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In the low lights of the console room, the Master watches Clara, tapping a four-beat pattern on the control board. The TARDIS is cast in violet this time, attuned to the latest passenger. Never one to miss a chance for mood lighting. The long-suffering English teacher in Clara can’t help but feel the symbolism a bit too indulgent.
It’s been two days since Clara met him on that cliffside—overlooking what some call the gulf of eternity, the endless void, and her personal, ironic favorite, the oncoming storm. No better place to run into past enemies and rekindle over damaged hearts. She didn’t anticipate offering for him to join her, but when he took her hand, followed her down the mountain and all the way back to her ship, she figured it only made sense. That one of her greatest antagonists would instead find their way back into her life not in adversary, or jeer, or whatever Missy’s intentions had been—but as a friend.
Which leads them here. Fully settled onto her ship, personal room and everything, the mark of foreseeable permanence—from a sentient time machine, that’s practically an assurance. That this isn’t necessarily the worst idea she’s ever spontaneously enacted, and that it does lead somewhere hopefully worthwhile. When she directed him to his room and a shower, he nodded to her in some sort of appreciation, then closed the door and proceeded to sleep for approximately twenty-six hours.
And he looks… better? That’s the longest she’s ever seen a Time Lord sleep. Wrestling the Doctor into bed for more than an hour was a challenge. Either they share different philosophies on rest or the Master really was that devastatingly tired. Regardless, the circles under his eyes are less pronounced—or she thinks, it’s hard to see in the lighting—and he’s got a fresh set of clothes, dark and fitting for his aesthetic as well as the coat he arrived in.
“So, before we go anywhere,” Clara begins, “we should set some boundaries.”
The Master tilts his head. “Such as?”
She’s thought about this. Carefully, with as much consideration as possible because she really does want this to work. They’re different creatures, with sometimes opposing sets of ethics, she’s aware of that, but she also has much more experience than before in what to compromise on and what not to compromise on and how those differences can resolve.
Clara takes a breath. “No pointless killing or violence.”
“Pointless,” he muses, “how are you defining that?”
“It has to be justified. No civilians or innocents.”
There’s a long, bloody history of bodies and burning with the Master. Death and murder comes easy. She’s not insane enough to believe that he’d curb off completely just because she asked. But her request is flexible, allowing for the grey areas that both of them know exist—and if he needs help defining that further, she’ll gladly expand. She’s lived long enough to know that rigid moralism is unrealistic, but closer to his end of the spectrum, random carnage and killing is unacceptable. If she can border him off of evil and into more, oh, chaotic good or neutral at least, then it should be fine. Probably.
“Fair, I suppose. What else?” As he asks, his eyes gleam with a certainty that he’s going to test those waters. Not that she expected any differently, but they can come back to that later.
“We don’t leave each other behind. If we travel together, we’re together.”
He pauses, unexcited by that level of commitment. Traveling alone, there’s no worrying about abandonment or the needs of another person. It’s likely he’s never had to do that in seriousness, aside from outside obligation or maybe certain situations with the Doctor. This is different—asking for loyalty, for trust that is rarely so freely given. But the arrangement won’t work without it, and he knows that.
“I’ll try,” is what he settles on. It’s the best she can expect and, given her own experiences, probably all he can expect in return for now. Words are easy, promises are often baseless, but an assurance to attempt is worth something.
She nods and moves on. “Okay. If we do this, you respect my autonomy and space, and I’ll do the same for you. And when there’s conflict, we discuss it. As adults, without violence or violation.
The language of violence and violation is one they’re both proficient in. She doesn’t care to deny that for herself, it’s easy and so quick to fall into and often causes more problems than it solves which is why she needs to set that up early. Nobody should lose any eyes in an argument, or die over a disagreement and yet she’s seen it happen too many times between couples and close friends.
Somewhat mockingly, the Master pouts. “Where’s the fun in conflict resolution without a bit of blood?”
She gives him a look. “Respect. Consent. Understood?”
“Mm.”
“Alright, good. And finally, most important: we are equals, so regardless of any complexes, we treat each other as such. Don’t come at me with any Time Lord superiority or egomania. We’re both immortal. I’m not a pet, and neither are you. Are we clear?”
The Master narrows his eyes. A name like that, it’s already an uphill battle—millennia of alleged superiority doesn’t just disappear. But she heard what he said earlier, on the cliff; the desperation about his identity, the vague, meaningless drifting, and the broken sense of loss tormenting his existence. He confided in her, and that has to mean something. The hope is that he’s willing to swallow the remaining egotism and give in to connection.
“Partners, you said?” he finally replies, calling back to her offer.
“Yes. Does that sound good?”
He shrugs. “It works.”
In part, she didn’t expect him to agree to all of it—a testament to his interest, or his lack of direction, because he isn’t lying or attempting to trick her. It’s odd how honest this version is with her, and in a way, concerning. Missy never had any qualms about deceit. This Master feels too broken, too aimless to care about pretending. Whatever actually happened on Gallifrey twisted and shattered his drive for advancement. Another lost soul snagged and shredded in the storm.
“Partners, then,” Clara says, keeping the rest of her thoughts silent. “Where would you like to go?”
Breaking eye contact, he slides his hands along the console. “Are these bio-locked?”
“No. Favorite planets?”
“Anywhere but Earth. No crowds. Or people, actually.”
“Something scenic?”
“Sure. Let’s go somewhere nice and pretty, Clara.”
He says it with such derision that she pauses. Did she misread this? He doesn’t look upset, face carefully neutral and devoid of the mockery just expressed. Something bothers him, spinning back into antagonism. It’s a stone away from the exhaustion and apathy, but bitterness doesn’t boil without something festering underneath. For a moment, she re-examines the progression of the conversation and realizes what she missed.
“Would you like to set a boundary?”
He blinks at her in surprise. Has he ever been asked that? Probably not often if at all. She doubts there’ve been many successful, constructive relationships based on consent in his life. Once the pilot of her own ship, Clara learned quickly that the laissez-faire approach to companionship doesn’t end well for anybody. Cycles of overstepping, intrusion, outrage and eventual ruin tire after the first few tries. Traveling with Me and picking up new friends only to burn out after a few months—she wondered how the Doctor did it, and then realized that oh, he really didn’t. Not for long. Not for everyone. She’s determined not to make that mistake here.
“Yes,” the Master says slowly, “don’t take me anywhere you’ve been with the Doctor.”
Clara crosses her arms. “Don’t wanna be reminded?”
Carefully, he leans forward on the console. “Are you aware of how the Doctor operates, with their companions? Taking them to the same places, same wonders as the last bunch, awing the new humans all over again with the same gimmicks. Because it’s easy, and it inflates their ego when the pets are impressed. I’m not your companion. So don’t.”
Personally, that seems like a very narrow view of the Doctor’s relationships, but then again she hadn’t been a standard companion. She can believe it for others, but doubts he relied on that trick with her—she craved authentic experiences too much for him to rinse and repeat the same haunts. But she’s not going to negate the Master, not when an obviously deeper hurt simmers within the resentment.
“I won’t,” she promises, “not unless you ask. Anything else you wanna say?”
He gives a slight shake of his head, then begins to step around the console, moving closer. His fingers trail along the edge, all the way until he stops before her. Not too close into her space, but enough that she feels the height difference. It’s not terrible, but more obvious than she and Missy had been. Less than her and the Doctor.
“Is she tall?” Clara asks, looking up into his eyes. They’re a dark, absorbing brown this time—a lot closer to hers, she realizes. Missy’s eyes were striking, bright and blue. Cunning, cold, and dangerous. No less dangerous here—or alluring—but hers were never so haunted.
For the first time since he woke, he smiles—a small smirk, but there nonetheless. “Not this time.”
“By how much?”
“An entire inch.”
“Oh I bet you used that well,” Clara replies, taking note of his reaction. Hesitant to invoke any grievances, she wonders where the border lies—to cross from shallow territory into distress or anger. So far it’s been quiet, subtle instead of outbursting, but she knows better than to touch where it hurts. Does he want to talk about her? She continues. “Is she still Scottish?”
“No, not anymore."
“That’s a shame,” she says, “I quite liked the accent. Yours too,”
A darker sadness crosses his eyes. “I did too,” he says, quieter than before. Then he tilts his head, looking at her from an angle. His eyes lose some of the sorrow, becoming more… pensive.
“Aren’t you worried?” he asks.
“About?”
“How terribly wrong this could go.”
She tilts her head to make it even with his. “I don’t see it like that.”
“No?”
“Nope,” and then for experimental effect, she reaches out and touches his arm, trailing down the jacket and smoothing it until she finds his wrist. He doesn’t flinch or move away, standing very still as she closes her fingers around his sleeve. “In every opportunity there is risk. Some more than others, sure, but... I think we could make a good team. Not everything ends in tragedy.”
“Doesn’t it?” he says, holding her gaze. “Given time. Surely you know that by now, considering your own history...”
Memories of a street and a raven return, and all the suffering that followed. Of a hushed moment in the cloisters, and a painful, tragic separation—in this very room. The TARDIS that spins her throughout the universe is the same one she stole on Gallifrey. Over the centuries she compartmentalized that fact, that the person closest to her forgot and left her behind. That hurt, branded and scarred over never truly faded. Never will. So. Maybe it does all end in tragedy.
But she’s never one to give up so easily, and hope tangled itself like a weed in the pavement and refused to die, resilient under rain and footsteps and the driest, deadest drought. Sometimes in the darkest night is when flowers bloom, unexpected and a testament that shriveled leaves aren’t always the end. Even when she went back to Gallifrey, returned to face a fixed point, roots clung deep and she breathed again—restored to life.
“Even if you’re right,” Clara begins, “don’t you want to try? See what’s out there? Beyond destruction and pain. There’s beauty in the universe, for you too. If you don’t believe me yet—just give it a chance. Let me prove it.”
His gaze is dark and contemplative, searching her own. “You can’t fix me.”
“Not trying to,” she replies, “but some company would be nice.”
Another moment passes. “Alright, Clara,” he finally says, “reveal to me the universe.”
Beneath the irony, she detects a level of sincerity that surpasses the subdued interest and moments of bitterness. An actual spark of potential, confirmation that this could work, given time and commitment, and she didn’t realize how much she wanted that to be true until he said it.
She smiles, and releases her hold on his wrist. “Shall I surprise you?”
He returns the smile wryly. “Not much has that effect on me,”
“We’ll see,” she says, turning to face the console. So many possibilities, where to start? Her hands hover over the controls, considering, and then she quickly configures them. The Master peers over her shoulder, intrigued, but she shields the coordinates. “No looking!”
That has the exact effect she wanted, because instead of deterring him he tries again, proving that he really is interested. This time she lets him, satisfied when he frowns and says, “Don’t know that one, actually.”
And with a smirk, she pulls the lever.