A/N: Greetings, fellow Whovians! I, Morte, a longtime hardcore fan of the show, am finally getting around to posting a fic. :)

Timeline: Last of the Time Lords (3x13, I believe). You'll be able to tell. Major spoilers for that ep.

Warnings: Hardcore angst.

Characters: 10th Doctor, Master, Jack Harkness

It's written from an interesting perspective that I haven't seen done a whole lot. I'm sure you'd all be able to figure it out, but if you'd like to know beforehand, Jack's the narrator.

All that said, I hope you enjoy! Remember to tell me what you think.

It's over now.

That's all I can think about right now; it's all I want to, because if I start thinking about everything that's happened, I'll go crazy. The Year That Never Was—that's pretty mind-bending, even for us. We're the only ones who will ever remember all the crap that happened the last 365 days. Everyone has just lost a year of their lives . A year. Or maybe it's us that have gained it. I'm always older than everyone else, anyways…

I blink, bringing myself back to simpler thoughts.

It's over, but not complete. This isn't exactly an event that can be prettily wrapped up with no complications. There's one loose end in particular, and right now he's glaring at the Doctor with such contempt I'm half-surprised he doesn't start throwing punches. The Master. I scoff. Now I'd be perfectly okay with throwing him into the Time Vortex and being done with it, but the Doctor wouldn't stand for that. For some reason he seems to think the lunatic has a chance of redemption, or something like that. Funny how he's giving the Master so many chances. Any other foe would have been at least sent far away with a very stern warning and one of those terrifying 'I'm-so-serious-right-now' looks.

But I suppose this is different. He can't exactly just let the Master go, and he's sure as heck not going to kill him. Besides semi-pacifism being something of his trademark, I think this goes farther than a moral policy. Until now, he's been alone… so alone. I've seen it. Even with us—Rose or Martha or I—he's always been dragging along knowing that there is no one else in this entire universe who completely understands him, who he can truly talk to; who knows his genius, and his pain. Now though, he's finally found another Time Lord, and he isn't letting go anytime soon.

Besides that, I suspect there's a history between the two. They're both Gallifreyans—the only ones to escape the Time War, allegedly. And the way they interact… it speaks of experiences far beyond any the Doctor's ever had with us. I almost feel a little jealous. He looks at the Master—the guy who just tried to destroy his precious Earth—with nothing but compassion, kindness, even… love.

He's looking at him like that right now, as he snatches my attention by saying, "You're my responsibility from now on. The only Time Lord left in existence."

"Yeah, but you can't trust him." I don't care how much you, well, care. And neither does he.

"No. The only safe place for him is in the TARDIS."

I tune out a little, musing on the expectancy that appears to be anything but mutual. I can't help but wonder how on earth this is going to work out. The Doctor seems to think that he can get the Master to switch perspectives and go with him. I'm not so optimistic. But I say nothing. None of us do. There's something in the air around the Doctor that testifies to the personal importance of this moment to him. Like he needs the Master to go with him, almost as though there's nothing more important to his sustenance. It's not a lustful or romantic feeling in the orthodox sense. There's some connection it feels like he's trying desperately to get back.

And I get it, I really do. I even sympathize as the Doctor says something about "wandering too long," (I certainly know how that is) even though I may still have the urge to stick a pen straight through the insane Gallifreyan's—

A loud crack stills my thoughts. It takes half a second for me to register the sound as a gunshot. Then I'm instinctively checking over myself to see where I've been hit, but I realize I don't have to as the Master staggers back, a look o f mild shock on his face. The Doctor rushes forward just as he falls, and I stride over to grab the gun from Lucy(the wife?)'s hands.

"Put it down."

My heart rate is picking up. How did I not notice…?

The Doctor has the Master in his arms as they sink to the floor. I'm too stuck in shock to even feel a little envy. He's holding him tight, eyes wide. He almost looks… afraid.

"There you go. I've got you. I've got you."

The Master manages a chuckle through his sputters of pain. "Dying in your arms. Happy now?"

The Doctor's brow furrows, the tiniest glimmer of anger darting through his eyes. "You're not dying, don't be stupid. It's only a bullet. Just regenerate."

"No."

Mild shock.

"One little bullet. Come on."

I don't breathe. The Master smiles. "I guess you don't know me so well. I refuse."

"Regenerate. Just regenerate." Tears are beginning to fall as his voice cracks. "Please! Please! Just regenerate, come on!"

The Master spasms, choking a moment before his eyes open again, gleaming. "And spend the rest of my life imprisoned with you?"

The Doctor is falling apart. His face is crumpled in hopelessness, eyes watering freely. "You've got to. Come on. It can't end like this. Axons, remember the Axons? And the Daleks?" As I'd thought. Journeys they'd made none of us could ever be privy to. Their bond must have been deep. "We're the only two left; there's no one else." A moment passes between them before his expression drops into some sort of terrified, despondent fury. "REGENERATE!"

I can't think of a single time when I've ever heard him more tortured. I step back.

"How about that? I win."

An irrational anger sweeps through me (how dare you do this to him?) before it recedes, leaving only coldness. The Master's face becomes vacant, staring past everything into a void only he can see. "Will it stop, Doctor?" His gaze returns to the Doctor, unblinking, withered, weary, afraid, and quickly sinking. "The drumming. Will it stop?"

And he stops breathing.

I feel my own heart tighten as sheer despair blanket's the Doctor's face. He pulls the body into himself, dropping his head down onto the Master's. His lanky body is wracked with vicious tears, but although his pain is clear, none of us are prepared for the cry of sheer agony he emits. It speaks of suffering beyond imagination, the kind only experienced by one holding the last real connection to their entire former existence; their last true companion.

I turn away towards the windows, unwilling to watch the strongest man I ever have or ever will know come completely undone. Because this is it, I know. I can tell. His cord has been fraying for hundreds of years, and the last tendril has just snapped. Sure, he'll keep living. He'll keep saving the world. Heck, he'll probably keep using those ridiculous phrases of his. But he'll never be the same. He's lost his most important driving factor - hope - and that's broken him. I don't want to believe any of this, but I can't deny it.

Because in all the time I've know the Doctor; all the time I've watched, studied, and heard about him; in all the legends I've read, he has commanded, laughed, spoken, cried, whispered, and even yelled. But there is one thing he's never been known to do.

And that's scream.