The Master seemed fine when he woke up, despite not having had any medication for nearly six hours. The Doctor had pretended to still be asleep for a little while, lying with his back turned to the Master like a pair of spoons, to see if he changed his behaviour when he didn't think he was being observed. The Master simply laid there with him, resting quietly. He felt a hand gently brush down his arm, then down his back, and finally returning upward to brush its fingers along the back of his neck.

He found it strange that the Master was the kind of person to offer affection when he thought the target was asleep and he wondered briefly if he knew that the Doctor wasn't really sleeping, or was trying to wake him up. But then he felt the Master's arm slip under his own and tucked itself comfortably around his waist, and then the Master sighed deeply as though he were planning to go back to sleep.

His memory extraction must have worked better than he had thought. There was no urgency, no stress, not even confusion. He had been very worried about trying such a thing on the Master, certain that he would get caught, but he felt that he didn't really have a choice. The Master was clever enough to know that the image of the girl in his dream most likely had a consciousness of her own—she recognized and spoke to the Doctor in a way that a dream should not have done.

She was bringing the nightmares. The Master had mentioned a telepath that was skilled enough to control a swarm of Vashta Nerada, and the Doctor had a feeling that she fit the bill. Where ever she was, whoever she was, he was certain she was still alive and invading the Master's mind. She wanted him afraid and unsafe, probably so that he would destroy all that he had to protect him in a paranoid rage. She was trying to drive him back into madness.

The Master's fractured mind, still recovering from his botched resurrection, would be an easy target. The attacks he had experienced in the beginning merely provided a platform for her. The Doctor suspected that when the Master became stressed or grew afraid, his mind opened just enough for her to slip inside and implant her nightmares. That was why it was so real to him and so hard to control, even when his mind knew that they were only dreams.

He couldn't let the Master know that. The knowledge of that would terrify him, simply making him an easier target, which he would also know and therefore create a vicious downward spiral until she finally had her way.

He had no choice.

The blurred reality and the expected presence of the Doctor in his mind had made it easier. Had he attempted such a thing on the Master when he was fully aware and awake, he never would have been able to pull it off. But the Master let him inside and didn't fight any of the changes he made because he believed that the Doctor was simply helping him calm down. A kiss and a little enthusiasm to make the Master focus on the physical world instead of the mental, to keep him from being suspicious about the Doctor's invading consciousness, and the leftover confusion of the nightmare had served as enough camouflage.

By the time the Master began to suspect that something else was happening, the process was nearly complete. He removed all memory of the dream and extracted as much fear and stress as possible. The Master would go straight from a dreamless sleep to an intimate moment with the Doctor, and his excuse for the botched memory seemed to go unchallenged.

He had no choice, he reminded himself. The Master became close enough to slipping back into madness when he believed such things to be dreams. If he was going to stay sane, and most importantly safe, then he couldn't know. The Doctor would pretend that everything was fine and do what he could on his own to keep them safe.

So here he was, in the Master's bed, pretending to be asleep. He had tried all night to keep the Master in a dreamless sleep and it seemed he had succeeded. The man was calm and without fear—the only way to keep him safe now.

How long had she been invading his thoughts? How long had she been gathering intelligence?

Suddenly a painfully loud ringing broke the silence and made him jump. He felt the Master jump too and then heard him chuckle a little nervously.

"It's your phone, Doctor."

He made a show of looking like he had just been disturbed. Blinking in an exaggerated fashion and taking in a long, slow breath the way you do when you're just waking up. He groaned a little as he fished the phone out of his pocket and rubbed his eye with his knuckle as he brought it up to his ear.

"Doctor? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me," he answered in his best sleepy voice. "What's the news, Wilf?"

He rolled onto his back so that he could see the Master properly and was glad to see him smiling—a strange, soft smile that he'd never seen on the Master's face before. His extraction of memory and stress must have been much more successful than he thought.

"I've been giving Donna her pills—slipping it in her tea and things like that. She seems a bit suspicious and says I'm acting strange, but she's getting them anyway."

"Good."

The Master had turned onto his stomach, propping himself up with his elbows, and taken a hold of the Doctor's hand. He watched in fascination as the Master turned his hand over and examined it from many angles, bringing up a finger to trace the lines in his palm, and kissing his knuckles gently. This was a tenderness he hadn't expected to see in the Master, but he supposed they had had very little time to explore the romantic sides of each other.

He slipped his hand from the Master's grasp and tugged on his ear instead, then set his palm against the Master's cheek. That seemed to keep him content for a while and he let his face rest in the Doctor's hand as he listened.

"Now the thing is," Wilf continued. "This morning she's been complaining of a bit of a headache, and a bit of dizziness. Is that normal?"

He removed his hand from the Master's face to cover the phone's speaker. "Headache and dizziness—normal?"

The Master simply shrugged. "I don't know. You were the one in charge of making it safe for humans."

He uncovered the speaker and let his hand drift back to the Master, to let him do with it as he pleased. "Yeah, she's fine. Perfectly normal side effects. Just call me again if it gets any worse."

He felt the Master's teeth playfully sink into his palm and he jumped. He scowled at the Master and mouthed 'What the hell?' to which the Master mouthed back 'Liar'.

"Oh, good," Wilf said with an audible sigh of relief. "Now the thing was that when she was complaining about it, she said she wanted to see the Doctor! Eh? That's good, isn't it?"

"Wilf, I think she meant she wanted to see an actual doctor."

"You are an actual doctor!"

The Master seemed satisfied with his hand now, and simply held it in his own, but now he saw those brown eyes travelling down his arm to the rest of his body.

"I'm pretty sure she just meant a regular, human doctor. You know, because of the headache and the dizziness?"

"Oh, I suppose so."

"It's only been one night, Wilf. Just give it time."

"Right. Of course," Wilfred sighed. "And how are you, Doctor?"

"Me? I'm fine."

"Are you really?"

"Yeah, I . . ." He looked up at the Master, chewing at his finger nails now as he listened to the conversation. "Everything's fine."

"And Harry?"

He looked at those sleepy, content eyes and thought of how different they were to what he'd seen before. It was hard to look at that face and remember the man who had killed thousands in madness, or the man who had desperately clung to what he believed to be the body of his child, or the man from the dream with arms soaked in blood and frantically looking for an escape. This was a face he hadn't seen in over six hundred years. The Master was happy.

"He's well."

"Good. Alright then, I suppose I better get back. I'll keep you updated."

"Thanks, Wilf."

The Master waited for him to hang up the phone before speaking. "I don't know about you, but I feel much better than yesterday."

"A bit of sleep can do wonders."

"What should we do today?"

He thought of the terrors waiting for them beyond the stars. He thought that he should be preparing for it and finding the answers.

One day I really will die, Doctor, and it could be sooner than I'd like.

The monsters of the universe could wait. All the nightmares out there would find them eventually, but not today. Today he would pretend that all was well and that they had all the time they wanted, if only so that the Master could believe it too.

He didn't know what would be worse: letting the end come before they had a chance to fall in love, or letting the end come after they had already done so. But he had done the former . . .

He had the Master take him to the pool to let him explain why he had been on the bottom. They went in together and the Master took his hand, establishing a mental connection and letting the Doctor feel what he felt. When they slipped beneath the surface together he felt the calm of the embracing silence, and a wonderful sense of nothingness. In the Master's mind, it was a safe haven.

They had another go at opening the mystery steel door—something he hadn't attempted in centuries—but the TARDIS still wouldn't give. No amount of physical strength or use of the sonic screwdriver would open it. They tried using some of the many machines the Doctor kept to get a reading through the door, for any sort of hint at what would be inside, but to no avail. They knew it was pointless. They had tried it all before. But it felt like it could be worth another try.

They took a stroll through the jungles of the Master's creation, carrying a bag full of plastic containers for samples. He watched the Master pointing out different characteristics of the life forms, occasionally getting excited when he witnessed something new. The thrill in the Master's eyes at a new discovery made the excitement contagious, and soon the two of them were rushing about in search of life. Once the Doctor touched a plant he didn't know, and it snapped shut on his hand. The Master laughed hysterically and made him fight with the plant for a good three minutes before he finally stepped in to help.

Eventually they went to his library, to show the Master how the collection had grown since he'd last seen it. They rested there for a little while and the Master took book after book off the shelf, pointing out and laughing at any flaws in the writing he could find.

He took the Master to the control room to ask him if he knew how to fix the flux absorbers, as they hadn't worked quite right since the TARDIS had been turned into a paradox machine.

"I don't know what you did to it," he said with a sigh as the readings showed up on screen. "I've tried everything and it's still a bit off."

"You've probably got the temporal stabilizers set too high," the Master answered with barely a second thought. "It needs a little give."

They climbed beneath the platform and forty-five minutes of tinkering later and the Master had it functioning properly again. They carried on with the regular maintenance and the Doctor couldn't help but be amazed as he watched his old friend. He was smiling, but without the manic quality to it that he had grown so accustomed to. He was working without any urgency, irritation, or impatience. He was taking his time and enjoying conversation—simply content.

It was then that he realized what was different. The drive was gone. He remembered looking into the Master's eyes on that seemingly ancient Christmas and pleading with him.

We could travel the stars, he had said. You don't need to own the universe, just see it.

And there he was, finally grasping that idea. Content. He wasn't trying to gain power or dominate anything. He wasn't even trying to go anywhere. He was sitting right where he was, tinkering with the ship because there was nothing else to do, and he was happy.

He had always known that the Master's drive to take whatever he wanted had been born of his madness, but he never thought of why. Hundreds of remarkably clever men and women had theorized for centuries that the Master's madness had misdirected his need to captivate and wondered what it was that he was truly trying to achieve. The Master was happy all the time they were together in their youth, and then he let the Doctor slip through his fingers. For the first time he thought that maybe it wasn't something quite so big as the universe, or even a planet that the Master was trying to own.

"Enjoying the view?" the Master piped up, flicking his eyes up for just a moment as he removed another panel from TARDIS hub. "You know, in most cultures staring is considered rude."

"Sorry, I . . . I'm just so," he felt the words slipping away from him. " . . . I don't know."

"Amazed, perhaps?" the Master teased, smirking at him as he continued working. "Shocked and awed?"

"Yes," he breathed.

The Master's smirk disappeared and he stared back at the Doctor in surprise. "It's not actually that hard," he said, suddenly sounding a bit awkward and quickly turning his eyes back to his work. "You could easily do this yourself."

"Not that. You."

He couldn't help but stare, spellbound by the man before him. The man that made Professor Yana. The man that lived before the Master. The man he thought had died so many, many lifetimes ago. The drumming, the madness, the violence, the fear—all those things were just bad memories and nightmares for him now.

The Master's face was turning slightly red now, and he kept distractedly looking away. "I don't know what you're getting at, Doctor."

"You're different," he said, half a laugh escaping with the words as he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "This morning—right now, you're just . . . you."

"You mean . . . that I'm not like the Master."

"Yes."

"Well, of course. Didn't Wilfred tell you?" the Master smiled at him, while still looking a little self-conscious. "I'm Harold Mott."

Six hundred years since they parted. Six hundred years the Master had wandered alone, with the relentless drums driving him to madness. Six hundred years the Master had travelled the stars in search of something he wanted with an urgent desire to take it for himself before it was too late.

And for six hundred years the Doctor had travelled across time and space, always searching for someone to put an end to his lonliness.

"For six hundred years," he said quietly, still unable to move his eyes away. "Did you really love me all that time?"

"Oh, Doctor," the Master laughed, but the laugh sounded almost sad. "Much longer than that."

The Doctor dropped his tools and made his way towards the Master, ducking beneath massive bundles of hanging wires and carefully stepping over chunks of machinery. His cheeks hurt and he knew it was because he wouldn't stop grinning.

He didn't throw himself forth with passion. He didn't spew out words of affection. He didn't even open a connection between their minds to let the Master know what he was feeling. He did what his instincts told him to do—something he wished they had both learned to do when they were young.

He embraced the Master like a very old friend he had thought long gone. He hugged him tight, not wanting to let go. As he felt the Master's arms hesitantly return the embrace, his hearts were bursting with wave after wave of emotion—relief, happiness, and what he could only describe as love.

After six hundred years, they had both found what they were looking for.

And he wasn't going to let some little girl take that away from him.