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“Doctor? Doctor, are you in here?”
“Hmm?” It was the best that the Doctor could offer Jo in response, focused on the circuitry in front of him as he was. He’d spent the better part of a disappointing morning trying (and failing) to re-access the TARDIS’s psychic network and hadn’t gained more than a migraine for his troubles. Nursing both his head and his bruised ego, he’d changed gears and began taking out his frustrations on the UNIT repairs he’d been tasked with—namely, repairing the Slitheen thermobomb they’d discovered washed up on the Cardiff coast. Not that they’d recognized it for what it was, nor did he intend on enlightening them.
Still, it was tricky work. Tongue sandwiched firmly between his teeth, the Doctor lowered his safety lenses and began the delicate soldiering task before him.
“Are you still working?” I swear you’re always working, I don’t know how you do it. Then again, I don’t know why you do it, or what ‘it’ even is that you’re doing, but I suppose I’m used to that by now. Still, on a beautiful day like today it seems like such a shame. I should see if he’d like to—
“I really am quite busy at the moment,” the Doctor murmured pointedly, hoping she’d take the cue to leave him in peace. His eyes were still fixed on his project, which was fortunate, given that the thermobomb had just begun pulsing an ominous orangey-green color. He drew back the flame hastily and recalibrated the wires with a twist of a wrench, only releasing it (along with his breath) once the glow dimmed.
Distantly, he heard footsteps clacking closer. “Is there anything I can help with?” her voice trailed over his shoulder, completely oblivious to the hint he’d dropped. “Is that a new piece of alien tech?” Or is it technology at all? Honestly, sometimes I think he’s just making all this ‘alien tech that only I can understand’ stuff up so that he has an excuse to stay holed up in this stuffy lab all day and avoid helping out with the paperwork. Oh, I do hate paperwork!
“Open a window if you find the climate in here so intolerable. And I’ll have you know that I am not making up any of this ‘alien tech stuff’, the very idea is preposterous!”
“But how…? How did he hear that? Is this part of that alien whatsit he’s burning a hole into?”
“Well how could I not hear you whilst you insist on interrupting my work and talking my ears clean off!” The Doctors hands trembled with relief as the thing gave a single pulse of a more promising gold before neutralizing, repaired once more. He set the bomb down alongside his tools, stripping off his oil-stained gloves with satisfaction. “Now, was there something you needed from me?” His thoughts were still buried deep into atomic equations he’d utilize to deactivate the device for good, now that he’d managed his repairs. He’d told UNIT he’d fix the thing, not that he’d give them a fully-functioning bioweapon. And with the wires stripped and elevated to the seventh temporal position, a single coat of ionizing powder should render it inert. At least, long enough for him to acquire the necessary—
“What on earth are you talking about?” What’s he on about now? I swear I never have the faintest clue. Benton told me he’d heard him muttering to himself more recently, maybe this is the start of it. Is he sick? Should we call someone? Can time-whatsits like him even get sick?”
The Doctor groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose as he freed himself of his lenses and his headache roared back in full-force, egged on by Jo’s incessant babble—
“Hey! I am not babbling!”
The Doctor froze, finally looking up as his hand fell from his face. On the other side of the laboratory workbench, Jo’s scowl and crossed arms loomed like an accusation. “I didn’t say that out loud,” he said slowly.
“What do you mean you didn’t say that out loud, I just heard you!” she fired back, crossing her arms all the tighter. And with the amount of nonsense he comes up with in any given day, he should be jolly grateful that I bother listening at all when he’s in one of his moods!
“I’m not in a mood!” the Doctor snapped back reflexively before the reality of the situation hit him like a brick. And across from him Jo’s eyes had flared wide, ostensibly realizing the same. “Your lips didn’t move,” he said, voicing the obvious, despite the utter impossibility of it.
“I didn’t say that at all! I mean, I did think it—well, I didn’t really mean it though, just a bit of venting, but…”
The Doctor held out his hand to stop her, trying to keep his own fear at bay. “I know you didn’t. Jo, this is important, have you encountered anything alien recently? Or had any unexpected lapses of consciousness, woke up anywhere that you shouldn’t?” As he spoke, the Doctor racked his own brain for any weaponry that could cause similar states of mental projection, as well as rifling through the short list of species he knew were capable of psychic invasions that might lower a host’s mental barriers. But unless Jo had eaten a Venusian yemptworm that had laid its eggs in her skull—
“Eggs?!”
That had been out loud. Screamed, in fact, and accompanied by Jo’s hands rising instantly to cover her ears as though she’d be able to block them against any further intruders. “You think there are alien eggs in my head?” But then she stopped all at once as they both froze again, and now the Doctor’s eyes were as wide as hers. “Your mouth didn’t move just then either,” she whispered hurriedly, and the Doctor could only shake his head in agreement.
“No, I didn’t,” he said, before summoning all his mental fortitude to clear his own mind, allowing him space to work with purpose. Jo? he thought, enunciating the name in his mind as he kept his eyes fixed on her face.
Doctor? he received in response, and her mouth remained perfectly still. Oh Doctor, I do think we’re in trouble!
The Doctor found himself unable to do more than agree.
***
It had been an honest mistake.
The Doctor reported as much to the Brigadier, primly, as he dabbed his mouth free of the tea and biscuit crumbs. After a series of tests, he’d been able to conclude the following: Fortunately, neither Jo nor himself were infested with yemptworms. Also fortunately, whatever was causing their thoughts to broadcast appeared focused on his laboratory rather than either of them personally. It appeared to affect anyone who wandered into the space equally, discovered by chance not ten minutes ago as a very confused-cum-irate Lethbridge-Steward had wandered into his lab for updates on the Slitheen weapon, and had accidentally regaled them with his concerns surrounding the new grays he’d spotted in his hair before breakfast.
“Doctor, how in heaven’s name did it take you this long to file an incident report?”
“Well, we don’t know precisely how long it has been occurring. I was working alone for the better part of the week before Jo turned up, and one doesn’t exactly take note of one’s own thoughts, now do they? Aloud or otherwise.” The Doctor raised a supercilious eyebrow at the man while his free hand slunk back towards the tea trolley to secure another few biscuits. He deserved them after all. It had been a rather trying few days, and the tea lady had stopped coming to his lab entirely after he’d let loose a few stray thoughts about the lackluster quality of her shortbread. “Then I spent a few days trying to sort out the problem without raising any alarms. Evidently, I’ve been unsuccessful.”
Across the military-issue hardwood desk, the late morning’s sun highlighted Brigadier’s expression of equal parts disapproval and disbelief.
“But is the lab stuck like this now? For good?” From his right, Jo darted glances between the two of them anxiously, even as the Doctor threw her an exasperated look of his own.
Once they had gotten over their initial shock, the Doctor had found very little difference between Jo’s verbal speech and her mental diatribe. For his part, he’d used all of his academy teaching to keep his mind as empty as possible while they attempted to address the problem, whereas in return he’d been bombarded with all manner of information regarding popular culture, the weather, her thoughts on governmental affairs, her dislike of licorice tea, her distaste for his velvet coats, and just about anything else. He now knew far more about her recent beau’s inability to communicate ‘from the heart’ than he’d ever desired.
The Doctor straightened the sleeves of that same vilified velvet now, absently pulling the lace shirt cuffs even around his wrist. “It’s not the laboratory that’s damaged Jo, it’s my TARDIS. I assure you UNIT’s collection of substandard beakers and polycarbonate furniture is as intact as ever.”
“Regardless,” the Brigadier pressed, “this needs to be stopped. How long can we expect this effect to last before that machine of yours is repaired?”
The question embittered the Doctor’s already rotten mood. “Fixed? Dear fellow, you know quite well I’ve done little else than try and fix her for months! That’s how this whole issue started in the first place!”
It was the truth, as far as he’d been able to tell—not that the full explanation could be comprehended by the minds of any human. The problem seemed to have arisen from his failed attempts to hack into her communications network. He’d been attempting to side-step the psychic block separating his mind from the TARDIS’s by tampering with her psychic interface; a fairly clever bit of avant-garde interdimensional maneuvering, if he said so himself. Unfortunately, what was left of his stunted psychic control had proved unable to stabilize their channel and the whole thing had come collapsing down around his ears. Or more accurately, between them. Or so the Doctor had thought, apparently he’d done far more damage than he’d realized and somehow a psychic output net had been cast from the TARDIS's peripheries, turning all nearby internal dialogues into external projections.
A snide comment about reversing the polarity of one too many a neutron’s flow crossed his mind unabetted, but the Doctor batted it away.
“I don’t need your ship fully operable, I just need this issue over and done with. UNIT is willing to extend a significant amount of leeway to your more unusual tools, but invading the minds and thoughts of our operatives is a step too far.”
“She’s not doing it on purpose!” the Doctor retorted hotly. “Trust me, neither she nor I have the faintest interest in hearing inane minutia of the human mind day in and day out!
“Why, I don’t want you or anyone else hearing my thoughts at all!” Jo pitched in, reeling on him with a frown. “Especially not with the mental tone you’ve been taking with me for days now!”
“The feeling is abundantly mutual.”
“Well, there’s no need to get insulting!”
“Having to have this conversation is insult enough—"
“Enough!” the Brigadier interjected firmly. Both paused, mouths open and cross, with retorts poised on the tips of their tongues. “This conversation is unbecoming of a military organization.”
The Doctor grimaced but said nothing, unable to rebuke the chastisement. This whole debacle was frankly an embarrassment, highlighting just how psychically handicapped the Time Lords had rendered him, and putting him in a notably foul mood.
The Brigadier’s stony expression clearly had no regard for his emotional state as it rounded on him once more. “Fix it, Doctor. Post-haste!”
“I will, of course,” he grumbled, rising stiffly from his chair with his pilfered biscuits tucked securely under one arm. “It’s child’s play, really. She’ll be good as new by tomorrow.”
***
She was not ‘good as new’ the next day. Nor the day after that.
A full week later found the TARDIS as unrepaired as she’d been the past seven days, and the Doctor’s mood impossibly worsened. Evidently, his initial assessment of the damage had been a vast underestimation. Immediately after his disciplinary meeting he’d buried himself into the bowels of the TARDIS circuitry to try and fix the error. So far, however, his efforts had achieved him precisely nothing, barring an even worse headache than he’d started with. The Doctor did think that he’d managed to localize the issue in her psychic network, but every time he extended so much as a tendril of concentration towards the matter he was rebuffed painfully and nauseatingly, in a way that left him heaving and prone.
The cold metal of the console room floor against his cheek was quick to remind him that this description was literal, rather than an exaggeration. It was not the most dignified of positions for the Doctor to find himself in, nor did he relish the perpetual reminder of his dampened psychic capacity. Shameful! That he couldn’t even deactivate a simple communications net on his own ship—!
Knock knock
The Doctor’s knees were still wobbly as he pulled himself upright against the white roundels, swallowing the remainder of his vertigo as he stumbled back out of the TARDIS and into the lab. A slim fist was at the doorway, bangles clanging against the metal frame. “Are you in there?” Jo’s voice called out as her head poked around the corner tentatively. “The Brigadier would like a word.” He always wants a word that man, I swear everyone in this building always needs ‘words’. And do we really need so many meetings? That book on business acumen that Gina recommended to me last week said that too many meetings makes for t—
The Doctor winced. “Yes alright!” Alright, for the love of Rassilon I get it! “Don’t come any closer, I’ll come out to you.”
She rolled her eyes and disappeared from the doorframe as he hurried out, only to find the Brigadier at the furthest possible end of the hall, looking at his laboratory entrance as though he were Dante at the gates of Hell. As it was, lately the Doctor’s hope did feel more and more abandoned each time he entered.
The Doctor sighed, crossing the length of the hall to meet him. “Yes, what is it?”
“Any luck?” the man asked, peering out over his shoulder. And if his tone hadn’t sounded doubtful, his expression would have done the job all on its own.
The Doctor sighed a second time, far deeper than before. “Not so far I’m afraid,” he admitted. “I’ve figured out where the issue stems from, but I can’t get at it. The mental restrictions my people have placed on me don’t permit me the sort of control I need.”
“Yes, I thought you might say that.” The Brigadier countered with a sigh of his own before standing up straight. “Is there nothing any of us can be doing to…support these repairs of yours? Whatever they might be?”
The Doctor snorted unkindly before hastily recomposing his expression. “No, absolutely not. As kind as is for you to offer, the idea is entirely absurd.” The Brigadier looked less than amused by his blunt dismissal, so he quickly changed tactics. “The issue is psychic in origin, nothing a human mind could possibly assist with. It’s a distinctly Time Lord problem.”
“And you’re out of ‘distinctly Time Lord’ solutions, I take it?”
The Doctor remained quiet, but his sour expression must have been answer enough.
“Would it be possible to gain assistance from your people to sort the matter?”
The Doctor stifled another snort so quickly he worried he might choke on it. “No, I daresay that wouldn’t be possible,” he snipped, smoothing at his own lapels in irritation. “We aren’t exactly on speaking terms, what with them having banished and grounded me to Earth. Nor would they be happy to hear that I’ve been trying to get the TARDIS up and running against their will.”
The Brigadier fell silent at that before nodding to himself, taking in a deep breath that left the Doctor worried just what he might be fortifying himself to say.
And his worries were well-founded.
“It’s—well, it’s damn unusual for me to ask, not to mention it’s well beyond protocol, but I fear that I must...” The Doctor’s unease must have spoken volumes as the Brigadier steadied himself yet again, schooling his posture into its full militaristic rigidity. “As you well know, we have the Master imprisoned on Fortress Island—”
“No.” The refusal was out of the Doctor’s mouth in an instant, backed by all the resolve he could muster. “No, no, no, absolutely not! How could you even suggest such a thing?!”
“You said it’s a Time Lord problem, he’s a Time Lord,” the Brigadier countered, a tad defensively, and with all the blundering simplicity the Doctor expected from a soldier. “Or does he not have the mental powers or whatnot to fix it either?”
“He most certainly does, but that’s entirely beside the point! I—we, are most certainly not calling on him for help!”
For a second the Brigadier appeared visibly relieved that the Doctor had rejected the idea, but a moment later his expression fell thin once more. “Well, that settles it then. I’m sorry Doctor but there’s nothing else for it, your ship will have to go.”
“I—I beg your pardon?!” the Doctor thundered, mouth flapping open in a whole new sort of outrage. “You’re threatening to take away my ship—?”
“We have very little choice,” the Brigadier pressed, forehead scrunched in irritation. “You’ve identified that it’s the source of the problem, and if you can’t fix it, then it has no place in a government facility. It’s an unconscionable risk Doctor; there are classified secrets in the minds of the soldiers here that I can’t allow to be broadcasted.”
“Absolutely not!” the Doctor found himself repeating for the second time in under a minute, this time with a real anger underpinning his words. He backed up slowly towards the lab, as though any moment now an armed squadron might attempt to rush past him and steal her. “She is my ship and she is staying right here with me! I won’t hear a single word otherwise!”
“You’re incapable of repairing her, you’re unable to contact your people for assistance, and you’re unwilling to utilize the only other member of your species that’s near enough to help. How else do you intend to fix things?”
The Doctor’s retreat had brought him halfway down the hall by the time he stilled again, glaring at the Brigadier head-on. “I’m sorting it out!” he cried out, mouth pressed in a firm line. “She’s my ship, it’s my mistake, and the problem is in my lab. Just because it isn’t as expedient as you’d like doesn’t mean I require human meddling! Or any other meddling, much less the Master’s! He'd rather swallow the entire of her temporal processor than see the look of elation on his face at having caught the Doctor making such an embarrassing gaff, much less one that he alone was able to fix! He was nothing if not an expert at ‘not allowing the Master the satisfaction’ of any sort, and this was to be no different!
A silence fell between them, one that felt far too pointed for comfort. And it was only then that the Doctor noticed that the Brigadier’s expression had fallen all three of concerned, exasperated, and vaguely ill. With sinking hearts, he looked around to confirm that he was still only halfway down the corridor, still far from the entrance to his lab, before throwing a downtrodden glance back towards the Brigadier. “I…I take it you heard all of that?”
“Loud and clear,” the man enunciated through a stiff grimace. “This psychic bubble of yours…?”
“Expanding,” the Doctor admitted reluctantly. Clearly.
They stared at each other a moment longer, the Brigadier’s accusations against the Doctor’s defiant avoidance before he sighed a final time—the deepest and most regretful of its kind to-date. “Let it be known that I firmly, utterly, and irrevocably opposed this idea,” the Doctor muttered finally, as firm of a capitulation as he willing to give.
***
“Doctor? Delightful to see you again, as always. And under such auspicious circumstances—”
“Oh, do be quiet,” the Doctor scowled, steeling himself as he turned towards where the Master had been marched in, two UNIT guards flanking him on either side. “And if you’ve somehow deluded yourself into rebranding your own imprisonment as auspicious, solitary confinement has clearly addled you.”
Usually, the Doctor would have had the satisfaction of seeing some of his vitriol hit home in the Master’s expression, but today the other Time Lord appeared annoyingly unphased. “I rather meant your predicament, not my own,” the Master continued smoothly, impervious to the Doctor’s barbs. “Or were your colleagues incorrect in stating that you needed my help?”
“Hem hem.”
Both Time Lords turned back towards the Brigadier, momentarily forgotten amidst the Master’s grand entrance. “If you don’t mind,” he said, indicating towards the two armchairs beyond his desk.
The Doctor flopped down into one of the chairs with his arms crossed, irritation prickled all the further as the Master sunk into his own with far more poise than handcuffs should have allowed, looking intolerably chipper. “I’d like to thank you for the invitation yet again, Brigadier. How nice to be in familiar surroundings once more.”
“This isn’t a social call,” the Brigadier replied flatly, looking as disquieted by the Master’s cheer as the Doctor felt. “We have a situation here, you have the solution.”
“Still, it’s always nice to be thought of.” The Master's smile was almost kind before he turned it on the Doctor and its corners morphed. “Well then?”
The Doctor broke eye-contact after less than a second, feeling inexplicably defensive. “I think Alistair has made it quite clear. As he said, we have a problem, you have the solution.”
“And, as I’ve mentioned,” the Brigadier added pointedly, “our deal is plain. In return for your cooperation, you will be granted a few small privileges. Yard time, slightly larger quarters—”
“And the means for exercise and grooming, as I’ve requested?”
The Brigadier’s assent was almost lost under the Doctor’s (loud) muttering of “vain.”
He could feel the Master’s gaze burning into his shoulder, but he staunchly refused to turn and meet it. “As always, your pot is remarkably quick to find faults in my kettle. Though it appears grooming hasn’t made the top of your priorities list, as of late.”
The Doctor had never been more aware of the circles under his eyes from a sleepless week, nor the way his jacket was pushed askew by his slumped posture. He fought back the urge to fuss over his buttons. “So, you’ve decided to make yourself useful for a few paltry allowances? Forgive me if I don’t believe you, I would have thought your enjoyment of our misery was worth far more than that.”
“Our misery? I’ve always admired your creative and liberal use of—oh, how does the local phrase go—the 'royal we’? I do think you mean your.”
“Fine, my misery!” the Doctor returned, irritation pushing him to round his glower back onto the Master. “The point still stands. Moreso, even.”
If anything, the Master’s smile had grown. “Must I have a broader motive for helping out an old friend?”
“Yes,” the Doctor deadpanned; flatly, immediately, and without a speck of humor.
The Master laughed, and the Doctor felt his fingers ball into fists. “Yes, I suppose I must,” he admitted eventually, one handcuffed wrist jingling as he wiped the mirth from his eyes. “If you must know, tampering with the council’s mandates is a reward unto itself. As you well know, no one has less respect for their jurisdiction than I—apart from yourself, of course. Then there’s the incalculable pleasure of getting to hear you ask for my help.”
“Yes, well, I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself, now can we please get on with it?” The Doctor let his agitation pull him up from his seat, taking a hopeful step towards the door as though the Master and his flank of guards might follow suit.
It was an optimistic and ultimately premature attempt. The Master didn’t move so much as a muscle, barring a slight head turn to keep the Doctor in his field of vision. “Well?”
“Well what?” the Doctor snapped back.
“I’m waiting.”
“Gentlemen, this is bordering on juvenile—”
“I couldn’t agree more,” the Doctor interrupted the Brigadier’s attempt to reorient their attention, crossing his arms. The Master only smiled further, and the tense expectancy between them grew by the second as the Doctor threw up his hands and scoffed. “Oh, for the love of—come now, you can’t really be expecting me to say it.”
“Can’t I?” Oh, how the Doctor wanted to strangle him with the iron-pressed lines of his absurd Nehru collar. “Best be off then. Do keep in touch, and please look after yourself. I expect the guards will see me back to the van—”
“Please,” the Doctor gritted out in staccato, forcing every vowel and consonant through teeth clenched to the point of shattering. The room fell silent as he rubbed the back of his neck absently, eyes roving over every square inch of the tent that didn’t contain the Master. “Please. Can. You. Help. With. My. Problem.”
On the edge of his vision a chair was being pushed out, and he could hear the angling cock of weaponry as it moved to follow the Master’s approaching footsteps. He stopped inches from him, encroaching on his personal space until he’d effectively robbed the Doctor’s glare of any alternative target. “But of course my dear, you needn’t but ask,” the Master murmured, and the Doctor felt the words more than he heard them, as though they strung around his throat like a noose of velvet, blocking the air from his lungs. But the Doctor was spared the indignity of answering by the clearing of a throat.
“If you’re quite finished,” the Brigadier intoned sharply, looking as though he’d like nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow their tent whole.
The Master turned, his expression amicable, as though he wasn’t looming mere centimeters under the Doctor’s nose in his own trademark brand of threat. “By all means,” he flourished, cuffed wrists moving as one to gesture towards the tent door. “Lead the way.”
***
They walked in silence down the immaculate rows of tents that had become UNIT’s head of operations in the forty-eight hours it had taken to fetch the Master. The Doctor held that it was a ridiculous overreaction to the situation, but having ascertained that the TARDIS’s psychic projection net was expanding, the Brigadier had immediately recalled all personnel out of the building and into the makeshift shantytown occupying the base’s training fields. Even flanked by guards as he was, the Master remained absurdly chipper as though they were taking a summer’s garden stroll, going so far as to give a jaunty wave towards Jo as they made their way through UNIT’s front doors.
More outrageously still—she’d waved back! The Doctor would be having words with her about that as soon as this whole ordeal was finished.
But the afternoon’s mood sobered quickly enough. Their entourage began trailing off the closer they got to the laboratory, and as they rounded the final corner into the hallway that dead-ended at its familiar doors, the Brigadier and the Master’s two remaining guards ground to a halt. The Master appeared bemused by this but chose not to say a word, doubtlessly more pleased the less incumbered he became.
However, when the Doctor himself stopped right on the edge of where he could feel psychic static sparking at the edges of his consciousness, the Master’s expression finally grew wary. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the way to your own laboratory now too?”
“I won’t be going a step further with you,” the Doctor replied immediately, surprising even himself with the force of his words.
The Master’s eyebrow raised. “Oh? Your humans said this was a tiresome problem, not a lethal one. Should I be worried that I’m being walked towards my death?”
It was said with enough genial humor that the Doctor knew only he could see the real trepidation growing behind the Master’s expression. And, in a terrible moment, he realized that’s exactly how this might seem. Did the Master really think they’d orchestrated all of this as some elaborate execution? The thought left a bitter taste on the Doctor’s tongue, and he was struck with the absurd need to provide some sort of reassurance, but they were interrupted before he could say anything further.
“Absolutely not! No Doctor, I insist that you accompany him inside.” The Brigadier had taken a dozen steps towards their position, eyeing the floorboards with something akin to paranoia, but his expression left no room for argument. “Under no circumstances will the Master be allowed to roam your laboratory unsupervised!”
The Doctor’s hearts thudded in his chest. “Brigadier, you can’t possibly expect that he and I go in there together, given the circumstances!”
“How curious,” the Master’s murmur trailed in from close behind him, but the Doctor paid him to heed.
If the Brigadier’s eyebrows lifted any further they’d surely clear his hairline, receding as it was. “Expect it? No, I demand it—both as your employer and as a member of this government’s defense. You’ve been permitted to store weaponry in there well-beyond the scope of any civilian, and I can’t sanction an alien terrorist being allowed access to—that’s far enough! Stop right there or I’ll order my men to fire!”
The Doctor whirled around to find that the Master had retreated ten paces further towards the laboratory during their quarrel, greed and curiosity having eclipsed his fear. “So, you’re afraid of coming in with me...but it can’t be anything unduly harmful, or else your comrades would hardly be urging you in after me.” The Master continued backing up towards the lab as he spoke, albeit slower now, his brows raised in provocation. “Pray tell Doctor, what has managed to shake you so thoroughly?” Or is it plain cowardice to share space with me alone. Tell me. You’ve always been at your most appealing when unmoored, I’d welcome any pointers. The Master abruptly halted and frowned, shaking his head as though he was clearing water from his ears as the Doctor took a wary step back. “Was that—?”
“A psychic projection bubble leeching thoughts directly from your skull?” the Doctor drawled, pleased to see that his words had petrified the Master on the spot. “Why yes, it is.”
The Master didn’t walk so much as leap back from the laboratory as though he’d been electrocuted, accompanied by an uncharacteristically vulgar jumble of non-terrestrial swears that the Doctor knew only he’d be able to decipher. “Pardon?” he managed faintly, and only after he’d returned well beyond the perimeter of safety where the Doctor himself stood.
The Doctor offered him a hand that was as least as patronizing as it was steadying. “There there dear fellow—now, don’t tell me you’re backing out now? You were having such a grand old time at my expense only minutes ago.”
“This is not—!” the Master bit out in outrage before stopping himself short and glowering. “That was not particularly sportsmanlike of you, not to give so much as a whisper of warning!”
“No?” The Doctor pretended to give it a moment of consideration. “You’re right, I’d daresay wasn’t.”
The Master’s eyes narrowed, his lips poised in a retort, but the Brigadier butted in. “Gentlemen, we are wasting time! Doctor, I trust you understand the score. If you’re to keep your ship in your lab this must be stopped, and you need him to stop it.”
“And you need me nearby to stop him, in turn,” the Doctor murmured dryly, even as his stomach twisted into knots. Beside him, the Master’s seasick expression seemed to indicate that the other Time Lord wasn’t fairing much better. The Doctor took a deep breath and turned towards him, figuring that it couldn’t hurt to appear the braver of the two. And possibly, a small voice added, deeper and quieter than the Doctor would ever bother giving credit, very possibly, it was kinder to goad him into it than it would be to ask, given the Master’s indominable need for privacy. It was the least he could do. “Backing out now that the stakes have risen? Typical.” The Doctor let the imperiousness this regeneration wore so naturally infuse his tone, smothering a private smile as he watched indignation grow to overtake the worry in the Master’s eyes.
“Not in the least,” the Master parried smoothly, rising to the challenge in a heartbeat. “I’d wager I have very little to hide, and the discipline to conceal what few privacies I’d prefer. Can you honestly say the same, Doctor?”
“Without a doubt,” the Doctor lied seamlessly, thankful that his current position still left him the privacy of his own thoughts. “I’m not worried about you in the least." I’m far too busy being worried about myself.
“How characteristically foolish of you.”
“How predictably presumptuous of you—”
“Hem hem!”
They startled again, sparing a glance back towards the Brigadier before turning to face the laboratory door and the hall’s end. It remained ajar, looking almost inviting as the afternoon sun poured in through windows that Jo had insisted he leave un-shuttered. It looked precisely nothing like the threat it posed, nor like anything that should cause the Doctor’s hearts to pound through his chest, or his expression to waver.
“Right,” the Doctor breathed, turning towards the Master with whole universes more confidence than he felt. “Walls up old chap, on your lead.”
***
Mary, Mary, quite contrary, the Doctor hummed alongside his thoughts, wordlessly passing the Master the seventh dimensional wrench he’d been tasked with finding and slightly put-out that his role had been reduced to a that of a lab-hand. How does your garden grow? With silver bells—
“Doctor, please.”
He met the Master’s eyes through their laboratory goggles with a look of scathing exasperation and childish spite. If anything, his next thoughts resounded even louder. And cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row!
There was a silence immediately after that, in which both Time Lords seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. The Doctor focused on how the afternoon sun played on the molecules of dust as they floated gossamer-light through the workspace, straight in through the TARDIS door to where he sat perched on the console’s edge. He thought about how many dust particles his old girl must have accumulated over the decades, from at least as many planets. He watched as the particle swayed and settled on the ankle Master’s dark trousers, currently sticking out from under the console itself as though she’d half-consumed him into her wiring. Automatically, on reflex alone, the Doctor’s eyes tracked up from his ankle, past the bend of his knee as it braced against the console edge for stability, down towards the crux of his thigh—
The Doctor froze, eyes wide as he tore them away and concentrated on the roundels. The metal flooring. The spiraling wires. Anything else!
Mary, Mary! he began sternly reiterating, redoubled in its strength. Quite contrary—!
“You know,” the Master interrupted his stream of consciousness with a tap to the TARDIS console’s base, rubbing at his temples as he emerged from underneath her and sat up. “This is the seventeenth time you’ve informed me of the organizational preference of our trusty maids in the garden. Please, do let me know if their fate changes, my anticipation is overwhelming.”
“You know very well that I don’t want to be doing this!” the Doctor exclaimed stiffly, wincing as the statement laced itself with psychic exclamations of frustration and far less charitable things the Master could do with that wrench if listening to him was such a hardship.
Insufferable. It’s a wonder that I even— the Master closed his eyes, ostensibly strengthening his mental walls and stemming his own thoughts as quick as they’d stared. “Do you not have any psychic discipline left at all? Chanting nursery rhymes to center yourself is far beneath even you—or has the council damaged you so thoroughly?”
Yes! the Doctor’s mind betrayed him by sounding wounded as it spat out the admission, even as his lips pressed thin.
The Master’s expression flickered and something surprisingly close to concern crossed his face, and there was the faintest whisper of thoughts brewing from him when they were interrupted by a knock.
“Tea?” Jo’s blonde head popped through the open TARDIS door, spotting them by the console. She was the only member of UNIT to come near the lab, having apparently decided that despite her earlier protests, the novel horror of having her thoughts broadcasted had worn off. “Oh, there you are, still on the floor? How are the repairs coming along?” Only, I do hope the tea is okay, I have no idea how the Master takes it at all. Black? Or is that too stereotyped? I shouldn’t assume that just because he’s evil he doesn’t have sweet tooth. Lord knows that the Doctor does. Actually, I’m not entirely sure he is evil. At least, not all the way evil, or at least not all the time—
“Black is fine Ms Grant,” the Master pressed firmly, derailing her train of thought by reaching up to accept a cup from her tray. Although the Doctor was amused to watch the face he pulled at his first sip, too proud to ask for sugar and call his own bluff. As if the Master hadn’t had a far worse sweet tooth than the Doctor’s own since they were children.
“Why, all you had to do was ask!” Jo cried, plunking down a sugar bowl next to the Master who glared at it, Jo, and the Doctor in turn (though he reached for no less than five heaping teaspoons when he thought neither of them was watching).
The Doctor quieted his thoughts by accepting his own tea with a nod of thanks. Meanwhile, the upper half of the Master’s body re-disappeared into the console mainframe, hard at work once more. The Doctor watched him absently for a moment, some part of him relishing in the faint tinkering of experiments in amongst the sipping of tea and quiet comradery. He absolutely refused to think on how, in a certain light, if one really considered it, this could be considered ni—
This is nice! The Doctor’s head swiveled around to where Jo was cheerfully throwing glances between them both, then back to her own drink and the TARDIS at large. Or, well it’s not nice having one’s thoughts taken from one’s own head, that’s fairly frightening actually. But this isn’t too bad, and they look like they have things sorted, and doesn’t he always seem brighter when the Master’s around to help tinker with a problem? Even though it’s usually him who’s caused the problems in the first place. Maybe he is evil. But he's not being evil right this second—and that’s progress, isn’t it?
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Jo?” the Doctor asked desperately, listening as the sounds of the Master’s repairs grew more brittle with her every projected thought. “It’s nice of you to drop by, but there’s really no need to stay. You can go have your privacy.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about me Doctor!” Jo’s smile was unrepentantly mismatched against his own frustration as she glossed over his implicit pleading. “It’s right well invasive, this whole thought-stealing thing, but I’ve been reading this book on communication skills, and it makes some great arguments for dishonesty being a form of hiding, so I’m working on showing my ‘honest and most authentic portrayal of self’.”
“Does it now?” the Doctor groused, not at all ignorant of the way the Master’s handiwork had faltered with what sounded suspiciously like a snort.
Jo threw him a look, rolling her eyes. “Don’t start, I know it’s not the sort of thing you’d approve of, but her work makes some valid points!”
“I agree with Miss Grant entirely,” the Master’s voice trailed up from under the console, and the Doctor might have believed his sincerity if it wasn’t accompanied by palpable waves of psychic amusement. “As you know, I’ve always praised truth and authenticity above all else.”
“You have as much regard for truth as a spider has for the wayward fly,” the Doctor retorted, mood worsened by the triumphant psychic 'see?' Jo had thrown him following the Master’s accord. “And whole galaxies might’ve prospered if you could’ve managed a touch less authenticity.”
“Some of us don’t feel the need to pretend, Doctor.” The Master half-freed himself from the console yet again to glare at him, one gloved hand still buried deep into her wiring above his head. Some of us don’t need to run.
The quiet comradery the Doctor had been admiring moments before vanished in a flash, leaving something far thicker in its wake. Jo was darting glances between the two of them with confusion (and a far more worrying understanding) though any thoughts she might have had were mumbled together with blurry words and snapshots of memory leaking out from behind the Master’s mental defenses.
“In any case, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave Miss Grant,” the Master continued eventually, pulling his attention back towards her. “I believe I’ve managed to identify the crux of the problem, but it would be best if you weren’t present.”
“Why’s that?”
“The psychic effect will invariably get far worse before it gets better, and my respect for you, limited as it might be, dictates that you shouldn’t end the day in a vegetative state. Surviving it will require disciplines you don’t possess.” The Master’s look turned knowing, even as Jo’s face became pale. “Similarly, I’d urge you to keep any colleagues that you’re fond of out of the building for the next few hours. Though if any do stick around, the chance to see how its effects liquify human cerebral matter might prove novel.”
“Ugh.” Ugh! Jo’s eyes fell on the Doctor worryingly. “What about the Doctor?” Can he stay here if his brain-barrier-whatsits have been taken away? What if this is all a trap? What if he’s rigged the ship, but would he really be able to kill him after all this t—
“I’ll be fine Jo,” the Doctor insisted, cutting her off as much in defense of his own ego as to hamper the end of her sentence. Although on second thought, he wasn’t entirely sure that was true, and he threw a fractional gaze towards the Master in question.
“Human brains can’t handle it. A Time Lord—any Time Lord, stunted psychic prowess or not—will do just fine. In any case, I’ll require his help to pull it off. Although...” the Master paused, meeting the Doctor’s eyes with a gleam of anticipation, “that’s not to say it won’t hurt him quite a bit.”
The Doctor tore his gaze away and nodded curtly to Jo, dismissing her worried looks and waves of psychic concern alike. “I’ll be fine. Please see to it that the building is kept clear, the last thing we need is anyone else getting hurt.”
Jo nodded, tight-lipped and wide-eyed. “Do be careful,” she pleaded, throwing a last glance between them as she exited, heeled boots clacking against the laboratory tiles as she went.
Only once her footsteps had fallen out of his ears’ reach and the Doctor heard the laboratory door swing shut did he turn back towards the Master, pushing down his own trepidation. “What help precisely do you need from me?”
“This is a two-person job, unfortunately.” The Master closed his eyes, brow furrowing as his thoughts swirled around the TARDIS’s own consciousness in a way that the Doctor could feel rubbing against his own like a cat against a post. “Her psychic abilities are as hindered as your own. Effectively, she has been blinded, and is feeling rather hostile for it. I need you present to steer our efforts and soothe her whilst I hold open the connection and make the needed repairs.”
“My hand on the steering wheel, your foot on the throttle?”
“More or less,” The Master opened his eyes again, holding the Doctor’s own with a knowing look and a faint smile. “Hardly the first time. We’ve piloted under far more dire conditions for less.”
The Doctor found himself grinning before his brain caught up with the motion, shutting down the easy intimacy with a stern self-rebuke. “If I must,” he snipped, feeling slightly guilty as his tone zapped the smile from the Master’s face instantly. “Where do you want me?”
The Master blinked slowly, twice, and the Doctor felt him silencing another wave of psychic murmuring in its tracks. “You’ll need to be down here as I am, holding directly onto her interface outlet,” he said eventually, shuffling over without removing his hand from her wiring so that a space was cleared.
The Doctor had never felt more aware of this body’s angles and bony prominences as he lowered himself to the floor, nor the way this regeneration’s pale complexion was quick to betray him in a flush as he laid similarly, flustered and as far from the Master as he could manage.
The Master waited, eyebrow raised in exasperation.
The Doctor sighed, steeling himself as he scooted closer, close enough that was able to extend his arm and reach into the wiring with equal efficacy. “Happy?” he grumbled.
“Ecstatic,” the Master deadpanned, looking anything but.
The Doctor would have given his left heart to not notice how close the Master’s face was to his own, or how this regeneration of his’s impeccably gelled hair had become slightly mussed from the afternoon’s horizontal work, or—were those freckles?
Mary, Mary, he began hurriedly, quite contrary—
“No, none of that. We don’t have time for that now,” the Master interrupting his flow. “As I informed your companion, this will get far worse before it gets better. And it will require the full force of your open mind whether you want to allow it or not, so attempting to block it with rhymes will only draw things out. Not to mention hurt even worse—”
“Fine!” the Doctor exclaimed, waspish in his apprehension and growing more defensive by the second. “Have it your way then, let’s get this over it.” He leaned into his own irritation, using it to ensure that he thought nothing at all of climbing his hand up the Master’s arm like a guidewire until it fell upon his gloved fingers, tracking up towards the aforementioned outlet.
They simultaneously gasped as the immediacy of the Doctor’s contact with the TARDIS caught them both off guard. The console room around them faded, and for a moment the Doctor was awash with elation at the feeling of the TARDIS in his mind again. After so long apart! But the next moment he was struck by terror as he realized that the whole of his mindscape was bathed in shadows. Inert.
He couldn’t see! He couldn’t see anything at all! There was nothing there, he could feel the TARDIS but he couldn’t see her—couldn’t speak to her—couldn’t even see the construct of his own thoughts! It was as though he was dying without the decency of unawareness, sensory deprivation without a speck of control, like being blindfolded and deafened in an alien land! The Doctor wasn’t sure if he was choking, or speaking, or screaming, or—
There was another presence inside of his own. Metaphorically (which translated to literally, within the imaginative depths of his mind) lighting a match and making himself known.
“You…you utter bastard!” the Doctor exclaimed, though he wasn’t sure whether the words were aloud or restricted to his (their) thoughts. “’Hands on the wheel’ you said, not ‘I’m going to trounce directly through your mind like a common country road to get there’!”
“Oh? Did I forget to provide a word of warning?” The Doctor was sure that the Master was speaking through his mind alone now, by the way the words seemed to brush against the inside of his ears rather than his external pinna. “Not very sportsmanlike of me.”
The Doctor wondered whether he could get away with nodding forward and headbutting the Master in the physical world. It would serve him right to leave this debacle with a broken nose, especially if the Doctor himself was to be leaving with the headache he expected. But the Master caught wind of the thought and pinched it between a psychic approximate of his fingertips, extinguishing it like a candlewick.
“This way,” he indicated, and though the Doctor’s senses might’ve been blinded by his council-imposed blocks, he could still feel the TARDIS’s vibrating consciousness just ahead. He allowed himself to be led, following the pinprick flame of the Master’s psyche as it wove through his own with just a tad too much familiarity, drawing tendrils of thought over the Doctor’s walls and memories as they passed; like a child brushing their fingertips over a chain link fence, delighting in its texture. The Doctor was affronted, but his outrage would have been far greater had he not caught snippets of thought and emotion as they sparked off from the Master’s consciousness, unspeakably intimate and impossible to hide while bathed in the Doctor’s own mindscape.
However, the thought didn’t bring him comfort for long. Every step towards the projection pulse seemed to peel back a layer of his control—of theirs both. A little less logic, a little more fear and ego, deepening alongside a pain in his head that throbbed with every inch they gained. By the time the Doctor felt the wounded vibrations of the TARDIS’s consciousness bump against his own in the dark, he felt far from composed.
“Now what?” he all but hurtled the thought at the Master like a threat, petulant and fearful all at once. “You’ve dragged us here, now fix it!” That small voice the Doctor ignored so frequently whispered to him now, reminding him that it was the psychic effect making him lash out, amplifying their vulnerabilities and concerns. But just as before, he paid it no mind.
“Risking myself to fix your problems? Like always then,” the Master snapped back, at least as unmoored as the Doctor felt, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to offer any reassurance. Coward. Weak. Betrayer. Insults flung out from the Master’s consciousness now, unabetted, and the other Time Lord was clearly stretched too far open to stymie them. “Now, grab a hold of her if it’s not too much trouble, unless you intend to keep us marooned in your head for all eternity.”
“As though you wouldn’t enjoy that—as though I’d give you the satisfaction!” the Doctor bit back with even more spite, though he extended a tendril of thought in the direction of the TARDIS’s vibrations, allowing her to reach back. He felt a dim pang of jubilant recognition from her as they held each other, blinded as they were.
Immediately, the Master threw his attention into weaving over the hole that the Doctor could feel pulsing through her network like a wound, but no amount of fastidious psychic handiwork was enough to stop the Master’s responses from trickling out. “Yes,” the thoughts snarled in affirmation, bleeding through the walls the Doctor could feel the Master frantically attempting to raise. “Precisely.” They were pouring out more quickly now, growing more fractured and tenuous as they extended past linear time, corralling the Doctor from all sides. “My-your mind in yours-mine as it should-was-will be!”
The Doctor felt the hole shrinking, the vibrations of the TARDIS diminishing in frequency as her pain lessened, but he himself still felt flayed and open, prohibitively vulnerable as his mind brushed against the Master’s own. And in a moment of weakness, he let his frustration boil over and spitefully punctured a tendril of thought straight into the Master’s conscious, as though he were digging his nails into the other Time Lord’s skin.
The Master immediately rounded on him, expanding his construct until it utterly filled the space and the Doctor could scarcely breathe, felt it as he seeped into every corner and crevice of his mindscape. “Imbecilic!” the Master’s voice lashed out, burrowing deep into the walls around them. “Unbelievably foolish! Or did you forget that it is your head we are in?! I could tear you apart in an instant!”
His consciousness expanded even further as though to prove his point, forcing the Doctor to bite back a cry of pain, but he wasn’t so easily deterred. “Coward!” the Doctor taunted back, mimicking his earlier tone. “Weak. As though you ever would. As though I can’t feel that you won’t—can’t!” He was vaguely aware that his physical body was panting, hearts pounding and breathless, just as he was aware that he’d grown unforgivably aroused. Just as he was aware that the Master was in an identical state. Just as he was aware that this was a truly horrendous idea. But none of that held any bearing as he clenched down in a sudden motion, pushing pain aside and constricting his mindscape around the Master’s inflated presence until he heard his barriers crack, unprepared for such an attack as he’d been.
All at once there were a flood of images, fractured snapshots of thought that the Master had been suppressing all day with unwavering discipline as he’d worked. Of how the Doctor looked, defeated yet defiant in the makeshift tent, as he’d demanded-asked-begged for his help—Of how conscious he’d been of the Doctor’s ankles, tapping relentlessly against the console so close to the Master’s prone position as he’d worked—would have been so easy just to grab-rend-pull—Incessant nursery rhymes, in that voice that brought him no end of suffering-joy-pleasure-pain, the Doctor’s eyes as they’d stared down at him from the floor, intolerable—How could he take it?—He must know, they all must, called up for use like a utility!—Like one of many tools, as though they knew he’d help and why he’d do it—As though it were seeping out from his pores, like the thoughts being pulled from their heads, and it was all due to the Doctor’s misstep—they all knew, all those humans he loved so much, so much more than the Master himself—He’d kill them all, all because they must have realized how much he lo—”
The Doctor relaxed his grip in surprise, just as the Master’s mind shoved forwards, and for a moment the Doctor found himself laid similarly bare, his own thoughts-wants-fears-fantasies of the Master exposed for a hearts-stopping moment. But the Master wasn’t given long to see them before it was too late; now they were both pushing, and crying out, and interwoven as though they were embraced, and the Doctor wasn’t sure they were a them at all, rather than a single unit, and then—
The hole had been repaired. It must’ve been, because it was as though the whole of his mindscape had exhaled, all at once, draining the animosity from them with it in an instant. And for a single moment further, in the space between his heartbeats, the Doctor felt the Master’s mind intertwined with his own in its basest form, without any other distraction. No TARDIS, no projection net—no memories, or wayward fears, or burgeoning resentments either. Just them. Bathed in an intimate sort of quiet, and something far, far deeper.
Then the Master must have sensed it too, because another heartbeat later the Doctor was alone in his thoughts once more.
The Doctor opened his eyes slowly, wincing as he began to register a myriad of physical and psychological discomforts, only to find that he’d pressed his forehead against the Master’s somewhere in the fray. The Master’s eyes were already open, and they shared a split second of wide-eyed regard before the moment broke and both scurried backwards and out of the console’s wiring. The Master sat up ramrod straight, and the Doctor could practically see his mental fortifications reconstructing themselves with near frantic determination. But there was still something unreadable in his expression that he couldn’t quite cover up, a depth of feeling that—
Wait...was it truly unreadable?
“Did we—” the Doctor started hoarsely, stopping with another wince as the room spun and the overhead lights dug daggers behind his eyes. He continued the sentence mentally, seeking to determine the answer for himself. Master? Did we manage it?
The Master didn’t respond, nor did he give any signs of having heard. Having finished rebuilding his psychic defenses, he’d risen to a stand and was brushing down the lines of his suit as though he were reinforcing his physical composure in the same manner he’d done to his mind.
Master? The Doctor tried again, and it occurred to him that maybe he was being ignored on purpose, lulled into a false sense of security so that he might let something important (or embarrassing) slip. His hearts clenched, allowing a name to slip through the privacy of his own thoughts. One the Master wouldn’t be able to overlook.
…Koschei?
No response. The Doctor supposed he was grateful for that, however else his hearts might feel.
He looked up to find that the Master was staring at him, lost in his own thoughts and poised as though waiting for the Doctor to react. But a moment later his posture deflated, and normality returned once more. “By your lack of response, I take it my efforts have been successful,” the Master said, folding his hands behind him with impeccable formality. By his stance, one might have thought they’d just finished a business transaction rather than a (unwise, unintentional, and unbearably intimate) conjoining of minds.
He didn’t extend so much as a hand to assist the Doctor as he grabbed onto the roundels to hoist himself from the floor, adamant at distancing them as he was. "Your efforts? If I recall, it was my mind that got us to our destination.”
“With, as you’ve said, my foot on the throttle,” the Master parroted back, slipping back into their rapport with the relief of an actor being reminded of their cue. “And we wouldn’t have had to get there in the first place, had you not been so careless with your things.”
“Well,” the Doctor remarked, as happy as the Master to fall back on their usual script, “not all of my problems can be caused by you, much as I’m sure it aggrieves you to hear.”
“True, problems are something you’re more than capable of coming by naturally,” the Master replied, smiling faintly. And this time, as the Doctor nearly pitched to the floor as attempted to reach the TARDIS’s exit, he was given a steadying hand.
The Doctor took it, hoping that doing so would be understood for the gratitude that it was.
“—In fact, this whole venture has been so embarrassing for you that I don’t believe I will even try and kill you. Not today, at least. Why waste the effort, when you so clearly excel at making yourself miserable?”
The Doctor hoped that his glare was visible in the laboratory’s evening dim as they stumbled through. Night had fallen at some point, unbeknownst to either of them, wrapped up in their mindscape as they’d been, and despite his posturing, the Doctor could see the Master was equally exhausted as he himself felt. The planes of his face were highlighted by the gray-blue light of nighttime just beyond the window, darkening its contours. “I’ll take comfort then, knowing I’ve beaten you at your own game,” he said dryly.
They’d made it to the laboratory door. The hallway beyond was emptier than the Doctor had ever seen it; clearly all UNIT personnel had taken Jo’s warning at face value and steered clear of the building. He had a fleeting thought that it was almost a shame they’d have to spoil the peace, returning the tired bustle of bureaucracy and military logistics to its halls. The evening’s blue dim lent an austere beauty to its corridors, and on his right side the Master’s arm felt pleasantly cool and sturdy under his own, still supporting him, in a gesture he knew they both knew was no longer required.
It would be so easy for them to linger. Far too easy to turn right at the fork in the hall, perhaps wander towards the kitchen where he knew Benton and the other junior officers had stashed brandy for their off-duty hours. Who would be the wiser? He could offer the Master a nightcap for his troubles, perhaps a spot of fencing, a stirring conversation, a discussion of all that had transpired this evening, or perhaps more—
No, the Doctor thought to himself, angling his body to direct them towards the building’s grand double doors on the left. He supposed it was good that his thoughts were his own once more. It was far safer this way.
Still, the Master stopped him before he could turn the handle under his palm. “Although I won’t kill you today, I certainly make no promises for our next encounter,” he began sternly.
Something about the crease of his brow as he said it struck the Doctor with its petulance, as though the other Time Lord was seconds away from a sulk, and he couldn’t help but smile. “No, I wouldn’t imagine that you would,” he replied, in a tone that crept its way towards fondness. “But I suppose you’ll have to occupy yourself with your exercise equipment, grooming products, and whatever other prison sundries you’ve bargained for until then.”
“For now,” the Master conceded off-handedly, in a way that might have left the Doctor alarmed if he weren’t so busy fighting his own fatigue. He grabbed the door’s handle once more, managing a half-turn before a gloved hand fell onto his own to still it again. “Although, while we’re on the topic of next encounters, perhaps you’ll come and visit me there?” the Master continued, falsely casual, with words that wavered between neutrality and intent. “You’ve always been a sore winner, I have to believe you wouldn’t miss the chance to gloat.”
“It’s imprisonment, not a summer retreat! And it’s nothing less than you deserve.” By the way the Master’s lips curved, the Doctor knew the fact that he hadn't said no hadn’t been overlooked.
He turned away from the Master entirely, glancing back down the night-speckled corridor towards the kitchen that could have been, and the conversations they hadn’t had. He could see it now, ferrying all the way to Fortress Island only to talk to the Master through prison bars, witnessing first-hand just how trapped he’d found himself. How trapped they’d both become. Doubtless they’d both find the whole thing excruciating and far more painful than it was worth.
Regardless, when the Doctor spoke again not seconds later, he surprised them both. “Perhaps I will,” he murmured, and the hand on his own tensed.
He opened the door.