Thank you for the reviews and the favorites! You have no idea how much that makes me want to continue instead of burning everything. This chapter came out sideways and it still wants for some plot but NEVER FEAR! My brain's been connecting and rewiring plot ideas like a fiend, and after the next chapter, stuff should come faster.
Maybe.
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They head to the kitchen. It's quite out of the way in reaching the control room from the infirmary, but neither mind the walk. The Doctor is still concerned, especially because of the strangely empty feeling that haunts the Master. It's a far cry from his usual overpowering presence, and he has an urge to question it, but he knows better.
"Do you have meat?" The Master asks, when they reach the room, and something pangs deep in the Doctor's hearts, because the look in his eye is purely animal.
"Few steaks in the Webber." He answers, nodding towards it.
It's a fantastic thing: keeps meat perfectly cooked and accessible at any time. The science behind it is amazing in itself, but the Doctor always remembers the story of the man who created it. It's a short one: soon after he invented it, jealous competitors trapped him inside an industrial-sized one and the universe learned the best temperature for cooking human flesh. The words to explain all this bubble up in his throat, but he's sure the Master already knows, and as friendly conversation it seems at this point to be fairly inappropriate.
"Oooo..." The Master says, after throwing open the door. His bones streak visible through his skin twice in succession. Ever so slightly he bends upon himself, but when the Doctor automatically moves in to support him, he warns him off with a look in his eye. "Too bad you're fond of your human pets." He says, looking off at nothing before turning back to survey his choices. "They don't fill me up- nothing does- but they are so... satisfying."
The sound of his voice is soft and wanting, and it makes the Doctor sick. He doesn't move; he can't move.
"What went wrong?" He asks, as the Master selects a prime cut of beef and hardly waits to sit before he eats, ignoring the Doctor. The Doctor thinks absently he shouldn't be staring, but it's hard to look away, because the irony is choking. The starch-clean, straight-backed, manipulative Master, the man who used to wear gloves because the outside world is filthy: devouring meat like any of the peoples he used to disdain.
"What went wrong?" The Master laughs, eventually pausing a quarter of the way through to pierce the Doctor with dark eyes. "What went wrong was my faithful companion." He growls. Curiosity lends the Doctor movement, and he carefully sits across from the Master.
"Lucy?"
"Mmmm..."The Master agrees darkly, and swallows. "It's always the women, isn't it?" The Doctor doesn't say anything, but waits. "She found someone to make a counter-agent to the instructions I left. I'm sure you saw the results."
"Instructions?" The Doctor asks, ignoring the jibe. He is forced to wait for an answer as the food disappears rapidly. His eyes follow his fellow Time Lord as he finishes and then retrieves another piece, this one significantly bloodier. With a challenging look, the Master licks a bit of the juice off his finger.
"You think I'd operate without a backup plan?" He shoots back, methodically tearing off pieces of flesh with mathematical precision. Perhaps not mad, the Doctor thinks, but still a perfectionist.
"I did wonder." The Doctor admits, looking away.
"I seem to recall," The Master says, almost idly, "you were quite upset after I got shot." His voice remains perfectly pitched, polite, even. "But even though you wondered-"
"You refused to regenerate!" The Doctor replies, grinding out the words softly as he feels his blood start to pound. He's right, of course. Always right, even if he is mad, because he is: deranged, raving, and-
"You really are a sniveling and pathetic thing, aren't you?" The Master shoots back, and what remains of his ravaged meal is abruptly forgotten. "So like those humans you've always toted around. You think I would die after those fools brought me back?"
The Doctor still desists in eye contact, but he swallows painfully when he hears the Master get up, the chair crashing loudly to the TARDIS floor. He quivers as the Master leans close to whisper in his ear.
"I said I would rather die than be stuck here with you."
The breath seems to have deserted the Doctor's lungs. He inhales quickly. It hurts, like inhaling poison.
"And you believed me."
They stay there for a moment, the Master by the Doctor's side, hand on the back of his chair and breathing softly into his ear. The TARDIS hums in the background.
"What if I asked you for help?" The Master asks, idly. The Doctor looks at him quickly, searching. But the Master's brown eyes betray nothing, exactly like the disturbingly empty feeling still radiating from his mind. Gingerly, the Doctor stands, and the Master takes his arm from the chair to stand up straight.
In these bodies, the Doctor is the taller one, and they don't line up perfectly, but he gently takes hold of the Master's skull with his hands. They close their eyes together, and the Doctor initiates the contact, pressing his forehead against the Master's, which is too warm and slightly clammy. Respectfully, he brushes against the exterior of the Master's mind, and is granted entrance.
It's quiet. The ear-shattering driving rhythm that repelled him hours ago has stopped, and the result is unnatural calm. The Doctor tries going in further, past all the strangely quiet white, to find something, anything. In response, deep within, the Master shudders inside his skull, and makes a small noise in the back of his throat.
The Doctor stops immediately, unnerved by the uncharacteristic silence as well as the sliver of fear that has slipped through. The Master is extremely resilient, and an utter genius, but he has lived his entire life with that that torturous beat in his head, thought himself half-insane, and now it is gone.
Like it never was.
"Don't-" The Master rasps hoarsely, and vaguely the Doctor is aware he's moving. "I almost heard something-" With a simple touch, a reciprocal hand-hold, something dark flares among all the white. Reflexively, they both cling tighter.
This time the Master pushes out while the Doctor pushes in. The process is a horror in itself: the white is not merely an absence; it is. A heavy opaque covering that sits in the Master's mind like a weight. It is death. And it doesn't fight back, it doesn't resist, puts up no struggle, it just sits and waits.
The Master catches this thought from the Doctor and shudders. He begins to pull back his fingers, but the Doctor grits his teeth, tightens his grip on the Master's skull and bludgeons the white barrier with his mind. It has all the finesse of rewiring a computer with a sledge hammer, but it works. The white begins to crack under the blows.
One.
Two.
Three.
The last hit shatters the obstruction completely, and leaves behind it the orderly structure of the Master's thoughts. The Doctor feels his knees begin to buckle, and the Master try to catch him but fail, and they hit the ground in a heap.
"Percussive therapy." The Doctor tells the ceiling, and half-laughing. Both of them gasp for breath. The Master smacks the Doctor on the chest, and then leaves his hand there, curling into a feeble fist.
"You idiot," He admonishes, but the Doctor feels the relief wash off of him. "You could have caused permanent damage and fried neurons."
"Oh, that's never been proven. Besides, you have plenty to spare."
"Plenty more than you, at least, Doctor. I think surrounding yourself with animals has made you stupid."
The Doctor doesn't rise to that provocation, but closes his eyes, letting a stupid grin cover his face. The Master lets out a slow sigh, and sits up, making a derisive sound when he catches sight of the Doctor's face. It turns to a sharp breath though, and the Doctor's eyes snap open to watch his body continue to eat at his energy. It lasts longer than usual, and the Doctor has to support him while concern starts to kill his newly-won victory.
"How long do you have?" He asks, quietly, once it stops. The Master's eyes harden.
"Days."
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Mmmmm… I honestly don't know if I should make this mxd, or just keep the show's bantering relationship. What do you guys feel?