A/N: If anyone's interested, 'Frequently Asked Questions About Time Travel' is a truly epic film, chock-a-block with Who references, and I encourage everyone and anyone to watch it...

A/N Take Two: Apologies again for the lateness! I should probably say that this is no fault of ConfusedinTime's...Unfortunately I fail totally at getting this chapter finished on time because every single character refused to behave...that and I was freaked about getting my A Level results so it kinda screwed with my crack!writing (I know...'excuses, excuses')...We're now back on track schedule-wise since we've got five completely finished chapters to post over the next few weeks so I'll shut up now and let you get on with reading...

A/N Take Three: Reviews make us both happy bunnies and keep the crack!writing flowing so have a clicky on the purdy little button at the bottom of the page...Still not convinced? There may be a pretty Time Lord in it for you...

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In which the Master realises that all the world's a stage...

The TARDIS landed with a resounding thud. The Master pushed himself up from the jump seat (which he had fallen onto face-first) and muttered mutinously about all the very imaginative ways he would punish the Doctor for being the root cause of the upholstered stitching imprint down his right cheek.

"So, which decade did you put a dent in this time?" he asked, glaring at the console.

The Doctor looked affronted. "That was Donna!" he exclaimed, as the Master muttered something about the problems with Human drivers. There was a pause while the Doctor's stopped acting like the Master had mortally insulted him and he shuffled his feet sheepishly, mumbling something inaudible.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that..."

"The 1600s"

"What about them?" the Master asked, puzzled.

"I, uh, just dented them...?" the Doctor explained, seemingly fascinated by the study of his shoes as the Master glared at him.

"I suppose that means we've landed then?" he asked savagely.

The Doctor gulped; he knew the Master hated Earth history more than anything and if he'd just put a dent in the 1600s, that meant that's where they'd landed and the TARDIS would need to recuperate before making a return journey. This meant spending the night in whichever area of 17th Century Earth they'd parked on...The Doctor didn't like to think of how the Master would punish him for this fatal piloting error.

"Weeeellll…yes?" he squeaked.

"In the 1600s?"

"Yes…"

"How far in?"

"About 1609, why?"

"Excellent!" exclaimed the Master, looking far too happy about being stuck in an era of Earth history before the invention of the toilet.

"Really? What's excellent about it?" asked the Doctor, taken aback by the Master's sudden enthusiasm.

"Come on! I thought you loved Earth and all its…history!" said the Master.

"I do, but not when you're being so out of character…" replied the Doctor warily.

"Well, you're the one who's always saying that I should broaden my horizons a bit. That I should give Earth history a chance. Aren't you?"

"Weeelll, yeah, but-" the Doctor began.

"Then what's the problem?"

"N-nothing!" exclaimed the Doctor, still looking a little shell-shocked. "I'm just wondering when you started listening to a word I say…"

"What are you talking about?" asked the Master, trying his best to look affronted. "I listen to you all the time!"

"Yeah? Like when?" enquired the Doctor, baiting him.

"Um…you know, that time…that time you said the, uh, the thing…that thing with the, erm…with the stuff?…No?" he said hopefully.

"Hmm…I was feeling particularly eloquent that day, wasn't I?" teased the Doctor.

"Shut up," muttered the Master, reaching under the console and pulling out a battered copy of "The Rough Guide to Sol III". He flipped through the pages with unnecessary vigour and the Doctor was about to protest when the Master slammed the book down onto a button-free patch of the console and stabbed a finger onto the page. "There," he said tetchily. "I want to meet Shakespeare! Are you happy now, Mr 'You-Never-Want-To-See-Anything-Earthy-Or-Historical'?"

The Doctor shuffled his feet sheepishly, avoiding the Master's glare. "What?" spat the Master, his eyebrows narrowing.

"N-nothing…" squeaked the Doctor. "Shakespeare! Yes! Lovely, shall we go now?" He grabbed his coat from the coral strut in the wall and practically sprinted out of the door.

…

The Doctor led the way through the crowded streets of London with the Master following behind, tiptoeing across the cobbles to avoid the puddles of household waste that were spread haphazardly along the streets as the Globe Theatre came into view, towering majestically over the squat thatched roofs of Southwark. They walked through the doors, pushing their way through the clustering crowds until they reached the wooden panelling of the stage. The Doctor hopped up onto the raised platform and the Master followed suit.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," came a pompous voice from near the back of the stage. "No one is allowed onto the stage unless they be actors or author. You, my dear sirs, are neither. What is your business here?"

"Ah," exclaimed the Doctor, striding towards the owner of the voice, hand outstretched. "You must be the Master of the Revels, so nice to finally meet you! Shall we shake hands? We still do that nowadays, don't we? The handshake thing? No?"

The Master of the Revels shook the Doctor's hand, nonplussed. "Who are you?"

The Doctor flashed the psychic paper and said, "Don't mind us. Move along now, my good man!"

The Master of the Revels' eyes widened and he bowed so low that his greasy nose almost touched his boots. "Oh, I do apologise, your lordship!"

"Not at all!"

The Master waited until they were through the doors and into the backstage area before he spoke. "So. Who did he think you were?"

The Doctor checked the psychic paper. "Earl of Surrey, apparently."

"Why Surrey?"

"I don't know…Never been. I suppose it's better than being Earl of Lancashire, though. Rains less in Surrey."

"Who did he think I was?" asked the Master, getting down to the question he really wanted to ask.

"Um…my page," mumbled the Doctor.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that…"

"My page."

"Your page." It wasn't a question but the Doctor still felt the need for an explanation.

"Weeeeellll, no offence or anything, but I'm dressed slightly more respectably than you…" he trailed off seeing the Master's expression and hastily tried to correct himself. Squeakily. "Not that there's anything wrong with the way you dress or anything, it's just that I'm more period-friendly…and, um, erm…well I'm the only one who had the psychic paper and…and…and I just didn't think…" he finished lamely.

"No. You didn't."

"Sorry…" he offered.

"Just move," muttered the Master. "I'd like to meet Shakespeare before I die of old age, which as you know, would be an achievement…"

"Yeah, yeah…" mumbled the Doctor, pushing through costume racks until they reached a small wooden table with a tallow candle dripping translucent wax onto the scrubbed surface. Shakespeare was sitting at the table, his head bent over a piece of parchment, the feather of his quill twirling around in the air as the ink skittered across the page.

The Master tugged on the arm of the Doctor's coat. "You're sure we landed in 1609?" he asked.

"Positive," he replied, nonplussed.

"Then this is by far the coolest place you've ever taken me!"

"Yeah, ok, we're going to meet Shakespeare…Relax…"

"No, no!" exclaimed the Master in a dramatic stage whisper. "Far cooler than that! That bloke from 'Frequently Asked Questions About Time Travel' got stuck in the bathroom again and ended up in 1609!"

The Doctor looked puzzled and looked from the Master to Shakespeare and back again, then it seemed to dawn on him. "Ah. I think you may be a little confused. Firstly, 'Frequently Asked Questions' is a film; we've been over this. Secondly, that's not Dean Lennox Kelly, it's Shakespeare. Say hello…"

The Master moved towards Shakespeare tentatively whilst muttering, "Well it would have been cool…Not quite as 'rock and roll' now…"

"Mister Shakespeare…?" the Master enquired hesitantly, tapping the Bard on the shoulder as lightly as he dared. The Doctor choked on a laugh; he'd never heard the Master refer to anyone as 'Mister' unless he was taking the proverbial Mickey (which did not – according to Rose – refer to Mickey Smith, although the Doctor didn't see why not, since making fun of Mickey was one of his favourite hobbies).

Shakespeare, on the other hand, just continued scribbling. When he did eventually answer – his quill still skittering across the vellum – his voice was full of an exasperated, long-suffering sigh. "No, I won't sign your tunic. If you want a sketch with me, then go outside, Mr Roper's got a bust for that. And no, I most definitely will not shag your cousin twice removed without at least seeing a portrait first. I have some taste, thank you very much…"

"How about shagging me without seeing a portrait first?" replied the Master, adding, "My reputation in the Vegas Galaxies speaks for itself." The Doctor put his head in his hands.

Shakespeare finally turned around (and the Doctor nipped behind a costume rack pronto), an incredulous look on his face. "Who the devil are you?"

"Finally!" exclaimed the Master, looking gleeful, although there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "I always love it when the one Earthy-type historical person I actually want to meet decides he gives a toss who I am! Does this happen to you a lot?" he asked, turning around to find the Doctor hiding (very badly) behind a ridiculously large ruff. "Oh, you are kidding me!" exclaimed the Master, sighing as he extracted the Doctor from the costumes, which was made especially difficult by the fact that he'd got his foot stuck in the box that contained the codpieces. He turned back to Shakespeare while the Doctor wrestled with a particularly large, jewel-encrusted one that had seemingly taken a fancy to his Converse. "My name is the Master, and that idiot over there is-" But Shakespeare wasn't listening.

"Doctor!" he exclaimed, grabbing him for a hug. The Doctor smiled sheepishly as the Master folded his arms and tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for an explanation. The Doctor pretended to ignore him.

"Ohh, I see," said the Master, some sort of realisation dawning across his face.

"Um, what do you see, exactly?" the Doctor asked warily.

"You save all the good historical bits for yourself!" exclaimed the Master childishly. "Decided you were going to meet Shakespeare by yourself and try to make it up to me by taking me to Vaison-la-'sodding'-Romaine, did you?"

"What was wrong with Vaison?" asked the Doctor, stung.

"Well, for starters, it was 100 AD and it was crawling with Roman Centurions who decided that I should be sold into slavery, and then I ended up in some filthy brothel up in Gaul and they'd tattooed me before you deigned to get off your arse and rescue me! I'm now scarred for this entire regeneration!"

"You do exaggerate," said the Doctor, smiling indulgently. "I seem to remember that you weren't complaining when that gladiator took a fancy to you…"

"You wouldn't complain either if a six-foot hunk of super-human strength was professing his love for you…" muttered the Master. "You'd fear for your life too much…"

Shakespeare watched the exchange between the two Time Lords with growing hilarity. "Come, my friends," he said, shaking with laughter. "We'll retire to the ale house."

Sensing that this would be the best offer they would get all day, the Doctor and the Master followed Shakespeare to the nearest pub.

…

The inn was dimly lit with flickering stubs of candle wax and the ale smelt faintly of the pigs that were stationed behind the building. Shakespeare gulped his beer down while the two Time Lords scrutinised theirs suspiciously.

"So, Doctor, how is Martha? Is she still as beautiful as a summer's day?" asked Shakespeare, setting his tankard down and surveying the Doctor expectantly.

"Martha?" hissed the Master. "You took Martha to meet Shakespeare before me?"

"Master…" began the Doctor, a warning note lilting in his voice.

"No. Don't 'Master…' me! What's that two-bit excuse for a UNIT operative got that I haven't? Hmm?"

"Um…a medical degree?"

"Oh come on," exclaimed the Master. "Anyone can get one of those nowadays! Hell, I could walk into a university right now and walk into a hospital the same day!"

"Actually," said the Doctor, squirming uncomfortably. "You're thinking of medical degrees in the 51st Century…on Clom. On Earth, they're a lot harder."

"I can think of something else that's a lot harder," muttered the Master, pointedly looking at Shakespeare as the Doctor cringed. "But none of those stupid apes have an amazingly powerful Time Lord brain…except maybe you…" he said, focusing on Shakespeare. The Master appraised him critically, taking in his reaction to the Time Lords in front of him before saying, "I take it that shagging is off the table?"

Shakespeare looked puzzled. "What's wrong with on the table?"

The Doctor raised an eyebrow and the Master grinned wickedly. "Now that's my sort of play!" He stood up, about to walk around the table and rip the playwright's clothes off when there was a faint 'pop' and an elderly man appeared looking thoroughly perplexed.

The Master's predatory stare faltered and he gaped at the old man before the Doctor got to his feet and peered at the new arrival in the dim light.

"Wilf?"

"Oh for the love of Rassilon's Dribble of Doom!" exclaimed the Master, throwing up his arms and turning to stare at the Doctor in an accusatory fashion. "You're determined I'm not going to enjoy meeting Shakespeare, aren't you!"

Shakespeare shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by the interruption. "So, shall I tell Dolly we'd like a room for four?" The Master glared at him.