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The Master had been in custody for nearly eight hours when the Brigadier came to fetch the Doctor.
“He was reacting strangely,” the Brigadier said. “Sluggishly. Stopped responding to anyone. And just before I came to fetch you, he collapsed. I was rather hoping you’d have some idea as to why.”
“Was he pale?”
“Well, he has a rather tan complexion—”
“For god’s sake, man,” the Doctor snapped. “Was he paler than usual or not?”
The Brigadier hesitated. “I believe so.”
“Take me to him,” the Doctor said.
“Are you sure? Could this be playing into his hand?”
“Are your soldiers capable or not? I know what’s wrong with him and I know how to fix it.”
“Would it,” the Brigadier ventured, “not be better if the Master were weakened while in our care?”
“He will die,” the Doctor said, “and then regenerate. We don’t know how he’ll be afterwards. If anything, that increases his chances of escape.”
“Ah,” the Brigadier said, eloquently.
“Ah indeed. Now, do you intend to take me there, or shall we discourse so long that the Master dies before we can get there?”
The Brigadier led the Doctor to the room where the Master was being held, and found the Master half-slumped over the table. The fool was clearly still trying to prop himself up on his arm, although his skin was alarmingly pale, his eyes half-lidded; he was in such a state that Benton kept twitching where he stood as though he could help him. The Master was very firmly keeping his jaw shut.
The Doctor wasn’t sure whether to call this stupidity of a kindness.
“Come on, old chap,” he said, sliding into the remarkably uncomfortable metal chair opposite the Master’s. One of the Master’s arms was cuffed to the chair; there were two cuffs, but one had been opened. A glance at the Brigadier suggested he hadn’t authorised that. “You’re not going to get any better if you ignore it.”
The Master attempted to raise his head but failed. The Doctor took his chin in hand. He was given only a weak glare for his troubles.
“I am offering,” he said. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The Master had never provided the details of his condition. One day at the Academy he was fine, the next regenerated with a sallow complexion and a carefully closed mouth. It had taken three months for the Doctor to prise the situation from him; it took a further seven years before the Master consented to bite him. Whatever happened—
Well. It was in the past.
“Go away, Doctor,” the Master said, which was so below his usual standard of retort that it was almost laughable. “I don’t—ah—need your help.” The Master’s body was shaking from the effort of staying upright, a gasped steadying breath scarcely helping—this was no time for the Master to be stupid.
“If this is about revealing your condition to UNIT, I assure you they’ll certainly know when it kills you.” He flapped his free hand close to the Master’s face. “You’ll feel better afterwards.”
With great effort, the Master enunciated, “I shall not.”
The unfortunate side effect of this was that his mouth was open enough for the Doctor to force his fingers in there. Benton made a startled sound, but the Doctor paid him no mind. He met the Master’s eyes, saw the pleading, the betrayal, and then he pressed the pad of his thumb to the Master’s fang.
As fang pierced skin, there was a long and terrible second where the Master struggled with his own urges, then his eyes flashed a dull red and instinct took over. His tongue probed at the wound, and then he, in a sudden burst of strength, pulled the Doctor’s hand from his mouth to bite down instead on his wrist; the Doctor waved down Benton and Yates, and watched the Master feed.
He had always liked it, the moment the Master gave way. When he became less than a Time Lord, and something more akin to a wild beast. It was as though he lost himself. He was beautiful like this, with none of that mind behind his body, just raw animal impulse.
The first time he had seen it, the Master had begged the Doctor to forget about it. As though that strange and terrible creature that broke loose from within him was something the Doctor wanted to forget. But he looked—he looked like something feral, like something exotic, like something dangerous, and although his bite hurt, and it hurt a lot, the Doctor could never bring himself to regret letting him feast. Not just because the Master would certainly die without it.
The Doctor swallowed, acutely aware both of his own throat bobbing and the blood pulsing from his wrist to the Master’s mouth. The Master pulled back, bloodlust sated. The look in his eyes was—indecipherable, maybe. Something dull and hurt. Defeated, if one wanted to be uncharitable.
“Isn’t that much better?” the Doctor said, but the usual condescending tone felt more like false bravado. The Master was still looking at him with that awful look. “Have someone call me when you next need help,” he added. “I’ll be there.” It sounded like the right thing to say.
“Doctor,” the Master acknowledged, and turned his head away.
The Brigadier led the Doctor out. “He wasn’t terribly grateful,” he said. “You’d think a fellow would be, with a condition like that.”
The Doctor gave him a tight smile. “Quite.”
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that—
No, he thought. He had saved the Master’s life. He had saved the Master’s life.