Work Text:
The Doctor had decided to stop arguing the second time they’d beaten him. Give up, their leader had told him—a tall, muscled woman—as she pulled his head up by the hair. We really don’t have to hurt you.
Believe me, he’d said, if I could give up the information you want from me, I would give it to you. I don’t have it. He had told them every single piece of information he had, but it wasn’t enough.
Eventually, they’d given up on him. He’d been cuffed at the wrists and ankles and kicked into a corner.
Then left.
And left.
…And left.
Time Lords didn’t have the benefit of losing track of time, of being allowed to convince oneself that it had only been an hour, not five, or only been a day, not three. He had drifted in and out of consciousness. He had probed, carefully, at a certainly broken bone. He’d tried to sit up, only to vomit, head spinning. His throat was dry.
He decided perhaps he was better off lying down, which was, naturally, when the door opened.
“My dear Doctor,” came a voice. A very, very familiar voice. “It appears I arrived just in time.”
The Doctor groaned. “Not you,” he said, then coughed. It was bloodier than it should be. Probably fine, he thought, then winced. “I should have known you were behind this.”
“Who, me?” the Master sounded almost surprised, though amused. “Why would I be behind such a barbaric little operation? Have you ever known me to leave you to rot in a cell when I could kill you myself?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the Doctor managed. “Who knows what goes on in that terrible mind of yours. I wouldn’t put this past you.”
“If you must know,” the Master said, “I came to rescue you.”
The Doctor scoffed. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that. Your minions had me beaten bloody before they left me here for three days.”
“Not my minions, and you’ll be delighted to know that I’ve had them all killed.”
He rolled over enough to press his forehead to a patch of cold floor. He was too hot, he thought. Not a rare thing for him, but worse than usual. Perhaps he would finally be rid of this body.
“None of that,” the Master said, and then hands were rolling him back over. One gloved hand came to rest on his back, gently pulling him up. “Come, now. Are you going to least these creatures kill you?”
“Go away,” the Doctor said. He had aimed for condescending, but appeared to have landed on petulant.
“But, my dear, I don’t want to.” He looked down at the Doctor. “Or were you going to try and make me? I really am here to help.”
“And I,” the Doctor said, slow and careful to avoid slurring, “don’t want you to.”
“I can always make things worse.” When the Doctor didn’t respond, the Master tapped his face gently. “I didn’t think so. Come on, then. Up you get.”
“Can’t.”
“Can’t?” A telepathic nudge. The Doctor sent back a sharp rebuttal, then, begrudgingly, a brief flash of all the ways his body hurt. The Master clucked his tongue. “I see. I will carry you, then, but I do need you to get up.”
“This body,” the Doctor gasped as the Master half-hauled him to his feet. “Regenerated wrong. Dimensions… spilling out. Too heavy.” Certainly too heavy for a Trakenite body, he thought, but he must have projected it, because the Master gave him a sharp look.
“I can handle it,” he said, coolly. “It would help if you cooperated.”
“Where are we going?”
“The medbay on my TARDIS. I don’t know where your rust bucket is, and have no intentions of running afoul of your companions.”
“You’ll let me go?”
The Master smoothed down his hair, freeing up a little more of the Doctor’s vision. “Don’t ask those sort of questions,” he said. Then, true to his word, he did manage to scoop the Doctor up, the Doctor’s head resting gently against his shoulder. “You’re exhausted. Sleep, my dear. I shan’t hurt you any worse than these brutes have already hurt you.”
The Doctor would like to have said some witty retort, or perhaps something along the lines of I’ll never trust you or I’ll escape and ruin all your plans or sign those divorce papers before I kill you, but instead he found that the Master’s arms were really a very comfortable place to be, and the Master’s shoulder was actually a fantastic pillow, and that he really was very tired.
The Doctor slept.