Chapter 7:
{3 years ago}
The baby was crying. Still. These long, angry, inconsolable cries, broken only as the infant girl occasionally gasped and choked on air. Even without being in the room, the new father could picture his daughter's scrunched face, her caramel skin an ugly mottled red as she used the only means she had to communicate with her caretakers. The frustration at being misunderstood was mutual.
Their neighbors, parents and grandparents in their turns, often gave the new exhausted parents sympathetic looks when they passed by in the hallway. How well they each remembered their own colicky babies; how happy they were not to be dealing with "darling Missy," especially at night.
"It'll pass," was the advice given. Martha took the advice to heart, her face a grim mask of resignation, her resilience quite baffling to her husband, who often found himself near tears as everything they did had no effect on their newborn child.
He and Martha had collapsed on their bed in an exhausted heap when Missy finally fell into a fitful sleep the night before. He'd hoped the morning would show a much improved situation, but no. The only thing that was different was him. He felt…odd. Simultaneously not himself and more himself than he'd felt in years. And right now, he was feeling an irritation that was very alien to him. 'Enough of this.' The thought was startling in its clarity and focus. But before he could focus on its origin, he was moving.
When he rolled out of bed and pulled on the pair of basketball shorts he'd discarded the night before over his naked hips, it felt less like he was directing his movements and more like he was observing. He silently left the bedroom and padded through the flat until he was leaning against the doorframe of Missy's nursery.
Martha sat in the rocking chair that had been a gift from Jack, gently pushing the chair back and forth with her foot as she gently hummed. She looked a mess; her normally flat ironed hair returned to its natural state and forming a stormy cloud around her head everywhere it had gotten loose from her headwrap. Sleep still clung to the corners of her eyes, and dark bags darkened the space beneath them. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and she was all his.
A feeling of deep possessiveness swept through him as he watched Martha offer one of her breasts to Missy, the infant managing to continue her fussing even as she latched on and began to nurse. It was then that Martha noticed him, and an exhausted smile lifted her lips at the sight of him. 'All mine,' the thought barely registered as his feet carried him to kneel at her side, his fingers gently resting on the nursing newborn's exposed temple. He smiled up at Martha, a feeling of pressure and discomfort making his head throb for an instant before passing. In the same instant, Missy's fretful expression smoothed, and she began to coo as she nursed.
Martha's eyebrows raised, cautious relief spreading across her face as the seconds stretched into minutes of blessed silence. She leaned forward, touching her forehead to his, a little laugh leaving her in a breathy huff.
"I dunno what just happened, but thank god." She whispered. A feeling of smug pleasure he didn't understand settled in his stomach, and Sam teasingly replied, "You're welcome."
Martha rolled her eyes good naturedly and kissed him.
~~~
The Master opened his eyes to find himself sprawled ass over teakettle on the Tardis floor, conscious and nearly incandescent with rage. The Doctor was one thing, but to be given cheek by fragments of his own mind? Abhorrent and unacceptable. He had half a mind to knock himself back out and strangle that smug bastard. But no; there were more pressing matters to attend to.
He hadn't been out long: the Tardis's engines were still wheezing and groaning as she raced through the Vortex to their destination. The grating trembled and shook. He could just see the untied laces of the Doctor's dirty trainers, two pair, spread eagle and unnaturally still. The Doctor was still unconscious, then. Good.
The Master slowly rolled onto his back, cataloging his injuries, pleased when it was nothing more than a few bone bruises and a fractured rib. He'd lived with worse. Much worse. This wouldn't stop him at all.
Before he could do more than sit up, the red headed woman, Donna he vaguely recalled, emerged from the depths of the Tardis. The way she didn't hesitate to barrel past him to kneel by the Doctor's side confirmed that she was Theta's latest pet, though he would admit to being slightly impressed with the almost violent way she turned to him and demanded, "What happened?" She had all the righteous fury of a feral mother cat defending one of her brood, and while he counted himself as something of a cat lover, the Master didn't let the beasts forget who their better was.
"Oh, calm down; he's fine. Knocked out by his own bad driving. He's fine," he reiterated when the doubting expression on her face didn't budge. How dare she not believe him? Who did she think she was? Martha always believed him. He inwardly growled, annoyed that he had thought of Martha at all. Hadn't he just told Sam to forget about her? He neatly rolled to his feet, giving the pair a wide berth as he walked around the console to the navigation panel. The Tardis was nearing her destination but was stubbornly keeping the information scrambled. He supposed she was still a little cross from the whole paradox thing, grudge holding bitch that she was.
Donna scoffed, gesturing at the Doctor's already bruising cheek and the cuts on his face.
"Listen, mate, I've been on the receiving end of his bad driving before, and it's never been this bad. I know you must be really upset about Martha and all, but you had no right to do…whatever you did."
"If you hadn't noticed," the Master drawled as he motioned towards his own split lip and blackening eye, "it wasn't exactly a one sided fight. And I don't care about Martha Jones."
That disbelieving expression was back, and in greater force than before. The Master clenched his fists, briefly considering hypnotizing her into shutting the fuck up but decided against it. She looked like just the sort of bullheaded individual his normal hypnotism didn't work on, and he wasn't in the mood to try anything more than that. So instead he turned his attention to the control panel. Maybe if he adjusted a few settings…the panel crackled with electrical charge, a clear warning. He rolled his eyes. Fine, fine: he'd wait with bated breath to see where she decided to land.
Unfortunately, Donna wasn't finished talking.
"Don't care about Martha? Could've fooled me, the way you were all over her from the moment she came home. And that was one hell of a goodbye kiss for someone so detached." She said, sarcasm so thick you could've served it up on slices of bread.
The Master reflexively licked his lips, the lingering hints of Martha's taste exploding across his taste buds as he did so. He'd always loved the way her mouth tasted, so sweet and complex; everything about it was intoxicating - not just her taste but the way she could cling to him, the sound of her moans reverberating from her and into him, the greedy press of her tongue against his, the way her thoughts and emotions were bright kaleidoscopes of color flashing through his mind's eye - he could kiss her for hours and not get bored.
Wait.
No. What was he thinking? Sam had loved kissing her. Sam treasured those things. Not him. Never him.
"That wasn't me," the Master snapped, his knuckles whitening where his hands gripped the edge of the console, voice hoarse with anger and something he didn't understand, "that was Sam. Not me."
Donna's confusion and skepticism were easily picked out of the air. "I don't buy it. You expect me to believe that Sam wasn't just you without memories? It doesn't make sense."
He sneered. "Of course you don't understand. You're just human."
"Oh bollocks! You're just -"
The Tardis shuddered and landed with a hard thump. The Master shared a look with Donba.
"We've landed."
"But where?"
"Let's have a look, shall we?" The Master muttered, fingers dancing nimbly over the controls. The Tardis resisted him at first, just for principle's sake, and then the view screen flickered to life.
"You're quick," Donna commented.
"That's because I know what I'm doing," the Master replied absently, eyes fixated on the barren beach on the screen. He knew that beach. He knew that beach. In the back of his mind, a presence he hadn't felt in a lifetime made itself known.
His Tardis.
An upswell of yearning and homesickness caught in his throat. The Doctor's Tardis had brought him to his Tardis, trapped at the end of the universe. She'd taken him home.
Unable to speak, the Master smoothed his hand across the console in a gentle caress, telepathically sending his thanks to the machine. 'You're welcome,' the Tardis whispered across the surface of his thoughts, a jumbled mix of regret and sympathy clinging to the simple thought.
The Master stepped back from the console and strode to the door, forcing himself not to run.
"Oi! Where're you going? What's out there?" Donna demanded, leaping to her feet as he opened the door. The Master ignored her and peered into the near pitch black. Within sprinting distance was his Tardis, sitting placidly outside of the surf in the form of a Trakken column.
"Don't follow me," the Master said instead, looking over his shoulder sternly, "he won't listen but still: tell him not to look for me." He took off for his Tardis in a dead sprint, ignoring the sound of Donna yelling after him, his hearts pounding in exhilaration the closer he got.
The stone facade was frosty, the door stiff as he forced it open, but the lights flared to life as soon as he stepped foot inside the console room, and the Master gave a whoop of joy, his hands dancing across the controls as he immediately released the handbrake and disappeared into the vortex.
In the Doctor's Tardis, Donna stood in the open doorway and watched the shadowy column begin to groan and wheeze and slowly disappear. Behind her, the Doctor finally began to come to. She put her hands on her hips. "Typical," she sighed and closed the door.