Title: Aenigmate (hint: it's four syllables)
Characters: Tenth Doctor, Simm!Master, Wilf later
Rating: Uhh... PG-13? Eventually for language, snogging, craziness.
Summary: The Master took the Doctor up on his offer to travel the universe together, but everything fell apart after the Doc tried to remove the drums. Now the fate of the Doctor and most of London is in the Master's hands, Lord help us all.
A/N: First of all, I have no explanation for Ten and the Master still being alive here after 'The End of Time.' It's not relevant for the story. They just are, ok?
I started writing this as the new series kicks off because, though I love the new Doctor as much as the next girl, I miss MY Doctor. *sniffle* That being said, I kind of want to apologize to the Doctor for this: he's such a sweetheart, and for some reason I'm torturing him. At least this'll have a happy ending... I think...
Also, though it's hard to tell, this actually is Doctor/Master slash. It will become more obvious later on.
As usual, I own neither Doctor Who nor the late works of James Joyce.
Aenigmate
"I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams."
-William Shakespeare, Hamlet
Chapter I: Shipwrecked
It did not take him long to develop a routine. A beached TARDIS requires little maintenance: there is none of the worry over energy levels and reactor charge, no need for a constant eye on the anti-matter density, cyton crystal alignment and the polarity of intravortex stabilizers, and of course no issue of deducing location, a task easier said than done in a cantankerous old rust-bucket like this one. It is spatially inanimate and temporally linear, sitting in the same corner alley as it has been for the past month, the only difference being that it is now a month later as they crawled forward through time at a rate of precisely one second per second.
Still, it is never a bad idea to look over the systems read-outs regularly, in case they ever get off this rock and run the engines again. He goes through the lot every morning, first thing after he wakes. The numbers are always the same. While he's at it he takes a reading of the weather outside, as if it would be that much trouble to open the door and have a look. Things always start when you open that door. Too early in the morning for that. Today, much like every day this week, it's raining in old London town.
After the morning survey he permits himself one cup of coffee. He has developed quite a taste for it.
Leaving the mug in the sink, he sets a kettle to boil while he assembles breakfast. Two slices of toast with butter, and whatever fruit they have in stock, though nothing with a pit or sharp seeds. And no pears. Bananas or sliced peach will do fine; they've both gone native in their culinary tastes. The sharp whistle of the tea kettle startles him every day. It's usually the first sound he hears all morning, other than his own footsteps. It had been so long that he had forgotten what silence was. He collapsed, unable to breathe with joy and pain and shock all at once. There was an empty space in his head, as clear and tangible as an air bubble trapped in oil. He pours a mug, stirs in milk and sugar, and sets it all on a tray.
As the cream swirls up through the clear amber liquid, he blinks just once, and a flash of bright colours bursts before his eyes. This same kitchen, and yet it could not be more different. He could almost hear the clattering of pots and pans, off-key whistling, and this Doctor's half-swallowed London vowels. He sets the tray down and rubs his eyes. Another voice, crisp as the Queen's English, drily warning him not to drink to much or he'll rust. And he laughed, they both laughed. But that was a long time ago. He shakes his head like a horse bothered by flies. The vision fades. He blinks once, twice, and takes a slow breath. He picks up the tray again, leaving the lights in the kitchen on, as he does every morning.
Down the main corridor, left after the library, second right up the stairs, and another left two doors after his room. This thing is a labyrinth, and once again he wishes for his own methodically arranged TARDIS. Finally, the door. The lock opens with a press of his thumbprint.
He flicks the lights on abruptly, half out of a habit of cruelty, half from the dumb hope that it will snap the Doctor out of it. There's insanity for you, he tells himself bitterly, trying the same thing again and again and still expecting it to work this time. He had tried everything. Just snap out of it, Doctor, just wake up. Let's both wake up and be somewhere else.
The bed is empty, as usual. Instead a slender form is curled up in a corner, sitting against the wall, his head on his knees. The light must hurt his eyes, after staring into the dark all night.
"Good morning, Doctor.
No response. The Master kicks the door shut, then crosses the room and sets the tray down on the bed. Still no reaction, though as he crouches in front of him he can see the Doctor's fingers ticking out an endless rhythm against his knee.
"Good morning to you, Master," he says to those ticking fingers, "and you brought breakfast! How lovely! You're such a good cook, Master, and so very handsome..."
The joke sinks into the walls.
"Come on now, even when the world's ending there's still time for a spot of tea, right Doctor?"
The head lifts. Feverish brown eyes (he blinks and there they are, alight with joy and excitement) stare blankly past him. The mouth hangs half open, as if in the middle of a sentence. Or that way he used to gape and puzzle over an experiment that had taken off in an unforeseen direction. First day on the TARDIS, pouring over bioreadings with those ridiculous specs poised on his nose; less of that gleeful energy, not so much curiosity as genuine confusion, and just a hint of fear as he realized he hadn't a clue what was going on. And in spite of it all he had felt just a hint of pleasure at seeing the Doctor baffled. Not so mighty and clever after all.
"World's ending..."
"Nope, no, it's just a turn of phrase, a stupid saying. How's the arm?"
A few days ago the Doctor had taken to biting at his left wrist, and over one night he had chewed it raw and bloody. Since then the Master kept it wrapped in gauze and cotton strips, but from a glance the he sees that he has already gnawed most of the way through the bandage from last night.
"I wish you'd stop doing that," the Master sniffs. "I hate playing nursemaid."
"I saw them coming, o'er dun and dale, out of the fire and the storm and the fire and it burned, everything burned, and I-" The Doctor squeezes his eyes shut and sucks air in through clenched teeth. He wrenches his head from side to side. "I won't let you, I said, but they took it anyways! They took it and they, I heard them!"
"Stop it."
His thin shoulders are shaking, and the Master can hear every breath he draws. The ticking of his fingers has grown to a furious beat. Suddenly, without warning, the Master's temper snaps.
"I said, stop it!" he shouts as he grabs the twitching hand with his own. The instant their skin touches the Doctor is clinging to him, having lept at the Master with unnatural speed and a force that knocked the breath from him. He wraps his bony arms around the Master's chest and buries his face against him.
"I think I liked you better when you were spoiling all my good plans," the Master mutters.
"Silence was in thy faustive halls," the Doctor whimpers into his shoulder. "On the night's ear ringing- they're coming for me. Please! I can't hide!"
"Let go," he growls, but he only squeezes harder, fingers pulling at the back of his shirt. The Doctor's mind pushes blindly at his own, throbbing against the walls protecting his psyche. Instantly he slams every mental door he knows of to lock the nightmare pulse out. Even so, for the space of one breath he is staring into his own eyes, feels his own hands cup his face and hears his voice imploring him to listen.
He shoves the Doctor off of him, falling backwards at the same time. His breath is coming too fast, in quick harsh gasps, and sheer panic rips through him at his heartbeats pounding in his ears. But after a few seconds they fade away again. "Let me in, it's the only thing I can think of." He still has dreams where they don't. "Show me."
When he looks up, the Doctor is sitting in his corner again. It occurs to the Master, not for the first time, that it might be kinder to put the pitiful thing out of his misery once and for all. His head was buried in his arms, hands dug into his hair as he rocks back and forth like there was nothing to him but pain. He had already tried forced regeneration, of course, but like some childhood nightmare the same face kept reappearing again and again. Something in the Doctor was locked up, some circuit blown, so all he could do was repeat the same note over and over.
He too had wanted to tear his hair out. He had wanted to dig into his skull with both hands and rip the sound out of his head. These days he kept the Doctor's hair short so it was harder for him to get a hold of it and leave bloody chunks all over the room.
"It hurts," the Doctor moans softly.
"I know."
The Doctor's hands were cool on his face, vibrating with energy. The Doctor was always like that. Vibrating. It wasn't anything that could be felt really, not with skin and nerves, more like the lingering impression of a plucked string after the sound had faded, or a whistle above his range of hearing. He could usually pick it up miles away. Up close, it made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.
For a while he watches in silence as the Doctor sits still, trying to sink into himself. He knows that all too well, trying to will himself out of existence, but that was different. That was just him; this is the Doctor. This isn't supposed to happen. He knows the rules, that's how he knows how to break them, and he knows this is wrong. The Doctor would be so proud of him.
"Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop." The Doctor lifts his head and looks straight at him, and he instinctively recoils.
"Heal thyself," the Master sneers. He jumps to his feet and is halfway to the door before he remembers the Doctor hasn't eaten yet. He is of half a mind to walk out anyways, and seal off this room forever. Let him eat on his own or starve. Run away, and never stop. He thinks he understands that now. But he still can't quite make it to the door. Rolling his eyes at himself, he turns around, picks up the tray and places it at the Doctor's feet. The cup of tea is still letting off steam. He has tried every sort of tea he could find, remembering a silly story the Doctor had told him once. The Doctor seems to collect all the good stories, enough for both of them, while his are all full of blood and bile.
"Eat your breakfast," he orders. Kneeling down, he pushes a slice of toast at the Doctor. He eyes the toast with a disdainful curl to his lip, but then his eyes darken and he snatches it from the Master's hand. It is gone in the blink of an eye and he pounces on the rest, moving faster than should have been possible. Only the hot tea slows him down, after the Master lets him scorch his throat with it.
"I think I've worked out what parts we need," the Master muses idly; the Doctor would usually calm down for a while as he talked, and seems to stay quieter later than if he left immediately. "None of which can be found on this backwater rock, of course, but I should be able to adapt them from what passes for technology here. We'll have to bypass the entire primary matrix. The whole thing's fried." There isn't much else to say about this. He isn't even an engineer, and yet here he is spending his days knee-deep in cables and circuitry. He had repaired and replaced everything he could. He feels no need to tell the Doctor that even if he can refit the Earth parts, this thing still will never fly: there is more to a TARDIS than metal and software. "Not that you care," he mutters instead, "you must not mind this one bit. Even better than being UNIT's kept man, eh?" He snorts.
"It won't work," the Doctor says. The Master looks up sharply at him. There is a sudden touch of lucidity to his voice, as there still is every so often, always so slight that the Master can never be sure he isn't imagining it.
"What won't?"
"My TARDIS," the Doctor continues earnestly. "Circuit's broken. Circle must be broken! Master, how is Donna?" He reaches for the Master again, but he shrinks back before the Doctor's hands can touch him.
"She's fine." The lie comes automatically, though it could be true, after all, for all he knew; he couldn't exactly be bothered to keep track of all the Doctor's pets. "And Wilf, too. Everyone's fine. Everyone's just... peachy."
This seems to appease the Doctor. "I can fix this." He nods vigorously and sits back, resting his hands on the back of his head. Now, the Master decides, would be as good a time as any for him to make his escape. But, as if the Doctor picked up on his thoughts, he snaps into motion. This time he is quick enough to grab the Master's shoulders before he can react. He finds himself staring straight into the Doctor's eyes, and his head swims with an all-consuming vertigo, as if they were windows into the untempered schism. A dizzying moment when he was in two places at once, seeing himself through the Doctor's eyes and the Doctor through his own, and then he wasn't alone in his head anymore. The Doctor's presence was a real and immediate as his own heartbeats, and fit like he had always been there, like a part of himself that had long ago broken off and left jagged edges in his mind.
"The drums," the Doctor hisses, "always louder. Coming closer on that wind as if out of norewere. Can't you hear them?"
The Master shakes his head and forces down a mirthless laugh. "It's all in your head, my dear." With effort he pulls himself away from the abyss, and instead, reaching into the quiet space, fills his mind with an image of red grass rippling with a soft breeze, grasshoppers leaping out from underfoot. He leans over the Doctor and gently presses his lips to his forehead, and as he does he releases the image like a snapped rubber band. A quake runs through the Doctor and his grip on the Master loosens. He falls still and silent, as if in a trance. "I can fix this, but you'll have to trust me. Can you trust me?" The Master carefully smoothes down his ruffled, sweat-dampened hair, before he finally turns away. He leaves the lights in the room on, and locks the door.
It worked. At first he couldn't breathe from shock and relief. Then he sat up and he laughed, and they laughed. It wasn't until the next day that he noticed the Doctor absentmindedly tapping his fingers against a console: one-two-three four, one-two-three four.
As he walks down the hall he thinks, with pride that echoes empty even to him, that at last his character has been proven stronger: it had taken over 900 years for the drumbeats of war to drive him completely mad. The Doctor had only lasted three weeks. He has to celebrate his victories as they come, he reminds himself, forcing the swagger back into his gait.
That stupid, overbearing, impossible man. He hated him when he was at his smug and arrogant peak, congratulating himself over some petty victory, but he hates him even more now. He had been wrong all these years: he didn't want to see the Doctor broken. It doesn't feel like winning, it feels like despair. It feels like a loss so profound the universe itself is reeling from it. It feels like nothing will ever matter again.
Back in the kitchen, he throws the dishes into the sonic washer. None even crack, which seems like a willful spite on their part, inanimate objects though they may be. He would have liked to hear the clatter of shattered ceramic. Mememormee, till thousendsthee. When time itself snaps it makes a similar sound.