A/N: I know, I know. I should be working on other stories, but I really wanted to upload this.
I actually wrote it a while ago, it's probably one of the darkest fics I've ever written (which is really not saying much XD).
I always loved reading angst/hurt/comfort fics about the Doctor and the Master, but I could never really take my writing seriously enough to do one myself. *queue future self looking back and thinking this is awful*.
The first scene is a flashback to Gallifrey, the rest of it is set after the End of Time, where the Master gets pulled into the Time Lock and imprisoned by the high council in the final days of the Time War.
BIG NOTICE: I wrote this fanfiction before Dark Water/Death in Heaven aired, so it is now officially non-canon (thanks Moffat ¬.¬)
I think it's such a shame we never got to see the Capaldi/Simm combination, but oh well. Life goes on. That's what Fanfiction is for!
Another note - I'm really sorry Clara plays such a small part in this. I wanted to include her more, but I didn't want it to drag out too long. Anyway, Hope you all enjoy :)
Disclaimer: Doctor Who is owned by the BBC, not me.
"One day," said Theta Sigma, "we could travel the stars."
Koschei turned and looked at his best friend, in whose eyes were reflected the very stars he was talking about. They were lying out in one of the crimson fields, staring up at the bright night sky. It was far past their designated sleeping time, but neither really cared.
"That's a stupid idea," said Koschei bluntly. "Where would we get a TARDIS? You have to take special tests to fly them."
"We could cheat."
"You're rubbish at cheating."
"Yeah, but you're really good! You could cheat for both of us." Theta turned over onto his belly and grinned at Koschei, his expression hopeful. "Besides, only one of us has to fly the thing. You could be my companion."
Koschei scowled in mock outrage. "I'm not anyone's companion!"
Theta laughed at this, and Koschei started to laugh too. He tilted his head up to the stars, grinning, and found himself wishing this wonderful moment would never end.
Everything about the room said prison cell.
It was dark and bare, with a low, oppressive ceiling, and everything was the colour of rusted metal.
The cell's single occupant was sitting on an rectangular seat in the centre of the room.
Scuffed boots. Black clothes, forming a stark contrast with white-blond hair. Fingers tapping out a steady rhythm.
The Master looked bored.
He was still looking bored when there was a sound like squealing metal, and the cell's only door jerked open.
The man who walked in was tall and impressive, resplendent in crimson robes that swept the floor as he walked. His face was set in an expression of grim satisfaction.
The Master didn't look up - didn't even give any indication that he'd heard the man enter. Any way of annoying Lord President Rassilon was a small victory down here.
Rassilon cleared his throat.
"Master."
The name was spat out like it disgusted him. Still, the Master remained perfectly still, his face a mask of mild boredom.
Rassilon's expression grew slightly irritated, and he raised his left hand, encased in its shining metal gauntlet, and closed his fist.
The Master gave a small cry of pain, folding up and automatically bringing his arms in to protect his chest - for all the good it would do him.
"Look at me," hissed Rassilon.
Still shaking, the Master raised his head slowly to meet the Lord President's gaze, his eyes burning with hatred.
Rassilon smiled triumphantly and opened his hand, and the Master gasped in relief, curling up again but careful to keep eye contact this time.
"What do you want?" he snarled.
Rassilon didn't answer at once. Instead he began to walk slowly around the edge of the room, making the Master follow him with his eyes.
"Master," he said again, with the same tone of distaste. "I have always been curious as to why you chose that name."
The Master managed a grin. "It forces anyone who's talking to me to address me as their superior."
Rassilon chuckled softly, examining the intricate designs on his metal glove.
The Master licked his lips nervously, eyes flickering between Rassilon's face and the gauntlet.
"What do you want?" he asked again.
"To punish you for what you have done."
The Master let out a hollow laugh. "What, more than you have already? You made my life into hell."
Rassilon smiled unpleasantly, continuing his slow circuit of the room until he was behind the Master, who had dropped his gaze. "I was under the impression that hell was... how did you put it?" He paused. "'Your kinda world'."
"I hope you didn't come down here to try and justify to me what you did," said the Master, "because I'm afraid you'd be wasting your time."
"I came to make you pay for your treachery."
The Master twisted round to stare at him. "What treachery? I lived with these -" the Master indicated his temples "- in my head all my life, every regeneration, all for you and your stupid plan, Lord President." He spat the last word out like a curse.
"And yet," said Rassilon, his voice rising in anger, "you sabotaged the Ultimate Sanction. Gallifrey is falling. You are to blame."
"Gallifrey was always going to fall!" the Master snapped. "You just deluded yourself into thinking you could escape with your little trick."
"Enough!" bellowed Rassilon. "I will not be spoken to by the likes of you!"
Another laugh, only this time it sounded more genuine. "Well you came to visit me. I don't know what else you expected to happen, really." The Master paused. "And why did you come down here, all alone? Why didn't you send one of your lowly servants to do the dirty work? That sounds very you."
"Because," said Rassilon, his voice like ice, "Today, every last shred of the Time Lords' ancient history and culture crumbles to dust. And I am going to make sure the man responsible suffers."
A wry grin spread across the Master's face. "Then why aren't you looking for the Doctor?"
Rassilon glared at him, and the Master glared right back. They stayed like that for a long time, until the Lord President stepped back and withdrew something from beneath the folds of his robe.
The Master snorted in amusement. "Really? You've got a dagger? Let me guess - the Butter Knife of Rassilon?"
Rassilon didn't answer, but held up the ornate knife and began tapping it lightly with the metal fingers of his left hand. It started to glow.
The Master's confidence was wavering, but it still hadn't quite deserted him. "Seriously, Rassilon? You're going to stab me to death? Isn't that a bit, I don't know, pedestrian for you?"
"No, I am not going to stab you to death," Rassilon said coldly, setting the dagger down next to the Master where it glinted wickedly in the dim light. "You are."
The Master's eyes widened in surprise. His own arm was reaching for the dagger, fingers closing around the hilt. Surprise turned to shock, then fear, and the knife came towards his face.
The Master screamed. He was helpless and unable to control his own hands as they carved and poked and sliced every inch of flesh they could reach. Blood spilled over his skin and down his neck, and Rassilon stood and watched as the Master sobbed and cut and cried out until he was too physically exhausted to carry on, and dropped the knife to the floor with a clatter. Then he left.
He didn't know how long he'd been lying there, soaked in a pool of his own blood. An hour, maybe? A day? He didn't really care. Let Gallifrey burn. Let them all burn. See if he cared.
A screeching sound met his ears as the door opened, and he laughed, coughing up a mouthful of blood as he did so. Of course the Lord President wouldn't be satisfied with just torture. He had come back to finish the job.
Well, the Master thought, at least he wouldn't give Rassilon the satisfaction of showing weakness. He pushed aside the shooting, white-hot pain that stabbed at his mind and forced himself to focus, pushing himself up onto his elbows.
But it wasn't Rassilon standing in the doorway. It was another man, a man with wiry grey hair and a furious face trying to be an anxious face.
The Master inhaled through his mouth, almost gagging on the blood, but there it was. That incredibly familiar scent.
"Doctor?" His voice sounded hoarse and raw.
The Doctor's new, angry face stopped trying to be anxious and tried to look shocked. It almost made the Master laugh, seeing how the man's eyebrows just kept frowning, regardless of what the rest of his face was doing.
"Master!"
He had a new accent, the Master thought vaguely as his old friend rushed to his side. Couldn't tell what it was.
"Master, oh... no. No, no. What happened?"
"You're Scottish," mumbled the Master, allowing himself to be lifted gently off the metal seat.
"Yes, that surprised me a little, too," the Doctor admitted. His voice was shaky. He clutched the Master by the shoulders, examining him. "What on Gallifrey did they do to you?"
The Master paused, thinking.
"Nothing," he said at last. "They didn't do anything to me at all."
He smirked at his own joke, but the Doctor didn't seem to get it. He just babbled on.
"You'll be fine. I promise. We'll get you to the TARDIS. Just hold on, okay?"
The Master managed a nod, and the Doctor put him down again, rushing over to the door and calling to somebody outside. A few seconds later a girl entered. Pretty thing, the Master thought.
"Is that him?" she asked, looking slightly sickened by the amount of blood.
The Doctor simply nodded. "Go and get the stretcher from the TARDIS."
The Master closed his eyes and let them talk. He was so tired. He could feel himself drifting into sleep. He didn't fight it.
TARDIS. That sounded nice. That sounded safe. Perhaps he could sleep there...
Somebody shook him by the shoulder. He groaned, tried to push them off. He just wanted to rest.
Somebody shook him again. He briefly wondered if it was the same somebody, decided it probably was, and rolled over, trying to ignore them.
Then whoever it was poked him.
They actually poked him!
The sheer audacity of this act caused the Master's brain to wake up a little. He cracked an eye open and saw the Doctor's ridiculous new face trying to smile.
"Hey, you. Don't go dying on me now, alright?"
The Master wanted to nod, but it had become such an effort, so he simply blinked slowly, and fell back into blackness.
The time rotor hummed loudly, lulling the Master awake. He blinked against the pale lights of the TARDIS, mentally checking himself over. No broken bones. No serious injuries. Pretty much all the cuts healed.
"What-" he croaked, trying to sit up.
He saw the girl leaning against the railings - new railings - and looked her up and down properly. She was short and pretty and wearing a dress of some kind.
"Doctor, the Master's eyein' me up," she said loudly. She had an accent, too, he noticed. Accents were apparently all the rage at the moment.
"Well, do something about it, I don't care!" came the Doctor's new voice. Then the Doctor's new face appeared to the Master's left, eyebrows and all.
"Hello!"
"...Hello," replied the Master carefully. His voice was still rough and his tongue tasted of blood.
They stared at one another for a moment. Then the girl said brightly, "Well, you two clearly have a lot to talk about. I'll make tea."
"Excellent," said the Doctor. "Yes. Good idea, Clara."
The Master noticed for the first time that he was lying in a makeshift bed, almost directly beneath the console. He could feel the heat of the engines beside him like a great beating heart, and realised that the energy from the TARDIS must be sustaining him. Clever old Doctor.
When the girl, Clara, had gone off in search of tea things, the Doctor hunkered down beside him and gave him a Look.
"What's that for?" mumbled the Master.
"You know what. Whatever Rassilon did to you, it should've killed you. The TARDIS is keeping you alive. You'll have to stay in it or near it for quite a while, at least until you're completely healed."
A shadow of a grin crossed the Master's face. "So I'm stuck with you, is what you're saying."
"Pretty much. So, you can lie here and complain and be grumpy all the time, or..."
"Or what?"
The Doctor shrugged, his expression cautiously hopeful.
"You could always come with me. We can travel the stars, just like we always planned."
Something stirred in the Master's brain, like a long-forgotten memory.
"That's..."
"Yes?"
"A stupid idea."
The Doctor smiled fondly, and for once it didn't seem at odds with his eyebrows. "Pudding-brain."