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[earlier]
“That one’s Arcturus,” Theta murmured, late one night, pointing at the stars. “And that one’s Canis Minor.” His voice was hushed, in deference to the fact that they were theoretically breaking Academy curfew. That wasn’t something that tended to concern either of the two young Time Lords, but adults had unreasonable expectations sometimes.
“And which is that one over there?” Koschei wanted to know.
“That’s Praxis,” Theta said. He stopped looking up, turning to regard his companion with an intensity beyond his years. “That’s where we’re going to go first.”
“There?” Koschei laughed in surprise. “I thought you’d want to go to Earth first. It’s all you ever talk about.”
“We can go there second,” Theta said stubbornly. “But first we have to go to Praxis.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the foremost center for medical research and knowledge in the galaxy,” he answered, sounding for a moment as if he were reciting facts from a textbook. Then he slipped back into normal speech, earnestness coloring every note. “They’ll know what to do. I’m sure of it.”
“You mean…”
“About the drums.”
In the brief silence that fell, both of their gazes suddenly darted to their feet; Koschei, unconsciously, had been tapping his to a beat of four.
“If no one here knows what to do,” he said, unsuccessfully trying to hide a wobble in his voice, “how can anyone else?”
“Someone out there knows,” Theta insisted. “And we’re going to find them, even if we have to go to every planet there is.”
“What if no one knows?”
“Then we’ll figure it out ourselves.”
“What if…” Koschei swallowed, looked away. “It’s getting worse, Thete. You know it is. What if I can’t help you?”
“Then I’ll find a cure,” Theta answered, determined.
“You won’t give up?” Koschei whispered. “You won’t get tired or bored or frustrated and leave?”
“Never,” Theta swore. Then he smiled, utterly confident. “So you just have to hold on until I do.”
[now]
The lights were burning his eyes. It was late; he had been up too long. The Doctor sighed, straightening from where he was bent over some delicate laboratory equipment. He removed his glasses and scrubbed a hand futilely over his face.
“Doctor?”
He turned around. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was,” the Master murmured, coming into the room, “but when I rolled over, the bed was empty.”
“I’m sorry,” the Doctor said wearily. “I just thought that maybe – ”
“The samples won’t be ready until morning,” the Master reminded him. His movements were nearly soundless, barefoot as he was, dressed only in a loose pair of pants for sleeping. He laid one hand on the lab table next to the Doctor, using the other to wrap around the slim waist and pull the Doctor to him. “You’re only spinning your wheels.”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t…” the Doctor sighed, letting his head fall forward to rest on the Master’s shoulder. “I just get so angry,” he whispered. “And then I can’t sleep.”
“You have nothing to be angry about,” the Master soothed. But his fingers tapped out a rhythm against the Doctor’s hip: one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.
“I do,” the Doctor insisted. “I’m furious, sometimes, at the entire universe, for being so unjust. And then I’m so upset with myself, for not being able to fix it.”
“Shh,” the Master said softly. “You’ve done so much already. I used to have only minutes of freedom from the drums. Then days. Then weeks. Now, thanks to our research, I have months. We’re getting closer, Doctor. We’ll find a cure.”
The Doctor closed his eyes. “You have to leave again, soon, don’t you?”
Silence, for a long moment.
“Yes,” the Master finally admitted. “The drums are getting louder. I’ll have to find something to placate them.”
“Another planet to conquer? Or will it be a doomsday weapon this time?”
“I don’t know. I never know, until the drums take over.” The Master pulled back slightly, meeting the Doctor’s eyes. “What about you? How will you stop me this time? Last-minute monkey wrench in my plans? Turning one of my henchmen against me? A human where I least expect them?”
“I don’t know,” the Doctor said wryly. “I never know, until the moment comes.”
“It doesn’t have to come yet.” The Master moved back from the laboratory table, tugging the Doctor along with him. “I still have a few days. Tomorrow we’ll check these samples, see if we can make any progress on that neural inhibitor. For now, there’s nothing more you can do here.”
“I should – ” the Doctor started, looking around almost helplessly at the scattered paraphernalia of research.
“Come to bed, my dear,” the Master entreated. “Please. While I’m still here.”
The Doctor stood there a moment longer, irresolute, looking forlorn. “Do I help?” he asked finally.
“Oh, Doctor.” The Master abandoned his attempts to tug the Doctor along, instead wrapping up the other Time Lord in a firm embrace and touching their foreheads together. Contact, then: My dear, after all this time, do you really not know the answer to that? Can you possibly be unaware that you are my only lifeline in this abyss of madness?
I hope, the Doctor answered, mental voice sounding lost. I just feel so helpless.
Come to bed, the Master repeated gently. Tomorrow will be a new day.
[then]
The Master’s madness, the sound of the drums, always came in waves. They would start quietly. Just a small tap-tap-tapping, in the back of his mind. Something he could ignore for long periods at a stretch.
Gradually they would increase in volume, pounding louder. He’d start to tremble, to beat the rhythm out on random pieces of furniture. He’d start to have nightmares that didn’t seem like nightmares while he was having them – dreams of conquest and blood that only turned to horror in the cold light of morning.
Eventually they would grow so loud that the Master would lose his grip on himself, slipping away beneath the avalanche of noise. When that happened, he would do terrible things, awakening to the consequences only when the mania had run its course.
At first, as a child, the drums would stay quiet for entire decades, and the fits would last only minutes. Long enough to throw a textbook, to get into a fistfight, to look at one of their professors with wild eyes and speak words that none of the watching students understood. But not long enough for lasting harm. He would come back to himself with a gasp, full of bewilderment and apologies. It bought him some extra bullying, and left him with few friends. But it was survivable.
As they got older, though, it was impossible to ignore the way that the episodes were coming closer together, lasting longer, growing more intense. It didn’t just end with arguments with authority figures or fights that needed to be broken up. He started to dream of other worlds, of conquest, of rule.
The boy who would become the Doctor refused to leave him, even as their other friends faded away one by one. He chose the name of a healer for one reason: he was going to help his friend, and nothing in the universe was going to stop them.
In pursuit of that goal, they’d left Gallifrey. Together, at first, but nothing they tried helped. The drums got worse, the moments of sanity fewer, until one day the Master walked out of their TARDIS in the grip of his madness and didn’t come back.
The Doctor was alone for a long time after that, but he never gave up.
[now]
It was better now, the Doctor kept assuring himself. They were making progress. Every time the Master woke back up, he stayed himself longer. Every time they learned more about how to keep the drums at bay.
The madness had been at its worst some time after they’d first left Gallifrey. Left alone, the Doctor had lived through two lives before finding his dear, mad, wayward lover on Earth. During the Doctor’s exile the Master was all one manic scheme after another. Sometimes there would be a brief lucid rush after the dénouement, but it lasted only long enough for him to help the Doctor extricate them from whatever mess he’d created. Rarely there was time for anything more – a word, a touch, some reminder that the Master was still there, somewhere beneath the insanity, holding on. Just for a moment. Then it was back to the drums. The Master rushing onwards to the next plot; the Doctor running behind, determined to save him.
So this was better, the Doctor thought, lying awake in their bed and watching the Master sleep. They had time again now between the episodes of madness. Even though the other Time Lord twitched and frowned in his sleep, even though his fingers tapped out a beat of four against the sheets – the Doctor captured the wayward hand, interlacing their fingers and stilling the involuntary motion. The drums weren’t overwhelming yet. The Master would still wake up as himself, though they were fast approaching the moment when the Master would have to go, walk away in search of a release valve for his illness.
But every time brought them a little closer.
[then]
Music helped. It was the first real breakthrough they made, after the Doctor found the Master again in the midst of his exile on Earth. While being held in UNIT captivity, the Master had been exposed to a variety of Earth forms of recreation. Most were worse than useless. But there had been a soldier with a boom box and a taste for Beatles records. They hadn’t helped at first – in those days, little did – but after enough exposure to the music, the Master had found himself humming the tunes under his breath even when he was lucid.
The Doctor noticed him doing it, one day, as they stood together after another ruined scheme. He turned to look, surprised, and the Master looked back. “You’re still here,” the Doctor said in astonishment. “You’re still with me.”
The Master hadn’t even realized it. But the Doctor was right. He hadn’t run away, caught again in the grip of his madness. The drums still echoed in his mind, but they were muted. He could almost think.
“You’re humming something,” the Doctor said suddenly.
Crossing the space between them was the work of moments; then the Doctor had his hands to the Master’s temples, their foreheads resting together, as the Doctor reached into his mind. Contact, then –
That music, the Doctor whispered in his mind. He pulled a strand up from the Master’s subconscious. Four boys from Liverpool, singing with the earnestness of youth: [all the lonely people/where do they all belong?]
One of your UNIT men likes it, the Master murmured. I didn’t realize I’d picked any up.
I think it’s helping. The Doctor pulled out of his mind. “Come on,” he said out loud. “I want to run some tests, while it’s like this.”
The Doctor worked quickly, efficiently. When they’d first left Gallifrey, they had thought they’d have all the time in the world to find a cure. In between they’d travelled, the life they’d always wanted, seeing the wonders of the universe together. But as the drumming had gotten worse and the Master’s periods of sanity had gotten shorter and farther between, they’d had to give it up, increasing the pace of their research. The Doctor had grown far too practiced at running tests and taking samples in whatever time was available.
“You’re still here,” the Doctor whispered. The samples were lined up neatly on one table; tests were in process on another. It had been a long time since the Master had remained lucid this long. The Doctor’s fingers trembled where he laid them on the Master’s shoulders. Their minds brushed, and unbidden the Master felt the Doctor’s wild relief.
The Master had to clear his throat twice before he could speak. “I will sing a thousand corny love songs,” he promised, “if that’s what it takes.”
The Doctor laughed, a watery sort of sound that in no way disguised the brightness of his eyes. “The tests are running,” he said unnecessarily. “There’s nothing else to do right now. Do you think… do you think it’ll last for a little while longer?”
“I do,” the Master answered, daring to smile, and drew the Doctor to him.
That had been the beginning of something new.
[now]
They’d developed many techniques for keeping the drums at bay, since the early days, but none of them worked as well sleeping as they did awake. The Master’s dreams were never pleasant. The Doctor had gotten far too used to being woken by his nightmares. Or, what was almost worst, sleeping through them. Not that he was sleeping tonight.
“What were you dreaming about?” the Doctor asked, when the Master jerked awake with a gasp, rolling over in a panic and pressing himself against the Doctor.
“Logopolis,” the Master whispered, shuddering.
The Doctor stroked sweat-damp hair where it lay on his chest, feeling hot, wet splashes against his bare skin. He didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t think the Master would ever forgive himself for letting the Doctor fall to his death. He didn’t know, deep within, if he forgave the Master.
“You’ll have to go soon,” the Doctor said finally. If it was bad enough that the Master was dreaming about Logopolis, it wouldn’t be long before the drumming got bad enough to drive the Master away.
“How many will I kill this time?” the Master wondered bitterly, face still hidden.
The Doctor drew a shuddering breath. “None,” he said firmly. “I’ll stop you.”
“You can’t always stop me,” the Master whispered. “You haven’t always been able to stop me.”
Against the Doctor’s throat, burning drops were splashing, one-two-three-four.
[then]
It wasn’t long before the Doctor had the routine down to a science. Foil the Master’s plan; arrange for the Master’s escape – it was amazing what a reputation for being scatterbrained could do – then wait. It always took a while for the madness to ease off, even once it had been sated by an indulgence of megalomania. More than long enough for the Doctor to accept the thanks of whatever grateful populace he’d rescued this time, take his leave, and find somewhere safe to deposit his companions. Few of them ever said no to the Doctor’s suggestion that a sojourn on Midnight would be just the thing for a few victorious heroes.
They didn’t have to know about what happened in the time between. That the Doctor slipped out a side entrance and reentered his TARDIS, returning to whatever world they’d left. That the Master found him, every time, after he’d regained enough of himself to hear the song of the Doctor’s TARDIS and feel the Doctor’s mind reaching out for his. That the Doctor was always there, waiting, with music playing and lights carefully strobing (one-two-three-four).
In the time between, they stayed together, working continually to find a cure, until the drums got too loud and the Master had to leave.
Only then would the Doctor return. Such was his reputation for imprecise TARDIS landings that no one ever thought he might have lived months in the minutes between their notice. And it was universal enough, this routine, that none of his companions ever questioned his eternal post-adventure melancholy.
[now]
“Where’s Peri this time?” the Master asked, tracing the curve of the Doctor’s bare shoulder, thrown over the Master’s body as if he could hold him here forever with the strength of his hands. The Doctor closed his eyes, tried to remember.
“Lucernius Prime?” he tried. He opened his eyes after a moment and shrugged. “The TARDIS will know to take me back for her.” When you have to leave, the Doctor didn’t say.
“She’ll never even know you’re gone,” the Master said with a kind of strange sadness. “She doesn’t know how lucky she is.”
The Doctor curled his fingers possessively on the Master’s skin. “Do you know when I’m gone?”
“At first,” the Master said regretfully. “But once the drums get loud enough, I barely remember your name.”
The Doctor didn’t answer. After a moment, the Master rolled over, coming to rest on top of the Doctor, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Tell me what you’re thinking?” he asked gently.
The Doctor sighed. Fingers lifted of their own accord, trailing over muscles in the Master’s upper arms. “I’m wondering how much longer we can keep doing this before it all comes crashing down on us.”
The Master leaned down. His hair, loose, fell around them; it wasn’t very long, but it was enough to block out the soft lights of the TARDIS while they kissed. It was like a different world, where there were only the two of them and nothing else mattered.
“I will hold on as long as it takes,” he promised.
“You have to go tomorrow,” the Doctor murmured. “Don’t you.”
The Master closed his eyes, let their foreheads rest against each other. Contact: and the drums rolled through both of their minds, pounding, ever louder.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow.”
[then]
In the Doctor’s third incarnation, Beatles songs had bought the Master hours. Early in his fifth, when he swung the TARDIS door shut and pressed lips to too-hot skin, they could hope for weeks. It was progress.
Every interval was longer. Sometimes not by much, as the Doctor tinkered with the lights and fine-tuned the atmosphere – two more points of oxy, a little less nitro, would throwing in some neon help? Sometimes one of his samples would prove fruitful, giving him a new key to the puzzle. The variance ebbed and flowed, but the overall trend was unmistakable.
As the Master’s sanity lasted longer between episodes, he returned to working in the lab alongside the Doctor, picking up research he’d been forced to put aside not long after they first left Gallifrey. Long ago, they’d identified certain neurotransmitters as responsible for the way the Master ‘heard’ the drums. Now, they developed a drug that rebalanced them, dampening their effects.
When they finally deemed it ready for live testing, the Master insisted he be tied down first.
Once, the Doctor would have argued. They’d tried restraining the Master, early on. In those days, when the fits lasted less long and were less intense, they had believed that the Master could simply be confined until they ran their course. That way no one got hurt.
It hadn’t worked that way. Restraint had driven the drums to a fever pitch. The fit hadn’t ended until the Master had broken free. Until he’d escaped out onto the planet they’d been at the time. Until someone had been killed.
That had been the first death.
After that, they’d reverted to type, with the Doctor opposing the Master’s schemes and protecting the innocents he threatened in his madness. That Doctor would have argued that he was more than capable of foiling whatever the Master might attempt, should the drug not work as designed.
But this Doctor remembered the disaster at Logopolis. They had attempted to use a modified blood-borne pathogen to alter the Master’s newly Trakenite biology. They had believed it would open new paths for their research that had not been available before. They had had such hopes.
This time, he spent twenty minutes carefully immobilizing the Master before he gave him the shot.
This time, the Master stayed himself for almost twice as long.
[now]
“Well,” the Doctor said finally, and then had to stop talking, because it was too hard to speak.
“It will be all right,” the Master said, but couldn’t meet his eyes.
The Master was standing by the door of the TARDIS; the Doctor, at her console, had one hand on the door-release lever. They looked at each other from across the room. The Doctor wanted to cross that space and catch the Master up in his arms, press him against the wall of the TARDIS and never let him leave.
But the Master’s fingers tapped compulsively, one-two-three-four, against his trouser leg. Through the lingering traces of last night’s telepathic embrace, the Doctor could hear the drums rolling. They sounded like thunder in the distance. Still far away, but growing closer with every heartsbeat.
It was time. Time and almost past.
“Be careful,” the Doctor begged, and let him go.
[later]
The Doctor drew the plunger back, watching the red-tinted serum gradually fill the needle.
“I keep telling myself not to hope,” he murmured. “I keep trying to remember every time I hoped and it didn’t work out.”
“Eventually we have to let ourselves hope again,” the Master answered quietly. “Because to do otherwise is to implicitly eliminate any probability of success.”
“But what basis have we for hope?”
The Master lifted his eyes to the Doctor’s. They were the only part of himself that was still mobile; the rest was tightly confined, in the event of another violent reaction. “Do you still love me, Doctor?”
“You know I do.”
“After everything I’ve done? Everything you’ve sacrificed?” the Master pressed. “It’s been a long time, Doctor, and we’re not children anymore.”
The Doctor set the empty serum bottle aside. Stepping forward into the Master’s personal space, he touched the contact points on the Master’s temples. Emotion flowed between them: fear, hope, guilt, faith, despair, love. Love in spite of everything, reciprocated and reflected between them a thousand times.
“Yes,” the Doctor swore, mind and heart open, nowhere for anything to hide. Not a child’s vow, anymore; an adult’s choice, made with full knowledge, and chosen willingly.
“Then let us use that as our foundation,” the Master answered, and it was a promise. He pressed their minds briefly closer, a telepathic embrace, then pulled away gently. It wouldn’t do for them to be entangled for this. His mind could be as violent as his body.
Alone, the drums seemed to double in volume.
The Doctor took a deep breath, then set the tip of the needle against the Master’s vein.
“Hold on,” he whispered.