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The cold, in many ways, is a blessing.
Though the wind stings the Doctor’s face and the miles upon miles of unbroken ice is positively blinding — for the first time in ages, there is not a thought in her head of smoke and death and destruction. Even as the frost-bitten chill seeps into her fingers and snow and hail relentlessly beat down upon her, she feels like she can finally breathe again without tasting ash on her tongue. She shouldn’t stay out here for long — not even Time Lords (or whatever she is) are indestructible — but the idea is dreadfully tempting. Emboldened by the chill and the clarity, she steps further and further away from the refuge of the TARDIS, roaming out across that white expanse until that blue box is no longer discernible amidst the beating snow and howling winds.
That's when she realizes that she's made a mistake.
She went too far, too fast, without bothering to make sure that she anchored herself to her only way out. A child's mistake. Desperately, she turns, seeking out the path that she must have left behind, but any footprints have been buried by the fresh fall.
It has been a long time since she has been well and truly lost, and in a way, this timing feels appropriate, if grim. She has lost her home, her people, her identity — she might as well lose her sense of direction as well.
For a single, cursed moment, she is tempted to give up, to bury herself beneath the snow and disappear, but it runs too contrary to her nature. She owes it to herself to try to find her way back. She owes it to the TARDIS, too. This probably isn’t the sort of place where her ship would like to spend all eternity.
But no amount of stubborn determination can right this.
It is already too late. The damage is done. She can only hope that chance guides her back. Luck has always been a decent and steadfast companion a things considered, even if she doesn’t think to thank it for its service often enough.
The Doctor walks and walks and walks, but the TARDIS never comes back into view.
The snow falls harder, almost as if it has a vested interest in keeping her here, trapped forever on a frozen planet.
Eventually, she feels as though she can walk no further. Every step requires monumental effort. The wind picks up, trying to push her down to the ground. Her knees shake. She suddenly becomes aware of how painfully unpleasant the cold is. No longer is it a numbing embrace, no longer is it the opposite of the horror that she witnessed on Gallifrey, no longer is it her friend. It is just as much her enemy as anything else, and she could die here.
Alone and forgotten.
Tiny icicles begin to form on her eyelashes, threatening to lure her into a heavy sleep. Her jacket stiffens as it collects more and more cold dampness. She can no longer feel her toes in her boots.
But on she walks, until she collides with an unforgiving wall and can walk no further.
For a moment — joy soars in her chest — but this wall does not belong to her TARDIS.
It isn’t even shelter.
It is the only person who has ever fought against her as ardently as the weather that seeks to kill her now.
“What are you doing, love?”
The Master’s voice should not be a relief — should not be the only hope in an otherwise deserted landscape — but she cannot help herself. She’s too worn, too tired, too cold to care. She practically falls into his arms, and for better or for worse, he catches her.
There is a slightly panicked negotiation of limbs and hands, but it resolves beneath a draped arm and a steady lift and a murmured line that simmers with resentment.
“You’re only allowed to die if I’m the one killing you.”
It occurs to the Doctor that the Master could kill her, if he wanted to. He could abandon her without a second thought — leave her scorned and broken and half-frozen to death — but he does not.
“Come on, then.”
The Doctor doesn’t know how long it takes to make it back to the Master’s TARDIS, doesn’t know how many steps he takes for both of them, doesn’t know how many times his fingers drift far enough down her arm to check her pulse, doesn’t know how many grunts of annoyance find her ears, but finally, they stumble through the doors and into the dim darkness that the Master has always preferred.
“I hate what you did with the place,” she says, unsure even while she is speaking if the words are entirely comprehensible.
The Master’s response provides no clarity. He simply drops her on the floor without a word and disappears.
In his absence, some of the feeling creeps back into her body. Unfortunately, however, most of that feeling comes in the form of screeching, burning pain. The temporary bliss she felt when she first entered that frozen world was not worth the cost. Indeed, she is far worse off than she was before she stepped out of the double doors and into the cold.
She closes her eyes and bites back a sigh.
A pile of fabric promptly falls on her face.
“As soon as you can move again, you should change.”
The Master does not linger. The Doctor hears his footsteps retreat across the floor. She is vaguely aware of the gentle whir of machinery somewhere across the room, but she does not focus on the sound for long.
Indeed, she doesn’t focus on anything. She surrenders to the gentle temptation of the darkness as it reaches out to grab her.
When the Doctor wakes, she is no longer on the floor.
She’s no longer in her clothes either. In fact, that’s the first thing she notices — the unfamiliar scratch of harsh fabrics against her skin. As a general rule, Time Lords do not dress for comfort, but she has grown accustomed to a certain amount of softness in the past couple of centuries, foregoing suits for first hoodies and then jumpers. The Master, however, is not presently of that same mindset. His clothes are awful. She wants to scratch off her skin, but she doesn’t have the strength. Or the will.
She rolls, and she falls.
Thankfully, the ground is not far away.
The Doctor dares to ease her eyes open — remembering the blinding snow and ice that so thoroughly dominated her last alert hours — but the worry is for naught. Like the console room, this room of the Master’s TARDIS is also dark.
She doesn’t understand what he has against light fixtures.
A good set of lights does wonders for making a space seem bigger.
She wonders where the Master is, but she doesn’t have to wonder for long. His annoyed voice practically floats across the room, announcing both his presence and his current mood.
“Oh good, you’re up. I have an appointment to keep, and I would greatly appreciate it if you were able to escort yourself out of my TARDIS and into yours.”
The Doctor expects him to come into her line of sight, but he does not appear. She tries to move, but searing pain echoes through her body. With a groan, she says, “I don’t know where I left her.”
The Master sounds entirely unfazed. “I parked next to it. Just a little hop, skip, and a jump, and you can be on your way and I can be on mine.”
The Doctor screws her eyes shut and forces herself into a seated position. She didn’t regenerate, but she feels as though she might have been better off if she had. This body — though still young — has been through more wear and tear than most. She started her life in it with a several mile fall, after all. And fell on a sonic mine to protect her friends. And almost got trapped in another universe. And has generally been more reckless than usual.
“You’re a time traveller. You don’t need to keep any appointments,” she observes, mostly to cover for the fact that she needs to buy herself some more time before she so much as considers trying to stand.
“Nor do I have any obligation to keep you here longer than I want to. I rescued you, so you can get out of my hair now. Ta-ta." Some of the earlier resentment falls away, replaced by wariness and primed defenses.
The Doctor should leave. She knows she should. The longer she stays, the more she risks a fight with him, and she knows that in her current state, she won't win. She just doesn't think that she can stand, nonetheless walk. So she deflects by asking him a difficult and personal question -- the very question that had driven her into the ice and snow in the first place. "Does the burning ever leave you?"
She still can't see him. He's veiled behind the bed, but she doesn't have to. She can imagine the way his hand is working at the air beside his head, practically see the intensity on his face as he admits, "No."
There is a pause as he finally moves across the room. Purple socks dominate the Doctor's eyeline as he reaches out an open hand. "Let's go."
The Doctor breathes. "I can't."
"You can." His insistence is so intense that the words almost fall into a throaty growl. "I don't want you here. Leave."
With great effort and a surge of pain, the Doctor cranes her neck upward until she can see his face. His expression is more pained than she thinks she's ever seen it. Worse than it was when he knelt at her feet in the ruins of the Panopticon and dared her to kill them both.
Perhaps it is foolish. Perhaps it is reckless. Perhaps this is just as dangerous as stepping out into the cold wilds untethered, but the Doctor dares to ask a single question. "Why?"
His fingers curl slightly, drawing away from her instinctively before he forces them back open. A muscle in his jaw tightens. The walls behind his eyes give ever so slightly before he forces them back up again.
"Because I don't trust myself, and you should not either. Please leave before I change my mind."
Silence settles over them, heavy as a shroud. Neither of them dares to move or speak for a long time. The history between them, though lengthy, has always been fragile, sabotaged by the cruel people who raised them and the many, many moments in which they made conflicting choices.
After a long moment, the Doctor takes the proffered hand, closes her eyes, and allows the Master to pull her back to her feet.
She almost stumbles, but his grip holds her fast.
The steps out of the room, down the corridor, and through the console room are slow and tortuous. The Doctor may not be dying, but that doesn't mean that she's fine.
The doors open and a wall of cold air greets them.
For a moment, she worries that he's lied, that he's going to toss her out in the cold again, but sure enough, the familiar blue doors rise before her.
She breathes a sigh of relief as she takes a single step into the snow.
The Master releases his hold on her, stopping at the threshold of his own TARDIS.
The Doctor turns, suddenly alarmed at finding herself without support, but she stays standing. The wind rips between the two TARDISes, carving a corridor between them as the frost seeks to make its way through her clothes and back to her already ravaged body.
His clothes, she remembers with a jolt.
"Do you want this back?" she asks, glancing down long enough to indicate the ill-fitting suit.
The corner of the Master's mouth quirks, as if tempted to break into a grin. "Keep it. I have others."
The Doctor nods. She shoves her hands deep into those scratchy pockets as she puts her head down and takes another unsteady step forward. It is only once she's made it all the way back to her TARDIS that she faces him again, leaning against the blue doors for support.
"Thank you."
There is warmth in her voice, but it does not burn.
The Master takes his time in crafting his answer. "Don't do it again," is all he can manage before he pulls the doors closed.
With a snap of her own fingers, The Doctor falls back into the safety of her own TARDIS.
They'll meet again.
She knows they will.
They always do.
And hopefully she'll need a little less help next time.