Chapter Text
The TARDIS had done most of the decorating, really, and when both she and Yaz were basically begging for a celebration, who was the Doctor to refuse? She'd been meaning to ask Yaz if she wanted to do anything special this year, and it's somewhere near Christmas back on Earth, they're pretty sure. Neither of them typically care much either way, so perhaps the spirit of the season has finally made its way through the TARDIS' dimensionally transcendental walls. And once the idea of a Christmas party had entered Yaz's mind, the Doctor had basically already lost.
"Won't be much of a party," she had protested, weakly.
"Three's a crowd," Yaz had replied, and that was probably a good enough answer.
The Doctor had asked then if Yaz was absolutely positive she wouldn't rather spend the break with her family while they had the time off, and was (secretly, and rather selfishly) relieved when Yaz pointed out that they have a time machine, and she could do both anyway.
So the TARDIS five days before Christmas had been suddenly much more festive (the red and green do not match her aesthetic at all, but the effort is nice) and Yaz had grinned so brightly, the Doctor supposed it was alright.
Now, though, their holiday plans have been a bit... derailed, the Doctor thinks, as she gazes down at the unmoving body of her dearest enemy. And it's definitely him. How he managed to escape their last encounter with his life, the Doctor has no clue, but that's always been him, hasn't it? Always managing to get out. Always managing to haunt her again.
He does look beat up. And tiny, curled up on a vast and dusty planet with no life around as far as the eye can see. Nothing he can't survive, of course, but she can't imagine how exactly he might've ended up this way. Though that, in fairness, is because the possibilities are more infinite than they are inconceivable.
"Doctor," Yaz is saying, tone warning. "This is clearly a trap." There's an iciness in her voice that the Doctor doesn't hear often.
"I know," the Doctor says, although she doesn't. This very well could be a trap. "Only…" She holds nothing past the Master, but while this would be an unoriginal and, quite frankly, predictable trap for him specifically to set, well—she's here taking the bait, isn't she? "Fake distress call," she says, now more to him than Yaz. She rests her hands on her hips. "Bit boring, yeah? Bit basic? No theatrics. People do these all the time. I mean you've done this before." She leans over him, but he doesn't move. "Not that you've never recycled your old schemes," she adds in concession, though she's not sure who she's conceding to; "but this definitely isn't one of your best. Seems almost—"
"Doctor," interjects Yaz. The exasperation in her voice is almost sort of funny. Almost. She's making a face.
The Doctor pauses. Regards the Master's body, scraped and bloodied, and the land around them, empty for miles. She can feel Yaz's eyes on her as she waves her sonic about. "He's definitely injured," she says tentatively as she reads the scan, sensing Yaz's imminent disapproval before her companion even opens her mouth. "It couldn't hurt to get him some help…"
"Doctor. You can't seriously be considering—he tried to kill us! You! Multiple times! He stole your face!"
"We can't just leave him here, Yaz." She says it quietly. She says it like she doesn't quite believe it herself.
"Why not? If he's hurt so badly, he'll regenerate, won't he?"
Which is true. Unfortunately.
The Doctor's logic and instincts are warring with each other. She feels her face twist into some kind of expression, and it must be the wrong one, because Yaz's responding glare of incredulity is withering. She's speaking before she even registers what she's saying. "Look, he's not any threat to us like this. And I have somewhere we can put him where he won't be a threat to us when he's awake, either."
Yaz opens her mouth as if to say something, but the look on her face says enough on its own. She closes her mouth with a sigh. The Doctor sighs too.
The Master is more than capable of handling himself; she knows this better than anyone. And she's given him the benefit of the doubt more than enough times. Loads of good that's done her. Hell, he burned their home to the ground, regenerated into her, and she can't pretend she's even begun to forgive him for that. But it's been a while since she's seen him so… thoroughly helpless. He'd look almost peaceful if he wasn't so battered. And something deep in her hearts—she'll blame the Christmas spirit, later, as if that makes any kind of sense—is telling her she can't leave him alone. Not now. Maybe this time, if she's the one to help him…
Yaz is staring at her. Something in her dark eyes has shifted. Softened, perhaps. She sighs again, shaking her head. "You're going to be the one to keep an eye on him. And only until he's well enough to be on his own, and then—well, I suppose you can't just let him leave, can you?" A frustrated groan tears itself from her throat. "He can stay with us only until you find somewhere to drop him. And it had better be before the party," she adds, like she makes the decisions around here. (She does, much of the time.)
"Three's a crowd?" the Doctor tries as she moves to drag the Master's body through the TARDIS doors. She's grateful when Yaz does not respond, and in fact tries to hide a small smile.
The TARDIS whirs with indignation as they enter. "Oh, hush," the Doctor mutters, lifting the Master's body into her arms and rounding a corner. First, she takes him to the infirmary. Patches him up as Yaz watches, tries to force down memories of easier days and skinned knees and red grass. Then she takes him to the Zero Room. The white void is a stark contrast to the rest of the ship. Its brightness clears her head, a welcome reprieve from whatever emotions this whole process has been dredging up.
"Let's just forget about him for a while, yeah? Let's… let's decorate!" The Doctor tries to force her usual pep back into her voice, and it mostly works, she thinks, but Yaz has a way of seeing right through her.
It's maddening and liberating in equal measure.
"Doctor…" her voice is soft, uncertain. Suddenly Yaz's gentle hand is on the Doctor's shoulder, and she only just manages to fight the urge to flinch away. This is Yaz, after all, and they're friends (or something like friends—hard to tell, these days), and she wants to enjoy Yaz's casual touches more even though all of them feel rather like lightning down her spine. Not unpleasantly so.
"I'll not pretend to understand your feelings about the Master, 'cause clearly they're… complex. And there's a lot you don't tell me, so—" (The Doctor tries to ignore the pang that the hint of resignation in Yaz's tone has sent through her chest.) "Maybe there is something in him worth saving. If you think bringing him here was the right call, I trust you. We don't have to just ignore it and not talk about it and move on to something else."
"I'm not ignoring it," the Doctor says defensively. Well. She hadn't meant to sound quite so petulant.
"Yeah, let's go decorate the already-decorated ship while a crazed murderer's unconscious a few doors down—"
"Well, what would you rather we do?" The Doctor snaps. "Watch over him every minute? Wait for him to wake up so he can try to kill us both? Thought you didn't like him."
Yaz's voice is much more even than the Doctor's as she replies, "You're the one who wanted him here. Now you can't even look at him, you're just… running away?"
The Doctor frowns. That's what she does, isn't it? Take on problems and run away from them? Something about the thrill of the chase, or so she tells herself. The look on Yaz's face makes her sigh. "I'll check on him, alright? I just…we've got a history—"
Yaz exhales sharply through her nose and maybe mutters something that sounds like an obviously. She clears her throat once she notes the Doctor's responding glower.
"So," the Doctor continues, "it's weird to see him like this right now. After everything. I probably should have left him alone. He's dangerous, Yaz. You've seen what he's capable of. But I couldn't shake the feeling that this time is different, somehow…" She realises that she's muttering now, talking more to herself than her friend. She hadn't meant to say so much anyway. "Well! Suppose we'll find out, eh?" Her brightness is almost back. She should apologise to Yaz for snapping. But, instead:
"Anyway. We can check on the Master once he's had some time to rest. Until then we really should finish decorating. The TARDIS isn't gonna do all the work herself." (There's a soft mechanical hum then, as if in agreement.) This is her apology, or it'll have to be for now. And Yaz, ever gracious, accepts.
❄
They get a lot done in the next few hours. The TARDIS halls are thoroughly decked, they've worked out when and where they'll buy gifts for each other, and even had time for dinner. They've checked on the Master, together, twice, to nothing new. By now they've donned hats, and the Doctor's in a holiday jumper she's been gifted by the grateful people of 27th century Alterra—not Christmas, but certainly jolly enough for their purposes. They go to visit him for the third and final time today, and the Doctor is quietly grateful when he once again doesn't stir—until she returns to the door, and he croaks, "Leaving so soon, Doctor?"
She turns around slowly, and though he's not sitting up, she could've sensed his smile even if she hadn't been looking.
"And Yaz. Been a while, hey?"
Beside her, out of the corner of her eye, the Doctor sees Yaz stiffen. The Master, ever infuriating, chuckles. "If only looks could kill." He pauses. "I'd have been dead a long time ago. Not that that's ever stopped me." His gaze shifts to the Doctor. "It'd be this one's fault, I reckon, although—" he huffs, halfway between a laugh and a grimace. "I have upset a lot of people. On the other hand, most of them aren't around to glare at me, obviously."
"You seem chatty," Yaz observes icily, "feeling alright, then?"
"Ohh," he groans as he sits up. Hisses as he gingerly touches the back of his head. "Never better. Thank you, seriously, for saving me out there." His faux-sincere expression breaks into an obscenely smug grin. "I knew you'd come. I had hoped you'd forgiven our last… spat." The Doctor raises an eyebrow.
"Of course she came," Yaz snaps. "The Doctor helps people. It's what she does. Well, people who need it."
"And I did need it, Yaz—I do! Honest. I mean, look at me." He gestures to himself. It's not especially convincing.
"You can handle a few bruises," the Doctor says. "You'll be fine. I just thought we should… monitor you for a bit. Until we know for sure."
"Oh, Doctor," he sighs dreamily, "you flatter me."
Yaz looks like she's about a minute away from adding to his—admittedly, fairly worrying—collection of injuries. Instead, thankfully, she exhales and turns on her heel. For a moment she pauses, looking like she might be thinking better of leaving the Doctor and her oldest enemy alone together. Instead she gives the Doctor a look that is probably meant to be supportive, or sympathetic, except it mostly just reminds her how easy Yaz's eyes are to get lost in. The Doctor nods, and Yaz leaves the room.
"And then there were two," says the Master gleefully, not a moment after the door closes.
The Doctor doesn't respond right away, crouching in front of him. She could never say she enjoys seeing him like this—even when he's most deserved it, she never has. (She's never been able to stamp out that little fluttering in her hearts telling her he could change, maybe, if given the chance and the right circumstances. She doesn't want to believe he'd have to be so gravely hurt for that to happen, but she's long since learned to stop listening to her hearts where the Master is concerned.) But now, there's an undeniable rush in being the one with the definite upper hand for once. He's hurt and on her TARDIS. He hasn't made any move to stand since he woke up. Even his normal energetic persona seems… subdued, rather. She doesn't enjoy seeing him like this, no, but that's not to say she can't appreciate such an opportune situation.
"You're staring, dear," the Master says, cutting into her thoughts with a self-satisfied smirk, and suddenly she's appreciating the situation just a bit more.
"What's happened to you?" she asks.
Frustratingly, he shrugs. "Oh, you know."
Not going to elaborate, then. Right. She opens her mouth to respond, but he beats her to it. "Trying something new, are you?" He waves a hand, gesturing vaguely to her head.
"Christmas party," she explains hurriedly, "now—"
"Christmas party! And I wasn't invited? I'm a bit hurt. I mean, surely you'd have—"
"No, the party's not today, we're just — that's not the point! Now tell me—"
"—honestly, Doctor, I'm the most spirited of them all—" (As though he's ever cared in the slightest about human holidays, or humanity as whole. She can't imagine how he could be even the littlest bit spirited.)
"Master!" she finally huffs, aggravated.
The Master grins, sucking in a breath that's just a bit too shaky. "I do love it when you use my name."
She's not going to entertain this. She can't, or she'll be here all day, and she has a party to be planning for, after all. "I'm locking you in here," she says, getting to her feet. "You'll recover quickly, or at least you should, and as soon—as soon—as you're in a decent state, I'm going to drop you off on some barren planet where there's no one for you to hurt."
"Not going to kill me, then?" His disappointment sounds genuine. The Doctor's hearts clench, traitors that they are.
"That'd be too kind, I'm sure. You said it yourself. Death's never stopped you before." The Doctor hopes that didn't sound as half-hearted to him as it had to her. She doesn't want to be the one to kill him the one time he decides not to come back. But then, she knows, she's the only person he'd let kill him at all.
The Master shrugs. "Suit yourself, love." He leans back, wincing slightly, like the effort is painful. Perhaps it is. His compliance is… uncharacteristic. Still, she won't complain about a good thing.
"Are you ever going to let me out of here? You know, for food and things."
"I can bring them to you."
"Yeah, but you'd feel bad," he says, pouting. "Wouldn't you? Keeping me prisoner like this?"
The Doctor snorts. "Whatever you're planning, you can forget it. Better yet, erase it from your mind altogether."
"Planning? Doctor, for once, I have absolutely no plan. At least, not against you."
She eyes him skeptically. There's not a thing he could do to make her believe that. She can feel his mind prodding at the edges of her own, perhaps in an attempt to convince her of his supposed sincerity. She closes her mind to him, and tries not to smile as he visibly deflates.
"So that distress call wasn't part of your plan, huh?"
The Master looks more affronted than he has any right to. "That was a real distress call, like I told Yaz! " And now he's beaming, a sweet smile. More cloying, really. The Doctor fixes him with the most non-believing expression she can muster. Which, given the circumstances, is quite so.
His countenance melts into something more serious. "Doctor, honestly. If I wanted to lure you anywhere, I wouldn't use a method so… so gauche. I'm rather offended you think me so uncreative. I was in distress, so I called, simple as that."
"But you knew I'd be the one to find you."
His grin returns. "Of course. Who else? You're the only one capable of helping me anyhow." Which is, perhaps, truer than either of them would prefer.
She searches his face. He gives nothing away.
The Master holds out a hand. One which, the Doctor notices, is trembling ever so slightly. "Truce?" He spares another glance to her hat. "In the holiday spirit, or whatever."
She thinks of the last time he'd extended a hand to her. Preparing to take her away, to show her the wreckage of their home. He'd relished less in the destruction than in her response to it. He'd told her nothing would ever calm his rage.
She thinks of his face, pained, as he'd tried to kill her on his conversion planet. He'd been dying. So had she. But it's never that simple, is it? Because here they both are. They can never escape each other. The Doctor tries to tell herself that she wishes they could.
She falters. He's patient.
The Doctor shakes his hand. She really shouldn't be doing this. She really, really shouldn't be. "If you try anything…"
The Master puts both hands up in a placatory gesture. "You have my word. And I always keep my promises." So he's already lying to her. Not a good sign. She gives him one last warning look, and he returns a cheeky smile. He has a pretty smile, really. It's a shame it's so rarely genuine. (Or, no, that's not true. It's a shame he's so often smiling at things no one in their right mind should be smiling at. Then again, it's not as though he's trying to convince anyone that he's in his right mind.)
The Doctor stands and moves to leave the room, and the Master once again calls after her. "Only, can I maybe get another room while I'm here? This one's very…" He looks around. "White. I'm bored. I ought to be resting in a bed, don't you think?"
The Doctor heaves a heavy sigh, feeling her shoulders sag as she exhales. "Let me tell Yaz."