth he exudes next to her, just from their arms brushing, and her traitorous mortal body is demanding she get closer.
But she doesn’t want to be the first one to suggest it.
“Ugh,” the Master groans after what feels like hours of cold, “Come here, you hypocrite.”
“Asshole,” she mutters, turning to him and pressing herself into his blessed warmth. “I hate you so much.”
He wraps his arms around her, and says, “I hate you more.”
They’re quiet for a while as they warm up, and the Doctor looks back up at the stars. She wonders which constellation she’s really from. Where the portal Tecteun found her on was. If there’s anyone out there who really knows her.
The Master pushes his nose into her neck, and she flinches from the cold.
“Do you have to?”
“I’m not the one who got us stranded in human bodies,” he mumbles. She can feel his words warming her collarbone.
“Neither am I!”
“I know you’re up to something.”
“Stop using reverse psychology. I don’t fall for that anymore.”
He snorts. “Yeah, you do.”
“Shut up.”
He does, for about two seconds.
Then he says, “I’m onto you.”
“What now?”
“You’re only quiet when you’re thinking of a plot.”
“You caught me. I’m plotting to kill you. I’m only keeping you alive for thermal purposes. I’m going to sneak off in the middle of the night, and leave you to freeze, and steal a heater from a shop that has heaters, and then I’ll be warm forever without you.” Her face is cold, so she pushes her cheek against his shoulder. Hatefully.
“Me too,” he mumbles, but his voice is faint, and when she doesn’t reply, his breathing deepens and steadies into a sleep-soft rhythm.
She tries not to let the love-hate ache settle in her heart, but it’s impossible with her oldest and bestest frenemy snuggled up to her.
Her last thought before she falls asleep is one of gratitude for the warmth.
And the company.
However hateful.