Ground Rules
There had been times when the Doctor would have done anything to have his best enemy back by his side. And then there had been times when he would have done anything to make sure that the Master was right at the opposite end of the universe and that he would never have to see them again. Unfortunately – he always would. It seemed they were destined to always meet again - and some part of him would always be grateful to see them alive and well.
But now she was with him.
And he tried. He tried living with her, he tried helping her. For her, he would always keep trying.
Despite her being a murderer.
Despite her trying to take over the universe on a regular basis, despite her constant attempts on his life, despite her mood swings, despite her terrible cooking and despite her complaints when he cooked, despite her horrible taste in music, despite her going nude when she was warm and stealing his clothes when she was cold. Despite her being exhausting on a good day and a threat to any living being in the cosmos on a bad day - and to herself even, because on a bad day, he sometimes had to lock himself into his own bedroom to keep himself from strangling her.
Of course that called for ground rules.
The Doctor defined ground rules as necessary and very much binding rules that made the coexistence of two arch-enemies in confined space over a long time at least possible - if still not easy or unproblematic.
The Mistress defined ground rules as a loose set of suggestions which had little meaning to her, but which could very quickly and very vocally be brought to his attention when she felt in any way wronged by something he did.
There was for example their new rule about personal space, on which he had insisted. Yes, he really had put down his foot there and he made sure that this rule was observed – mostly by ducking for cover when in danger of any surprise hugs or under the threat of inappropriate mouth to mouth contact.
No, he hated having to be so strict, but this was his Tardis, his rules.
There were also very strict rules on separate rooms.
Regardless of the Tardis' lack of fondness of the newest addition to the crew, she had, on his wish, created a room for the Mistress - a purple nightmare full lace and frills and flowers – and while the Time Lady had been utterly delighted, the message behind that gift clearly hadn't yet taken root.
He still woke up day after day to find a dark mob of hair tucked beneath his chin, one arm draped over his chest, holding on to him just a little bit too tight to be comfortable, and her cold feet pressed against his legs to warm them. And he would still tolerate her in his bed for a few minutes, while he might or might not stroke her hair a little - and sometimes he could feel her contentment at his touch seeping slightly through her mental shields – but when she would eventually wake up he made a point to throw her out of his room.
No one should say the Oncoming Storm was a pushover.
And to give her credit where credit was almost deserved – she usually took it in a stride and strutted off with a wink and a smirk.
Just sometimes things got heated.
Sometimes there was her throwing a tantrum. Just like she did this morning.
And sometimes there was him losing his patience with her. Just like he did this morning.
Harsh words were exchanged, insults and cutting remarks. Maybe she mentioned certain names too often. Names such as 'Danny' or 'Clara' or 'Martha' or 'Nyssa' or 'Tremas' – and sometimes they were names such as 'Traken', or 'Logopolis' or 'Gallifrey'
And maybe this time he had said something along the lines of:
"I don't need you."
Followed by something quite exactly along the lines of:
"I don't need you in my bed, I don't need you in my Tardis, I don't need you near Earth, near my friends, near the human race or anyone really. I don't need you in my life. And most importantly – I don't want you anywhere near them."
When the words had come out, she was staring at him, just staring with wide blue eyes, her mouth slightly open, but for once no words were coming out. He wondered what she would do. Whether she would slap him. Or whether she would cry. That would be worse. He wouldn't know what to do when she cried.
She didn't slap him.
She didn't cry.
She left.
Maybe it was a victory.
Maybe it was a victory, because when he made breakfast he didn't see her in the kitchen. Not even the dirty dishes she usually left behind or the leftover crumbs from her breakfast or an empty cup standing somewhere forgotten, a little bit of cold tea still inside and a smeared imprint of her lipstick at the rim. Instead the kitchen was empty and neat and tidy - and quiet.
He wondered when he had started noticing all these things.
It might actually be a victory.
Because when he returned to the control room to fix this and that she wasn't there to correct him and to tell him how to do it better, how to do it more effectively. Or to tell him that he spent more time pampering his Tardis than paying attention to her. Which was outrageous.
There wasn't even any complaining about how cooped up she felt and how much she wanted to go outside.
Something he never dignified with an answer.
He wanted to visit planets as well. Meet new people, save a civilization or two.
.She was the reason he couldn't leave. If he took her with him she was a danger to others; if he left her here she was a danger to the Tardis.
Damned if you do, damned if you don't. That was his life now.
He was fixing some cables now, his movements harsh and his brow furrowed. He was angry. It was almost worth admiring - she managed to make him angry and wasn't even around.
Once again, she had been right all along. Not that he would ever admit it in front of her.
"Imprisoned with you." That was what she had said that day when she died in his arms, and it was true, because they both were prisoners and none of them held the key.
He didn't even see her once that day, and so it ended like hundreds and thousands of days before it hadn't: Uneventfully.
It ended with him in bed, lying awake and telling himself he was being old and wise and contemplative, when he was actually just thinking about blue eyes and a little boy who used to hold his hand, when they were running together through fields of red grass.
Yes. Maybe it was a victory he won this morning. And even if falling asleep took him longer than usual tonight, it didn't mean it had anything to do with him still seeing her eyes in front of him, blue and wide and open in shock, staring at him, as if he had brought her world down, shattering it with just his words.
Eventually of course, he did fall asleep to strange, incoherent dreams of a man dying in his arms, when he easily could have regenerated. He remembered dreaming of the man's weight in his arms, light leaving his eyes and his telepathic presence fading away. He remembered the same man, in a different body, just a boy, running after him, hand in hand both of them. He didn't notice Koschei letting go. He didn't notice that Koschei couldn't keep up.
And he didn't hear Koschei shouting for him to 'Wait – just wait!'
Only when he turned around he saw Koschei running after him through red grass. He was so far away and he could see the orange and red world that surrounded them go up in flames and Koschei was so far away. He couldn't reach him.
That was what he remembered. Before he woke up with a fright and bathed in cold sweat.
Maybe it wasn't a victory.
Because this time, when he woke up from his nightmare, his bed was empty and cold. There was no warm body pressed against him, no mob of hair beneath his chin, no arm wrapped around him, no fingers curled into the fabric of his nightshirt and no trace of the incoherent telepathic nonsense that escapes even the most guarded minds in their sleep.
She wasn't there, this time.
He was alone.
There was only him and the beats of his hearts.
He tried to wrap himself back into the duvet he had kicked off in his sleep, but couldn't be bothered to straighten it enough for it to actually be comfortable.
He didn't fall back asleep this time.
Turning and rolling around were utterly hopeless. Counting Sontarans didn't help. Not even the familiar humming of the Tardis helped him fall asleep. When he closed his eyes, there still was Gallifrey, Gallifrey burning.
Not a victory at all.
But he was tired, just tired.
Always tired.
He just wished she hadn't looked so smug when she woke up to find him lying in her bed, one of his arms draped over her body and his face nuzzled into her neck.
He said it. In the end, he always did, because that was his gift for her, his apology and his punishment.
"You win."