Work Text:
The TARDIS hummed softly, her corridors bathed in golden light. Morning had settled in, though “morning” was a flexible concept when one lived in a time machine.
The Doctor burst into the console room with an exaggerated flourish, his coat flapping dramatically as if he’d rehearsed the entrance. His hair stuck up in about four different directions, his tie was half-askew, and yet his grin was positively radiant.
“Behold!” he announced, throwing his arms wide. “The Oncoming Storm has awakened! Big, brilliant, and entirely in control. No tiny nonsense today, thank you very much!”
Donna, curled up on one of the jump seats with her tea, raised a brow. “Someone’s feeling full of himself.”
“Full of self-control, Donna Noble!” the Doctor countered, pointing at her as though he’d won an argument she hadn’t entered. He began to strut in a little circle around the console, chin high, practically glowing with smugness. “Perfectly fine, perfectly grown-up, absolutely dignified. Not a trace of littleness to be found.”
From the opposite side of the room, the Master leaned against the railing, arms folded, watching the display with an infuriatingly calm smirk. His eyes flicked over the Doctor like he was examining a puzzle he already knew the solution to.
“Mm,” the Master drawled. “How long do you intend to keep this act up? An hour? Ten minutes? Two minutes and thirty seconds?”
The Doctor whipped around, affronted. “Act? Act? I’ll have you know, I am fully myself, right as rain, strong as a Gallifreyan ox—”
“Oxen don’t exist on Gallifrey.”
“Metaphorical ox!” the Doctor snapped, waving a dismissive hand. “The point is, I’m big.”
“Congratulations.” The Master’s smirk widened just slightly. “Then you won’t mind putting on a pull-up before we get on with the day.”
The Doctor froze mid-stride. His jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” The Master pushed off the railing and sauntered closer, voice maddeningly calm. “You were very small last night. Littleness doesn’t just vanish because you’ve had a nap. For safety, you wear protection today. I’ll fetch you a Huggies or perhaps Pampers—what’s your preference?”
The Doctor made a strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. His face flushed crimson. “I am the Oncoming Storm! I do not require—require—plastic pants!”
Donna nearly choked on her tea. “Plastic pants?” she repeated, her voice wobbling with laughter.
“Yes!” the Doctor cried, stamping one foot. “And I certainly don’t require them! Not now, not ever!”
The Master tilted his head, the picture of calm. “No, you require Huggies. Possibly Pampers. Those have the nice stretchy sides, don’t they? I think you’d look rather fetching in a Pampers size eight.”
The Doctor’s voice went up an octave. “I am not wearing—” He stopped to point accusingly, as though words alone couldn’t carry the weight of his outrage. “—toddler nappies!”
The Master arched a brow. “Pull-ups,” he corrected. “Not nappies. Training pants. Very dignified, very responsible. For big boys who have… accidents.”
Donna actually snorted tea back into her mug. “Ohhh, this so good.”
The Doctor whirled on her, eyes wide. “Don’t encourage him!”
“Who, me?” Donna said innocently, though her grin was positively wicked.
The Doctor stomped his other foot. “This is humiliation! You cannot make me, you absolute tyrant. I am big! Bigger than big! The biggest big person in the history of the universe!”
The Master just folded his arms again, infuriatingly unbothered. “All right. If you’re so very big, you can stay that way. No pull-ups, no safety net.”
The Doctor blinked, suspicious. “Really?”
“Really,” the Master said smoothly, though his smirk gave away far too much. “You don't want to listen to Dada. You’re obviously in perfect control. What could possibly go wrong?”
The Doctor narrowed his eyes, wary, but his pride was louder than his instincts. He straightened, brushing off his coat as if the matter were decided. “Exactly. Nothing will go wrong. Because I am dignified. Mature. Entirely composed.”
Donna took a slow sip of tea, eyes glinting. “Sure you are, spaceman. Sure you are.”
The Master’s smile deepened, almost imperceptibly. He had all the patience in the world. After all… he knew how this would end.
---
The TARDIS kitchen was warm with the smell of toast and tea. Sunlight—well, the TARDIS’s best impression of it—spilled through the stained-glass windows. Donna was already there, perched at the table with her cup of tea steaming in front of her. She looked far too awake for someone who had only survived last night’s chaos by sheer force of sarcasm.
The Doctor came striding in with a spring in his step, his grin smug enough to power the ship. He wore that air of exaggerated dignity he sometimes put on when he was trying too hard to prove something.
The Master sauntered in behind him, hands in his pockets, wearing the smirk of a man who had already decided on his entertainment for the morning. He didn’t bother saying anything. Instead, he pulled out the chair directly beside the Doctor’s, dropped into it lazily, and immediately started pouring himself tea.
The Doctor puffed himself up and sat very straight at the table, arms folded in exaggerated maturity. “Toast, please,” he said primly.
The Master’s smirk sharpened. He buttered a slice, cut it into neat little triangles, then, without hesitation, lifted one in his hand and wiggled it toward the Doctor’s mouth.
“Here comes the airplane,” the Master crooned, moving it through the air with exaggerated swoops. “Vrrrroooom! Careful now, nappy-bottom, don’t miss the landing strip.”
The Doctor went scarlet immediately. “Absolutely not!” he barked, swatting at the triangle of toast like it was a wasp. “I can feed myself, thank you!”
Donna, sipping her tea, muttered, “Bet you a fiver he caves.”
But the Doctor did not cave. Oh, he was red in the face, nearly glowing, his jaw clenched tight, but he held his fork and knife like weapons, eating his breakfast with sharp, precise motions. He stuffed a piece in his mouth with pointed maturity.
The Master leaned his chin on his hand and watched him with all the patience of a predator waiting out its prey. “Aw, look at him. So very dignified. So very grown-up. My little stormcloud is practically glowing with adulthood.”
The Doctor’s cheeks burned. “I am dignified!” he snapped through his mouthful. “I’m—” he chewed, swallowed, then puffed his chest out again. “I’m the Oncoming Storm! Not a stormcloud. Big difference.”
“Mmhm,” the Master hummed, unbothered, and held out a spoonful of porridge he’d just prepared. “Open up, sweetpea.”
The Doctor slapped his hand down on the table with such force the spoons rattled. “I will not be spoon-fed by you!”
Donna nearly choked on her tea from laughing. “Oh, you two are better than telly.”
But the Doctor kept going, refusing to break. He crossed his legs, sat higher in his chair, and delicately dabbed at his mouth with a napkin like some aristocrat at a gala. “See?” he said haughtily, though his ears were crimson. “Completely mature. Completely civilized.”
The Master raised his brows in mock admiration. “Oh yes. Eating your breakfast all by yourself. What an achievement. Should I take a picture and hang it on the fridge?”
“Master—!”
Donna snorted into her cup, delighted. The Doctor jabbed a piece of toast into his mouth like it was an act of war, glaring at both of them furiously. But despite his defiance, he finished every bite on his own. Not one spoonful passed his lips from the Master’s hand.
By the end of the meal, he was trembling with indignant energy, his face still red, his eyes watering from sheer effort of restraint. He rose from the table like a king storming out of parliament. “There!” he declared. “Breakfast. Like an adult.”
The Master leaned back lazily, smiling like he’d just won something anyway. “Of course, nappy-bottom. Very adult. I’m sure the highchair will be proud.”
Donna collapsed against the table in laughter, wheezing.
---
The morning had hardly begun before the Master decided to make himself the Doctor’s shadow.
Everywhere the Doctor went, there he was: close enough to touch, close enough to murmur into his ear, close enough to unsettle every shred of composure the Time Lord tried desperately to cling to.
The Doctor had started the day with a plan. Keep his head high, act very adult, and prove beyond all doubt that he was a dignified man of science and reason, not some silly little thing to be rocked and teased. He adjusted his suit jacket with a huff, straightened his tie, and announced loftily, “Busy day, you know. Repairs, calibrations, very important work, can’t have anyone underfoot.”
The Master only smiled. A slow, dangerous smile.
“Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he purred, sauntering after him as the Doctor moved to the console. “Your Dada’s here to help. Wouldn’t want his baby to tire himself out.”
The Doctor nearly dropped his screwdriver. “I— I am not your—”
“—Baby?” The Master finished for him smoothly, cocking his head and stepping right into the Doctor’s personal space. “Sweetpea? Little stormcloud?” He tapped a finger against the Doctor’s temple, smirking when he flinched. “Ohhh, yes. My favorite grumpy face.”
The Doctor drew himself up as tall as he could manage. “I’m a grown man.”
“You’re adorable.”
“I’m extremely dignified.”
“You’re precious.”
“I am one of the most brilliant beings in the universe, and you will treat me accordingly!”
The Master only leaned down, lips grazing the Doctor’s ear, and whispered in a singsong voice, “Does my widdle clever boy want uppies?”
The Doctor’s whole body jolted as though electrocuted. “ABSOLUTELY NOT!”
The Master chuckled darkly, obviously pleased. He didn’t even bother hiding how much fun he was having.
For the next half-hour, every movement the Doctor made was shadowed by his tormentor. If the Doctor bent to check the console wiring, the Master crouched right behind him and murmured, “Careful now, don’t want baby bumping his head.”
If the Doctor stood up and tried to gesture at the time rotor, the Master clapped his hands together and said, “Oh, very good! My baby’s growing up so fast, he can almost reach the big levers all by himself.”
If the Doctor attempted to stalk down the stairs with grave purpose, the Master caught up in two long strides and offered, mock-seriously, “Want me to carry you, pet? Those little legs of yours must get so tired.”
The Doctor’s ears were blazing by now. “Stop. Following. Me.”
“Can’t. You’re too fun when you’re flustered.” The Master’s grin widened when the Doctor whipped around, finger jabbing furiously at him. “That face, Doctor—ohhh, I live for it. All puffed up, trying so hard to be big, when really—”
“Don’t you dare say it!”
“—You’re just my tiny, pouty little stormcloud.”
The Doctor made an outraged noise that landed somewhere between a yelp and a growl and stomped his foot. “I am not pouty!”
“You are when you stomp your foot like that.”
“I didn’t stomp!”
“You just did.”
“I DID NOT—”
“Ohhh, my mistake, then.” The Master smirked, eyes gleaming. “Must have been imagining this little tantrum.”
The Doctor went scarlet from collar to hairline. “I— I am—” He stammered, unable to form words, clutching his screwdriver like it might save him from spontaneous combustion.
The Master leaned back, utterly delighted, and began humming mockingly in a nursery rhyme lilt. “Little Doctor, big bad wolf, trying to huff and puff his way through dignity. But his Dada knows best.”
“I am going to—” the Doctor spluttered. “I am going to leave this room if you keep this up!”
“Mm, you won’t. You’d miss me too much.”
The Doctor turned on his heel, forcing every ounce of false dignity into his stride. He stalked across the grating, shoulders stiff, head high. He even muttered under his breath, “I’m very tall, very imposing, very— very—”
The Master followed close behind, sing-songing, “Big boy! Big clever boy! Just don’t trip over those little feet, love.”
The Doctor whirled around. “I AM A VERY BIG—”
“Clever baby.”
The Doctor made a noise like a teakettle about to blow and groaned, dragging his hands down his face.
The Master leaned smugly against the console, looking every inch the cat who’d just swallowed the canary. “See? My baby Doctor.”
The Doctor spun around with a flurry of coat and limbs, muttering desperately under his breath: “Must tinker, must repair, must calibrate—serious, important, grown-up Time Lord work, no distractions.” He ducked under the console, trying to bury himself in wires, his face practically steaming.
The Master crouched down beside him, whispering, “Tickle tickle tickle—” and poking lightly at his sides.
The Doctor yelped so hard he banged his head against the underside of the console.
The Master sat back on his heels, smug beyond words. “Perfect. I win again.”
The Doctor, scuttling backward out of the console guts with hair sticking up and tie askew, jabbed a finger at him. “Do not. DO NOT breathe a single word of this. I am a very dignified man!”
The Master’s grin sharpened. “Of course, sweetpea.”
The Doctor let out a strangled groan. And then, finally, finally, he found a moment of salvation.
The Master was distracted, fiddling with some control levers. His smirk was directed elsewhere, his eyes off him.
The Doctor seized his chance. Quiet as a mouse, quick as a shadow, he scampered toward the corridor, coat tails flapping, muttering under his breath: “Free! At last! Oh, thank Rassilon!”
He vanished around the corner, pulse racing with triumph and humiliation.
Behind him, the Master chuckled softly, straightening. “Run while you can, my little stormcloud. Dada always finds you.”
---
The Doctor came pelting down the TARDIS corridor, coat flapping behind him like a frantic banner. His hair was a wild halo, cheeks flushed pink with laughter and desperation. He skidded around a corner, glanced back over his shoulder, and then dove headfirst through the next doorway.
“Donna Noble!” he announced in between gasps, clutching the doorframe as if he’d just crossed the finish line of a marathon. “Best friend in the whole of space and time—hide me!”
Donna looked up from her seat in the TARDIS library, a book already open across her lap, and raised one skeptical eyebrow. She took her time folding the page corner down before fixing him with that all-too-familiar look.
“What’d you do now?” she asked, voice dripping with suspicion.
“Nothing!” the Doctor yelped, shaking his head so fast his hair nearly blinded him. He pressed his back against the door and waved his hands like he could ward off invisible enemies. “Absolutely nothing. I’m just—just too magnificent for the Master to cope with, that’s all. Can’t blame me for being dazzling, can you?”
Donna’s eyes narrowed. “So in other words, you wound him up until he’s chasing you down like a cat after a laser pointer.”
“No!” the Doctor protested, then hesitated. “…Yes. But he started it.”
Donna snorted, shutting her book with a soft thump. “You two are worse than schoolboys. I don’t know how the universe survives with you in charge.”
He didn’t answer, just bounded across the room and practically collapsed onto the sofa beside her, pulling his knees up and hugging them with a childish grin. His chest rose and fell rapidly, still recovering from his sprint. His eyes darted around the room as though he half-expected the Master to burst through the door any second.
Donna rolled her eyes again but patted his knee. “All right, all right. I’ll hide you. He won’t come barging into the library. Too many books. He’d probably burst into flames.”
The Doctor let out a relieved sigh, flopping sideways dramatically until his head was resting on the back of the sofa. “Thank you, Donna Noble. My rescuer. My shield. My knight in shining, shining sarcasm.”
“Don’t think flattery’s going to get you out of trouble,” she muttered. But she picked up her book again, flipping to the page she’d marked. “You can sit there and be quiet for once. If he comes in, I’ll tell him I haven’t seen you.”
“Brilliant!” the Doctor grinned, but he couldn’t sit still for more than a heartbeat. His foot started tapping against the carpet, then his fingers drummed along the sofa arm, then he shot back upright and started pacing the length of the library like a restless animal.
Donna glanced up at him over the edge of her book. “Can’t you just…sit?”
“I am sitting!” he declared, though he was halfway across the room at that point, fiddling with a globe on one of the shelves.
“That’s standing,” she corrected.
“Standing is just vertical sitting,” he argued. He spun the globe fast enough to blur the continents, then abandoned it to wander over to the window, tapping the glass with two quick knuckles. “Besides, can’t stay still. Not my style. Whole universe out there, Donna Noble. Can’t sit while it’s spinning.”
Donna sighed, pretending to read, though her eyes followed him as he drifted about the room. He wasn’t just restless; his movements were jerky, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He shifted from one foot to the other every few seconds. She chalked it up to his usual manic energy, though, because wasn’t this just him?
“You’re fidgeting like a toddler on too much sugar,” she remarked finally.
The Doctor shot her a wounded look. “I am not!” His voice squeaked higher than he intended. “I’m—I’m simply full of kinetic potential.”
“Kinetic potential, my foot,” she said dryly. “You’re wriggling like you’ve got ants in your trousers.”
He made a face at her, sticking his tongue out just enough to be ridiculous, then scurried back to the sofa to sit beside her again. He folded his arms and sat very straight, forcing himself to be still, but within seconds, his knees bounced restlessly and his fingers worried at the edge of his coat sleeve.
Donna turned a page with deliberate slowness. “See, this is why I call you Spaceman. Always bouncing about. No patience.”
The Doctor huffed, cheeks puffing. He shifted again, pressing his thighs together in a way he didn’t even notice. His grin faltered for a heartbeat before he smoothed it back into place. “Patience is boring,” he said quickly.
“You just keep telling yourself that,” Donna muttered.
But despite her grumbling, she didn’t send him away. She let him curl up against her side eventually, the two of them sharing the space while she read aloud in dramatic tones to make him laugh. Every time she got to a particularly pompous line, he snorted and leaned against her shoulder, fidgeting more and more as the minutes ticked by.
Donna only shook her head, amused. She didn’t know that the Doctor’s squirming wasn’t just his normal restlessness, that he was fighting a very different sort of problem, one that was steadily growing harder to ignore.
---
The Doctor had been fidgeting on the sofa for the past ten minutes, trying to hold on to his "big boy" act with every ounce of willpower. He tugged at his brown pinstripe jacket, kept running his hands through his straight hair, muttering things about "repairs to the TARDIS core" and "things to check later." But Donna could see he was restless, fidgety in a way that wasn’t just about boredom.
His face went pale all of a sudden.
Donna tilted her head. "Oi, you alright, Spaceman?"
The Doctor swallowed hard, eyes darting. "’Course I am! Just—ah—just remembered something in the console room. Need to, uh, attend to it!" He jerked upright, moving as though to make a dash for the door.
But he didn’t make it.
The sound was almost imperceptible at first, the faint hiss, the way his breath caught, the way his eyes widened in sheer horror as warmth spread. The fabric of his trousers darkened rapidly, the sharp lines of embarrassment drawing across his face before Donna even fully processed what was happening.
The Doctor, her brilliant, untouchable alien best mate, was standing there in a spreading accident.
He froze completely. His whole body went rigid, as if maybe if he stayed still enough, she wouldn’t notice. But of course she noticed.
Color drained from his face, leaving him pale and trembling.
A million thoughts flickered across his mind all at once. Pretend it didn’t happen. Run away. Joke it off. Do anything but stand here in the middle of the room with wet trousers and a best friend watching.
But his brain betrayed him.
The longer he stood there, the more the heat of the accident sank in, not just against his skin, but into his chest, into the secret, shameful corners of himself. That was all it took. The defenses that held him big cracked like glass under too much weight.
One moment, he was a mortified Time Lord trying to keep his dignity. The next, he was just a tiny boy who desperately wanted his Dada.
Tears welled, spilling instantly. His lips trembled, and then he wailed, raw and small and terrified of what she’d think:
“Dadaaaa…!”
He buried his face in his trembling hands, shoulders curling inward, sobs breaking free.
Donna’s mouth fell open, stunned for a single second, then her expression shifted. Ah. So that’s what this was about. That’s why he’d been so fidgety...
She blinked, then grinned wickedly.
"Well, well, well," she muttered under her breath, hands going to her hips. "Spaceman, I think your Dada was right."
The Doctor hiccupped and whimpered, still trying to hide behind his hands.
Donna, eyes gleaming with wicked Auntie energy, cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone and bellowed across the TARDIS corridors:
“DAAADAAA! YOUR BABY NEEDS YOU!”
The sound bounced off the walls, echoing through the ship.
The Doctor shrieked. Absolutely shrieked. His whole body folded in on itself, knees buckling, and he curled up small on the floor, pressing his damp trousers against the couch to hide them as if that would help.
“Noooooo! Don’ tell ‘im! Don’ tell ‘im, pleaseeee!” His cries turned to loud, desperate sobs, the kind that tore through his chest. His big words scattered, vanishing into babbled pleas. “Dada, Dada, Dadaaaa!”
Donna crouched in front of him, her grin softening but still playful. She reached out and brushed his wet hair off his forehead. "Sweetheart, hate to break it to you, but it’s a bit late for dignity now. Look at you. All wet and tiny."
The Doctor sobbed harder at that, twisting his face away from her hand, too ashamed to meet her eyes.
From deeper inside the TARDIS, footsteps rang out, measured, confident, unmistakable.
Donna sat back on her heels, smirking. "Oh, here comes your knight in dark leather, baby boy."
The Doctor wailed into his sleeve, curling tighter and rocking himself. He wanted to vanish, to disappear into the timestream, to be anywhere but here. But he couldn’t run. His accident kept him rooted, and his heart kept chanting for his Dada.
And now, Dada was coming.
---
The Master appeared in the doorway like he had been waiting for this exact moment, leaning against the frame with a cat-that-got-the-cream grin plastered across his face. His eyes flicked instantly to the Doctor, who was hunched on the floor, flushed scarlet and trembling, trying desperately to hide behind his hands. Donna hovered protectively at his side, awkwardly rubbing his back and whispering, “It’s okay, Spaceman, accidents happen.”
“Ohhh,” the Master gasped dramatically, hand to his chest in mock horror. “Would you look at that! Auntie Donna found you’ve sprung a little leak, Doctor.”
The Doctor’s whole body stiffened. He whimpered loudly and buried his face in his hands, as though he could sink right through the grating in shame.
“Don’t—don’t say it like that,” he stammered through his tears, voice small and cracked. “’S not—wasn’t—”
Donna gave him a gentle rub on the back, but her lips twitched. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s alright. Happens to littles all the time. You’re fine.”
The Doctor shook his head frantically, shoulders trembling. “N-not fine. Not! Can’t—can’t believe—”
Before he could collapse into another round of sobs, the Master swooped in. He crouched down, hands sliding under the Doctor’s arms with ease, and lifted him up off the floor as though he weighed nothing at all.
“There we go,” the Master cooed, bouncing him automatically on his hip. “Dada’s here, so no more waterworks. Doesn’t matter one little bit, baby boy.”
The Doctor let out a keening wail, clinging desperately to the Master’s neck. His long legs wrapped tightly around his Dada’s waist, locking him in place like a frightened toddler who refused to be put down. His face pressed into the crook of the Master’s shoulder, hot and wet with tears, and he tried to muffle his humiliated whimpers there.
Donna’s heart gave a tug. He looked so utterly tiny, clinging like that.
The Master turned just enough to flash her a smug look. “See? Didn’t I tell you? Always ends up like this. Thank you, Auntie Donna, for catching him before he made himself sick.”
The Doctor made a muffled, mortified sound that was somewhere between a squeak and a sob. “Stooop, don’ call her—don’ say—”
“Shhh,” the Master soothed, ignoring his protests entirely. He rubbed soothing circles on the Doctor’s back, bouncing him lightly. “You’re too little to fuss about words, my clever baby. Dada knows best.”
Donna leaned against the sofa, watching in amazement. The Doctor was clinging so hard, still hiccuping, still calling for Dada even though the man was right there holding him. “Blimey,” she murmured with a soft smile. “You weren’t kidding. He really does go tiny, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, you’ve no idea,” the Master replied cheerfully, patting the Doctor’s bottom with an air of absolute ownership. “This one can hardly string a proper sentence together when he’s little. Just cuddles, binkies, and messes. Isn’t that right, baby boy?”
The Doctor’s whole face burned crimson. He tried to argue, but all that came out was a watery little whine: “Dadaaaa…”
“There it is!” the Master beamed, rocking him smugly. “Music to my ears. Told you, Donna, he gets so small he forgets the world. Doesn’t even matter he’s all soggy, do you, baby? Not when you’ve got Dada.”
The Doctor made another muffled whimper, tightening his grip. His body was shaking, but already he was sagging a little more against the Master, worn down by exhaustion and the comfort of being in familiar arms.
Donna’s chest ached, though she couldn’t help but grin at the sight. “He’s lucky, y’know,” she said softly.
“Luckiest in the universe,” the Master said with mock solemnity, nuzzling the top of the Doctor’s hair. “And so am I, really. Even when he’s a puddle of tears and accidents.”
The Doctor groaned, face buried deep in the Master’s shoulder. “Dadaaa—Don’ say—so mean…”
The Master chuckled, bouncing him as though he were a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Mean? Oh, no, baby boy. This is called love. And you’re going to let Dada show it properly in the nursery. Come along.”
Without hesitation, he shifted the Doctor’s weight and started toward the nursery. The Doctor clung like a limpet, still making tiny noises of embarrassment and misery, but the Master was unbothered.
Donna gave him a look somewhere between fondness and exasperation.
“Go on then. Get him changed before he combusts.”
The Master gave her a theatrical bow, Doctor still clinging like a koala on his hip. “With pleasure. Thank you, Auntie Donna.”
“Yeah, yeah. Off you go.” Donna watched them go, shaking her head fondly. “You two are ridiculous,” she called after them, but her voice was warm. “Take good care of him, Dada.”
“Oh, I always do!” the Master sang back, striding proudly down the corridor with his soaking, red-faced Time Tot.
And with that, the Master turned and carried his little prize out of the room. The Doctor still had his face buried in his shoulder, arms clamped around his neck. The Master rocked him with every step, murmuring softly into his ear, “My darling tot, my puddle-pants, my wittle one. Dada’s gonna take care of everything.”
The Doctor buried his face even deeper into the crook of his Dada’s neck, wishing he could disappear, but his arms stayed locked around the Master anyway, refusing to let go.
By the time they reached the nursery, the Doctor was still clinging tight, but his sobs had quieted into sniffles. The Master pushed the door open with his foot, smiling in triumph.
“Back where you belong, baby. Let’s get you all clean and cozy again.”
The Doctor groaned miserably, but his arms stayed tight around his Dada’s neck.
The Master carried him in easily, one arm hooked beneath the Doctor’s knees, the other cradling his back. The Doctor was whimpering softly into his chest, cheeks flushed bright crimson, damp trousers clinging coldly to him. He couldn’t even bring himself to look up. His face was pressed tight against the Master’s shirt, fists clutching at the fabric like it was the only thing tethering him.
The nursery door clicked shut behind them, and the Master exhaled in a long, amused sigh.
“Mm. My poor baby,” he purred, bouncing him lightly as he crossed to the bathroom attached to the nursery. “So very clever, so very dignified… puddling himself in front of Donna.”
The Doctor let out a tiny squeak, mortified. “D-Don’ say that, Dada…” His voice was fragile, small, all vowels and breath.
“Oh, I’ll say it as many times as I like.” The Master pressed a quick kiss to the top of his straight hair. “You should’ve seen your little face, hm? All red and scrunchy. No hiding it then.”
The Doctor groaned and buried his face deeper, mumbling incoherently against the Master’s chest. He kicked his legs weakly, though not like he really wanted to get down.
The Master chuckled, carrying him into the warm, tiled space and setting him gently on the padded changing table by the sink. “Now then,” he announced, voice sing-song, “time to strip down my soggy tot.”
The Doctor whimpered again, curling in on himself. “Nooo, big boy…”
“Big boys don’t dribble all over their trousers,” the Master teased, undoing his little braces with a practiced tug. “Big boys don’t squeak and hide against Dada when they’re caught, either.”
“I am big,” the Doctor protested weakly, though his lip was already wobbling.
“Oh, yes. Absolutely massive.” The Master’s grin was sharp as he peeled away the Doctor’s damp shirt, careful but unrelenting. “A towering intellectual, dripping everywhere.”
The Doctor whined, pouting furiously, but his arms stayed limp as the Master coaxed him out of each piece of clothing. Socks, trousers, underthings, everything came away until the Doctor sat there, flushed and small.
“Look at you,” the Master crooned. “All pink and pouty. My soggy little genius.”
The Doctor tried to glare, but it only came out watery. He leaned instinctively toward the Master, as though he couldn’t quite manage distance.
The Master gathered him back up, bare skin against his shirt, and carried him the few steps over to the waiting tub. Steam curled up invitingly from the water. The TARDIS had already drawn it, perfectly warm.
He settled onto the low stool beside the bath, lowering the Doctor slowly into the water. The little one gasped at the heat, then let out the tiniest sigh as his body eased into it. His shoulders slumped, tension melting away.
“There we are,” the Master murmured, rolling up his sleeves. “One damp, shame-faced puddle transformed into a squeaky clean puddle.”
The Doctor splashed weakly at the water in protest. “Dadaaa, stooop…”
The Master dipped a soft cloth into the water and wrung it out, deliberately slow. He dabbed at the Doctor’s face first, brushing his cheeks, his temples, his jaw. The Doctor shut his eyes tight, trying to hide in the sensation.
“Such dignity,” the Master teased in a whisper, leaning close. “Such composure. My mighty Time Lord, reduced to bubbles and bath cloths.”
“Don’ wan’ bubbles,” the Doctor mumbled, words thick and babyish.
“Oh, I think you do.” The Master tipped a small vial of suds into the water, swirling it until frothy peaks gathered around the Doctor’s knees. “There. A proper bath for my tiny.”
The Doctor hid his face behind his hands, embarrassed beyond words. “Not tiny…”
“Yes, tiny.” The Master chuckled, brushing the cloth gently over the Doctor’s arms, down to his hands, prying one free so he could scrub between his little fingers. “Tiniest Time Lord I’ve ever seen.”
A long silence passed, broken only by the drip of water. The Doctor peeked out from behind his hands, eyes shimmering.
“Donna saw,” he whispered. The words cracked in his throat. “She saw, Dada.”
The Master’s expression softened. He dipped the cloth, ran it gently over the Doctor’s shoulders. “Yes. She did.”
“’S bad,” the Doctor muttered, eyes filling. “She’ll think I’m… I’m not big, not clever.”
“Oh, my love.” The Master set the cloth aside for a moment, cupping his chin so the Doctor had to meet his gaze. “Donna adores you. She won’t think anything less. And besides—” his lips curved into a smirk, “—I’ll make sure she knows you’re mine. My baby. My responsibility. Not hers to worry about.”
The Doctor’s lip trembled, but he leaned into the hand, comforted despite himself.
The Master picked the cloth back up and went back to work, narrating every stroke in baby-talk just to tease.
“Scrubby scrubby little toesies,” he sang, dragging the cloth over the Doctor’s feet. “Wiggle wiggle. Yes, that’s my puddle duck.”
The Doctor squealed softly, curling his toes. “Noooo!”
“Yes!” The Master grinned, merciless. “Washy-wash on the tum-tum…” He swiped over the Doctor’s stomach, earning a squeaky gasp. “And a tickle for good measure.”
The Doctor squirmed helplessly, half-laughing, half-sobbing with embarrassment. He finally flopped back against the edge of the tub, bubbles clinging to his chest.
The Master leaned in, voice low and silky. “See? You don’t need to be big. Not when you’ve got me.”
The Doctor closed his eyes, cheeks still pink, but whispered, “’Kay, Dada…”
And just like that, he melted entirely under the care, letting the Master handle the rest.
---
The nursery was warm and soft-lit, the faint golden glow from the lamp glinting off the wooden crib rails. The Master hummed idly as he carried the damp, pouty Time Lord from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around those thin shoulders, going straight in the direction of the changing table.
The Doctor squirmed, clutching at the Master’s shirt with wet hair flopping into his eyes.
“Nooo, ’m fine, don’t need—”
“Hush,” the Master cut in smoothly, lowering him onto the padded changing table. “My little soggy Starlight has lost the right to argue after that puddle.”
The Doctor flushed crimson, burying his face in his hands as the Master flicked open the cabinet drawer with an exaggerated flourish. He pulled out the largest, puffiest diaper in the stack, the one that crackled dramatically in his fingers just to make a point.
“No more arguments about pull-ups, my soggy little stormcloud,” the Master announced, almost theatrically, shaking it out for effect.
The Doctor let out a whine that was more toddler than Time Lord, kicking his legs feebly on the table. His wet hair stuck to his temples, and his pout was enormous, but his hands didn’t push the Master away.
“Dadaaaa…” he whined, but it held no real fire.
“That’s right, keep whining. Won’t save you.” The Master grinned, leaning down to kiss the Doctor’s damp forehead. Then, efficient as always, he dusted him generously with powder, the sweet scent filling the room, before sliding the thick padding beneath him. Tape after tape was sealed snugly into place, the crinkle loud in the hush of the nursery.
The Doctor’s eyes went wide at the bulkiness, his thighs spread by the puff. “S’too big,” he muttered, blushing furiously.
“Too big?” The Master dressed him in a cute yellow snap-crotch onesie and scooped him up, sitting down on the rocking chair, chuckling as if he’d won a game. “No, my pet. It’s perfect. That’s why you listen to Dada. Dada knows his baby too well.”
The Doctor muffled his words into the Master’s chest, refusing to be seen, voice barely audible. “…‘m not a baby.”
The Master’s grin stretched wider, wicked and affectionate all at once. “You’re my baby. Case closed.”
The Doctor went rigid for a moment, trembling slightly, then, with a shuddery breath, he gave in. He hid his face deeper in the Master’s shirt, cheeks blazing, and whispered so softly it nearly disappeared: “…Yeah, okay… I am. But only Dada’s baby.”
The Master absolutely beamed, eyes shining with something rare and unguarded. He held the little Time Lord tighter against his chest, rocking him with a giddy triumph that was as much love as it was smugness.
“Ohhh, that’s my boy. Only Dada’s baby. Forever and ever.” He pressed kisses into the Doctor’s wet hair, still rocking them gently in the nursery’s chair.
Then, casually, as if it had been waiting all along, the Master reached for the warm bottle of milk sitting on the side table. He tilted it in front of the Doctor’s face, a smirk playing at his lips.
“Now then, do you want to hold your baba?”
The Doctor squirmed, biting his lip, refusing to meet those smug eyes. He gave the smallest shake of his head, cheeks pink. “’m tiny…” he mumbled, opening his mouth like a baby bird without further argument.
The Master chuckled low in his throat, utterly delighted.“Tiny and mine.” He slipped the rubber nipple between the Doctor’s lips, settling it just so.
The Doctor latched instantly, sucking softly, making those helpless little sounds that drove the Master wild with fondness, tiny hums, breathy whimpers between swallows, his fingers curling into the Master’s shirt.
“There we go. Drink it all down, baby boy.” The Master whispered, rocking and smirking, his hand stroking down the Doctor’s back while the bottle drained bit by bit.
By the end, the Doctor’s lashes were drooping, his whole body melted into the steady rhythm of the rocking chair. He finished the last mouthful with a soft sigh, thumb slipping instinctively into his mouth as he drifted.
The Doctor was nearly asleep before the Master even stood. A small bundle in his arms, thumb in mouth, diaper snug and rustling softly.
The Master looked down at him, face softened, then eased him into the crib with careful hands. He tucked the blanket over him, smoothed back his damp hair, and lingered a moment to watch the steady rise and fall of his chest.
A satisfied smirk curved his lips as he flicked off the lamp.
“Sleep tight, my baby. And remember: Dada knows best.”
The nursery fell into quiet, save for the faint sound of the Doctor’s contented sucking.