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Even has decided they don't like deserts.
It isn’t a hard decision. No matter how well they believe they've covered every inch of skin before trudging through the sand after the Master, Gallifrey's twin suns still find the gaps in-between and cook them to a deep, stinging red. The goggles meant to protect their eyes are too tight, digging into their sunburnt cheeks, but they're still a better option than having to wipe the grit out to see every five minutes. They're soaked in sweat under their clothes, sore from head to toe, and the only thing they can be glad of, if anything, is that the Master is just as miserable as they are.
They don't know why he wanted to come here. He'd dragged them all the way out to that abandoned shack, as though he was expecting something. Whatever it was didn't come to him. They'd at least had some shade under the rotting wooden roof, watching him with their head against the wall and their watch between their fingers. It had been very warm, but that wasn't surprising, given the climate. (Though they'd kept it beneath their robes, lest they risk accidentally burning their fingertips on hot metal when they went to play with it.) Now, he's dragging them back out to their TARDIS—too paranoid about a completely empty stretch of sand to park closer to their destination. Even can make out her illusory shape. The goggles are tinted darker than Even would have liked, but the rise of bone from the sand is impossible to miss, the remains of a long-decayed Gallifreyan megafauna for them to hide inside of.
The Master is too quiet. It puts them on edge. He’d snapped at and shut down any attempt at finding out what they were doing out here before they'd left, been almost completely silent at that old building, and they doubted he'd be any more talkative once he was back inside their TARDIS.
And there's tension in his neck. A twitch that won't go away in his fingers. However quick his feet fall, they hit the sand too hard, a constant, rhythmic thud that's only aggravating him more.
They look out across the desert and see nothing. They don't know what he's seen out here.
But they can guess.
They tuck their head and focus on stepping into the tracks he leaves behind in the sand. It passes the time better than watching the slow approach of the carcass that camouflages their vehicle.
That's why they notice the patch of sand that doesn't match the rest. It's dark. The grains don't flow with the wind the way everything around it does. Too much of it is moving.
"Stop." He doesn't, and they can barely hear themselves through the fabric keeping the lower half of their face out of the sun. They yank it down."Stop!"
That time, at least, they know he just isn't listening.
His foot goes down into the sand, sinks as he tries to recoil from the instability, and then the sand starts moving up his leg.
It's not a Dalek, which is good, and it's not something worse than a Dalek, which is better. Minuscule bodies glitter in the harsh sunlight brightly enough that Even can see each one clearly through their goggles. There are dozens of them digging themselves out of the sand, scurrying up towards the Master's leg. A few of them cling onto the outside of his clothing, and he's able to shake those off. Others go beneath. Even loses track of them.
The Master lifts his arm. Even's not sure what he's about to do, but they take the opportunity he's given them to duck and slip underneath it, grabbing his hand so that he'll hold onto them. They have two feet to brace compared to his one. His fingers dig into their shoulder harshly, and they grip his hand tighter in return as they pull, once, twice—he hisses between his teeth like they're threatening to yank his arm out of its socket—and with one final lurch, he comes free. The sudden momentum sends them both spinning, and though Even lets him go to try and catch their own balance, he doesn't, pulling them down the dune with him.
Each tumble leaves their sides aching. They spit sand dry from their uncovered mouth, enough that they regret bothering to warn the Master at all. It gets under their lips, against their gums, and there's nothing they can do about that but shove it to the side to deal with later. They scrabble for traction, turning as they roll to grasp out at the shifting dune and drag themself to a halt. They don't roll as far as he does. Even gets their knees under them. The sand is so hot that they can feel it beneath their palms, through their gloves. They suck in a breath, only to choke on it, scorching grains flying down their airway. By the time they've managed to gag up a pitiful amount of saliva from the back of their throat, they look up to see the tiny, shining things moving together like a snake through the sand towards them.
Even carries the weapons, as they carry the water. To reach for their gun is almost comforting in how familiar it is, from the weight to the notches their fingers find to grip it to the way it wakes up in their hands as they aim.
The sound it makes when they fire is just as familiar, though it lingers in their ears with different ghosts. Exterminate, their mind echoes when nothing else supplies the sound. (Certainly not the long-destroyed owner they'd peeled the foundation of their weapon off of.) Their lips part slightly, the first syllable curling their tongue- And then the shot lands with a burning crackle at the head of the illusory snake. It breaks apart, scattering bodies across the sand, some burrowing immediately to get away from the fire that catches briefly against the sand. The blast area is charred black. They can't tell if that's the sand or the tiny...
"What were those?" they ask the Master, tipping their head back towards him. The calm feeling that follows a successful shot shrinks away. At first, they think he's seizing, but his movements are too coordinated. He's trying to strip his clothes away from his leg, and the skin he reveals is crawling with the things.
Or bleeding. Why is he bleeding?
Even shakes their head before they skid down the rest of the dune towards him. When they touch him, he snaps his head in their direction, teeth bared and eyes wild with as much fear and anger that can fit in them. Even freezes like prey should.
The Master squeezes his eyes shut. He gropes for their hand until he haphazardly slaps their weapon from it. It lands in the sand, forgotten as he drags them in closer. "Kill them," he coughs. There's sand sticking to every bit of his face that's exposed. "The ones that haven't burrowed-"
They hate that word, suddenly. "Hold still!" they snap back, pulling their hand out of his grip. He tenses up. Their heart pounds hard in their skull, right at their temple. The things are wriggling across his skin, and they see one- The tint of the goggles makes it hard to tell when they're in the shadow cast by Even's own body, but it stops moving, squirms, and then the Master's skin breaks around it as they realize too late where it's going. Even's stomach clenches. The Master makes a painful whine in the back of his throat, leg convulsing.
They don't know what else to do. They slap one of the things. There's a crunch underneath their palm. They draw it back. That one isn't moving.
They hit another, and the Master bites down on a scream. It's his skin they're striking to get at the creatures.
Are they alive? A leg breaks off of one of them, but they don't burst like a body that small should, no matter how hard Even hits them. They don't leak any fluid onto their gloves or the Master's skin.
Even kills them, one by one, not nearly fast enough to stop more from digging into him. He can feel where the things are crawling and can direct Even's hands, but the Master can't catch any of them fast enough without seeing them, without being distracted by the rest making their way deeper into his flesh.
The sand is littered with the debris of them. Even doesn't have time to examine it. "Get up," they tell him. His head rolls back against the sand, expression contorted with pain. Even doesn't wait for him to listen. They pick up their gun and stow it. They get on one knee, their heel sinking slightly into the sand as they get ready. They haul him up into a sitting position. He protests that with a hiss between his teeth, which they ignore. "Get! Up! I need to fix you!" They're grateful that, of the two of them, they weigh more. It's still a struggle to pull him up to his feet. They don't think they can carry him outright, but if he can do a little of the work, they can help him the rest of the way to their TARDIS.
The Master tries to take too much of his own weight onto his injured leg. He screams.
Even winces. They adjust their grip until he's slumped further against them, his head knocking theirs as his heavy gasps ring in their ear.
"I said to stop," they whisper, very quietly. They're pretty sure he doesn't hear them. That he can't hear anything but his own breathing.
They lumber the final stretch to the TARDIS like a three-legged beast. The Master staggers more than he steps, and Even shoulders the unsteady burden of him as best they can.
They enter between two ribs, and their foot hits the floor of their TARDIS rather than more sand. They drag the Master forward a few more steps before they finally let him slip away from them. He slides down their body, grasping at their clothes to slow his own fall. He doesn't scream this time, but they still hear the sound that could have been one as its strangled to death in his throat.
They can't move. They have to, but they can't look away from his collapsed body, shaking with pain. Not until the Master's voice scrapes out of his raw throat and breaks whatever was holding them in place. "Tweezers." Even nods. "Keep one alive. I want to see it. Kill the rest, and don't let them touch you."
Even wants badly to discard the outer layers they're wearing, but they don't. They'll take whatever protection they can get.
The Doctor's TARDIS had a very well-stocked medical chamber. Theirs is not, but it keeps them alive. (And they have the feeling it still would have been thousands of years more advanced than anything Earth had access to, at the least. Some medical technology doesn't change, however. Like tweezers.) Even will probably help him into it later, once the active threat is gone and he still needs patching up.
They bring a box with them. It did have something else in it, but they turned it upside down and dumped its contents on the floor. It's a box for specimens now.
The Master is not dead when they get back. They let out a breath. He's propped himself against a wall, working to expose each of the bleeding intrusions. Even counts thirteen of them.
They sit in front of him. He's knocking his head back against the wall. They try not to count out the beats, head down to work.
There are three in his torso, and they hope those are the most shallow. They had to crawl further than the others to get there. Even swallows back nausea imagining the tiny bodies clawing and digging deeper into him. They rest a hand against his sternum to keep him still, the beat of his skull against the wall the only thing they can hear as they concentrate. The tweezers widen the hole one of the things has made to enter it. The Master's mouth twists. Even wants to drag a hand through their hair, but both are too busy to allow it. Their fingers flex on his sternum. The tweezers slide deeper, grasping at nothing at first. Deeper, deeper, and Even thinks they have something. It's bumping the end of the tweezers. They hope that means whatever is at the end is moving on its own. They squeeze the tweezers a few times until they catch hold of it. Even drags it back out gingerly.
They pause to look at the thing. It looks sort of like a bug, with a fat, bullet body cased in black and flailing legs, covered in slick blood. It feels vaguely familiar to them, but they can't place it. Then again, most bugs look the same, even the alien ones. They put the first one they retrieve in the box and trap it.
Again, they delve inside him. The Master begins to whine, but this time, the awful noise doesn't stop, just rises and falls as they dig around for the bug.
"Distract yourself," Even urges when they can’t take it anymore. Their eyes stings. They're too dehydrated to cry, but the burning urge is there. "Talk at me." The Master pushes a breath out between his teeth.
He shoots a hand out. The movement jars Even's arm and jabs the tweezers into something inside him that makes him grunt. They manage to get a hold on the next bug. It struggles against them as they pull it free from his belly and slap it against the ground, crushing it under their foot for good measure. The metallic crunch they heard before is even louder this time.
The Master curls his fingers twice, jerking his hand towards the box. Even pauses to give it to him. He can see the bug safely through the translucent sides.
His brow furrows, this time in more concentration than pain as they go digging for the third bug.
"I don't know what that is," he finally says. "It's not organic?"
"Not organic. Doesn't bleed," they answer.
"It's almost shaped like a sand beetle." He tilts the box. "Too short, I think. The coloring is wrong. It might be enough to fool someone else. No one who spends their free time in the drylands, but who would ever go there voluntarily?"
We did, Even doesn't say. They're too focused now, and they don't want to break his train of thought and risk him dropping away from speech into more painful wailing. He's stopped beating his head so hard against the wall.
"I don't think they were meant to be there, or we would have seen more of them." He shuts his eyes briefly. "Or not now. Not yet. Not anymore." He squeezes them shut tighter, his whole face wrinkling around the force of it. "You have no idea what it feels like when time is breaking and reforming around us!" he snaps at them, volume rising out of nowhere. Even shrinks back, eyes narrowed at him, but they don't stop digging for the bug. "It's deteriorating with us inside! I don't-" He cuts himself off, sucking in breaths hard and fast as Even grabs for the bug, hits something, and then only pulls free one broken leg of it.
"No. Talk." He's shaking again. They hit his chest. "Talk!" They force the tweezers back into the same hole. They get the body of the bug this time. They pull it out wriggling.
"I don't know what it is," he says, voice strained and quiet again. "I left. I left before it got worse. So, I don't know what it is or who made it." Even straightens his leg out to dig in his thigh for more bugs. "Or maybe it isn't from the war. Maybe someone's science fair project got out."
"Science fair projects don't kill people," Even says. "They're... bananas. I think." They try to cast their mind back to when they’d heard about that, and they think that's what the Doctor said was involved. "You plug batteries into them." The Master's leg twitches as they pull another bloody hunk of bug out of him.
"Not at the Academy." Their eyes flick up to his face, but his are closed, his hand resting over them. The box with their living specimen sits on his stomach, the thing inside angrily twisting and clicking away to no avail. "Well, xenobiology, maybe, but you would never win anything if you were playing with something from Earth."
"Don't all the children win at a science fair?"
"Not," the Master repeats, "at the Academy." (Even mouths the phrase themself, very quietly, because it feels wrong for it to only be repeated once.) He pauses. "I'm sure wherever taught you gave you plenty of little fake medals so you felt like you were worth something."
Even crushes another bug. Only a few more. The Master looks slightly dazed when he opens his eyes, staring up at nothing.
They blink down at the bloody tweezers for a moment, considering their words.
"I didn't go to school," they offer.
"I'm not surprised. The Doctor enjoys when you're all so easily impressed."
Even was going to tell him more.
They glare at him instead before shoving the tweezers in again. The Master jerks hard enough that his head cracks back against the wall.
Soon, tiny broken bugs litter the floor, harmless. Even has to help him back into the guts of their TARDIS, to the medical chamber where he'll be able to heal the rest of the damage or tell them how to. Only once as they make their way down does Even turn their head and shove their nose against his neck. They breathe in deep. He just smells like blood and sand and sweat. His cells are staying exactly the way they are. Nothing burns. They did a good job. They relax.
They aren't sure what he does with the specimen they pulled out of him.
They suppose it isn’t that important.
He only thinks of sending them something after he gets 'fired.'
The problem being, of course, that at that exact point in time, he's not sure where Even would be, let alone where his Even is. He considers investigating St. Paul's Cathedral, but however small the chance is, the idea of running into herself-
He thinks about it one last time: walking up to them, perhaps as they were peering through the water like they could see the cybermen inside, watching the refracted light play off the 'uniform' she'd picked out for them to wear.
And he’d say…
He wonders if he could get them to follow him just by telling them how poorly the plan would go. How useless it was to make overtures to the Doctor. How they would never listen, never stop, never consider either Even or the Master as anything worthy of-
Which Even wasn’t. Isn’t. If he’d- If Missy had never forgotten that, they wouldn’t have left- No, wouldn’t have been able to leave, and then if he wanted them, they’d be standing at the other side of the TARDIS console.
In the end, there's an easier time, an easier place. One of the benefits of time travel: he never pays for postage, and his presents always arrive when he means them to.
"You're thinking about it," Even says, kneeling down in front of the coffee table to do the puzzle they laid out on it. Rose had told them to do it on the kitchen table instead, but they hadn't wanted to use up the space. Their legs feel numb now. They keep delaying the painful restart of pins and needles. "Torchwood?" they look up at Rose. She's sprawled over the couch, chewing on her nails, brow furrowed. Even wonders if that's because of the conversation or because she's starting to taste the nail polish she's chipped off. Even hates how nail polish tastes more than they hate how it smells.
"It's not the same, I know that," Rose says. Even tilts their head. "This universe, I'd have Jack watching my back, and I think I'd take that over anything." She pauses for a moment. "It's weird, though. It's almost like he doesn't want me there."
"...He asked," Even says, slowly, unsure what she means. If Jack didn't want her, he wouldn't offer at all, right?
They turn the puzzle piece in their hands over and over. They don't like the texture of it. They drop it, and their hands inevitably fall back to the watch, still strange in its warmth, its various edges not fully memorized by their fingers. They play with it absently.
"I think he felt bad for me." There's a tone of voice Rose uses when things hurt, and Even isn't supposed to poke at them. Or, not Even specifically, but they think other people recognized the tone better and they were the one who had ended up poking too much before they started listening for it.
They still want to ask, but they keep their mouth shut instead.
"There's UNIT," they say. "...Martha works with UNIT." Rose smiles at Martha's name.
"Or I could go back to school," she says. "Get myself a degree in..." She trails off, then shakes her head. "Anything I want."
Even frowns. They squeeze the watch. They thought this was a choice they were both making. They hadn't considered Rose might want to go somewhere they couldn't follow.
"I don't want to lie to him," Rose says.
"But we are."
"Then I'm not adding more on top of it." Rose sits up. "Maybe. I don't know." She squishes the side of her face against her hand and then lets it slide down, turning her head to look at Even over the tips of her fingers. Her eyes flick down at the puzzle, back to the piece Even is stuck on, and after a few moments, she says, "Pretty sure it goes on the top right." Even looks right. "Other right." Oh. There it goes. "Yeah."
"You love him. It's okay." They aren't sure if that's the right thing to say. Rose's small smile wavers for a moment, her eyes cast down.
"I do." Even opens their mouth to find better words, something right that'll help Rose. The Doctor would know. He'd have a dozen ready that Rose would need to hear, and he’d fix this. Even never does. Instead, before they can speak and make the situation worse, they both hear the front door open and close, a flash of the torrent of rain outside, shuffling footsteps, and Rose says, "Can't miss a chance to be part of a conversation about him, can he?"
"You're talking about me?" The Doctor-
John, Even corrects, loudly, inside their own head as he appears around the corner and turns into the kitchen, dripping wet all over the floor. John. John.
Too loud. It slips out. "John." He grins at them. They say his name twice more. Rose starts to give them an odd look before it smooths out like she's remembered something, and he doesn't react at all. He's too busy running a hand through his hair like he can get the water out of it that way.
"I told you to bring an umbrella," Rose says. She looks at John the way she looks at no one else, Even thinks, save the Doctor, who isn't here to be looked at with so much love.
"I know, and you're always right." Rose sticks her tongue between her teeth when she smiles at that. John holds something up. "You've got mail, Even," John says. The package is small and slightly soggy. "Who do you know from... Australia? There's no name on it." He sounds perplexed, but Even's heart skips a beat.
"No one," they answer truthfully, because that means there's only one person it can be. Rose knows the moment they say it.
"Open it," she says, quick, as excited as Even feels. Even tries to get up, but their legs don't work. They flop to the side, kicking them out and scrunching their face up as their limbs wake up with painful protest. Luckily, John takes pity on them, bringing the package over to the coffee table and placing it in the middle of their unfinished puzzle. It doesn't touch any of the pieces.
Even tears it open with the two of them watching.
There are two things inside.
There's a very small card, the first thing Even reaches for. They want the Doctor’s words more than anything else. They turn it over, squinting. They always have trouble with handwriting. "'Thinking of you,'" they read, slowly.
"Is it signed?" Rose asks.
Even's frown deepens. "Maybe?" They hand the card over to Rose. She peers at it for a minute. John does, too, leaning against her and laying his chin over her shoulder.
"That could be a D," Rose says, hopefully, at the same time that John says,
"That's definitely an O."
Even is already pulling the other object out. It's a small... rock. It's beautiful, dark orange and shiny. They turn it, and with a slightly better view, they can see something inside it. They tilt it another way for a better look. "It's a bug."
"A bug?"
"A bug." They trade again, and when Even looks at the card a second time... Rose is right. It could be a D.
Why not Doctor, though? Why not... more? Something aches in Even's chest, and they curl up slightly. Why is he thinking of them? What's the rock? Or the bug? Where'd he get either? What time, what planet? Does he miss them? Is he coming to visit? Will he ever come to visit?
He promised he'd visit.
"You alright?" Rose says. Even looks up, ready to lie to her that they're okay. She's not looking at them, though. She's looking at John. He's gone still and pale staring at the bug trapped inside its rock. Rose holds it back out to Even, and they take it, unsure of what to do with something that scares the- That scares John. Who may not remember why he's scared of it, but if he is... Even looks down at the bug again. It's trapped. It looks harmless. Whatever it is would have suffocated a long time ago. It can't hurt them.
They don't even know why they're thinking about that. The Doctor would never send them something dangerous.
John swallows. He inhales shakily.
"Fine," he manages. "I don't know why I- Sorry." He shakes himself. "Sorry. It's nice. Very... very pretty."
He doesn't like it, so Even doesn't like it.
They can't get rid of it, though. The Doctor did send it. The card, eventually, gets lost, much easier than the amber does. They just tuck that away somewhere they don't have to see it and try not to think about it. It's still there the day they leave home and don't come back.
They don't have much time to ask the Doctor why he sent it the next time they see him.
And by the time after that, they barely remember it at all.
Which is probably for the best. It isn't like he could have answered with anything but, "I never sent you a package."