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Not in a million years did he think the Doctor would want to see him again.

(She doesn't know it's him quite yet… but soon. It'll be soon enough.)

Playing the analyst takes no effort. Infiltrating the M16 and killing off someone to take their place. Reestablishing himself. Horizon Watcher — the Master has been watching the horizon for any sign of his oldest friend. And he's got her. Finally.

The Great Victoria Desert has a steady, lulling warmth to it. Drowsy. Scarlet chested parrots travel along for grass seeds, perching onto the marble gum trees and eucalyptus. He's seen a wallaby or two before. They keep to themselves by the rock foundations in the distance, but venture closer when the narrow-leaf hopbrush near his property grows its fruit.

Patience isn't usually the Master's virtue. Not that he has many. Or rather any virtues to speak of.

His hand works into a khaki vest-pocket, cradling onto his silver signet ring. It's been missing for centuries. The green gem all dulled out. He inhales, removing his hand and pinching out a rolled-up cigarette with his fingernails. The Master — former M16 Agent O — exhales, gazing ponderously at the Doctor's TARDIS sitting out in front of him. White, thinning smoke billows out of the Master's nostrils and mouth.

Maybe he's a little too sentimental now. Holding onto too many trinkets. Memories. Grudges.

"Need any help there, Doctor?"

He uses O's pleasant, sensible demeanor, calling out to her. The Doctor exits her timeship, lugging some round, heavy cables and wires, grunting. All of those sunset colours fill her yellow hair. Yellow as groundsel flowers. The Master suppresses the very real impulse to bury his face in her neck and hair as the Doctor approaches. Like lovers would. They will never be lovers again.

"I'm sorted!" the Doctor yells back, cracking a smile. "Thanks!"

This allows him to nod and produce a mask of O's doubt and distress. Something unusual for his character the Master plays.

"I must admit I feel a bit useless right now. And terrified." He waits to confess this until the Doctor lingers on the wooden planks. On the far right, Browning monitors the surrounding area. Out of earshot. "I'm not sure if I've ever been this terrified before."

Mm, yes. He needs to play on the Doctor's weakness for the innocent. She can never resist.

"I'm not going to let anything happen. Not to you or Graham." The Doctor, as expected, wants to reassure him. Those lovely, large hazel eyes search his face with the utmost compassion. "You need to be strong, O. You were the best that the M16 had. Honest truth." She readjusts the TARDIS cables, hefting them up higher up on her shoulder. Both of them — her and him — they gravitate close enough to where the Master can practically feel the heat off the Doctor's breath. "It's rubbish they sacked you."

He says nothing when Doctor moves on, and then she reappears in the Master's face, her eyebrows lifting.

"Also, you shouldn't smoke," the Doctor urges, half-scolding him and half-concerned. "It's very bad for your health."

The Master allows himself a faint smirk, bowing his head in a very O-like manner and standing aside to allow her by. He watches her lilac-blue coat disappear into his home — his TARDIS — with her completely ignorant to it. It's far too delightful.

"Nothing gets past you, Doctor."

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Graham asks, though embarrassed and hesitant, about the Doctor's files on the top shelf. Wanting a peek at the mysteries of the universe's greatest blessing and mistake. The Master leaves all of it with him. He's the one who offered earlier.

Seesay joins Browning outside, muttering in their comm.-links, patrolling the grounds.

(That leaves out the distractions.)

The Doctor flits in and out of rooms, trying to maintain a conversation with "O" at his sink and hooking up various, cable-linked devices. He supposes it was previously a conversation. She's now on about Iris Wildthyme and how "that daft transtemporal adventuress" got captured by Duke Anubis after visiting Pyras and getting chased down by robots in an historical theme park — which the Master recalls was likely the Doctor's eighth life. Her life as the Doctor.

None of those lives were her first.

Rage billows like smoke in him. He wants to exhale it. Acknowledge it to her what he has discovered about their past. Instead, the Master stays where he is, turning around and grasping the sink's edge with his hands. He focuses on the quick, familiar arch of the Doctor's fingers as she works, and brightness of her eye, and the twitch of her lips. Somehow that quiets his mind.

"What's it?" the Doctor asks him, coming over for her mug. She glances down and frowns. "Did I spill?"

The Master lowers his head. "Nothing like that, Doctor," he says. "You reminded me of someone I knew during university."

"Who?" She leans with one palm to a table, sipping her tea, and unable to contain her fascination. "Your professor?"

He laughs. That's the Doctor he truly remembers, all of them — full of themselves, meddling, blunt and unapologetic about their cleverness or ego or tendency to break the rules when addressed. Sanctimonious just like the Doctor's chosen name.

"No, no. A friend. We studied together."

The Doctor grins over the rim of her mug. "Were they nice? I bet they were nice like you."

"Too nice."

"It sounds like you still care about them… whoever they are."

A thrum of pain runs up him. Deep and emotional. He needs to let go of these memories. The Master can see her, when she was a little boy — a crop of messy, black hair and black eyes. They were only fledglings of Time Lords.

He remembers the initiation ceremony, getting pulled away from his stern-eyed father and herded away with the other Gallifreyian children. The Master remembers staring into the Untempered Schism — the opening to the Vortex, the space-time continuum — and trapped in place while his head drummed loudly, painfully until madness formed.

(Everything in the shared history with the Doctor echoes pain.)

The Master does remember meeting another young, black-haired boy like him. Before the drumming. Before the pain started to consume the Master.

He didn't remember it before, and it's so clear now: The Doctor, small and overly pale, in his night-robes like the other children wore. He shook hard, arms tightening round himself. He didn't answer when the Master stood at his side, comforted by the darkness, and questioned if the other boy was afraid. The reply was more silence. The Doctor's low, tearful noises.

One of the Master's hands gripped over the Doctor's fingers, as they stood wordlessly for their futures to be decided.

"Profoundly," the Master says breathlessly, feeling himself shudder. "There will never be a day where I'm not thinking about them." He forgets about playing as O, gazing in longing and wide-eyed to the Doctor. "I just wish they would understand me the way I need them to. We're very different. We didn't used to be like that. I need them to understand I cannot change who I am."

The Doctor's face tenses. This is a feeble attempt of sympathy—not understanding—

"I'm so sorry—"

His hand slams roughly onto the metal-cased sink's edge. The sudden, violent motion startles the Doctor open-mouthed. Her brows furrow. The Master collects himself, thinking strategically, looking over his shoulder and taking a deep breath.

"Would you like another cuppa, Doctor? I think I've got a package of biscuits in the cupboard."

Her mouth opens wider. "I would love a biscuit!" she gushes. Successful distraction, the Master thinks. Regeneration after regeneration, and that sweet tooth for honey and sugary shiplano and jelly babies by the pocketful didn't go anywhere.

He relaxes himself, passing all of the unopened jam drops — much to the Doctor's absolute thrill.

"You're not quite what I expected," the Master announces, resuming his character by drying off one of his plates.

The Doctor peers up, nibbling on a raspberry biscuit.

"How so?"

"You're beautiful—for a start. Young. Spirited." He finishes drying this plate, setting it aside before picking up another, rubbing it with a deep, dark blue hand-towel and turning back to the Doctor. Their gazes meet. "Most of my colleagues are frumpy old men who can't be bothered with email accounts," the Master points out, bestowing her with O's weak, harmless smile.

"I used to be a frumpy old man. Several of them, I think," the Doctor says, most of her words seemingly muffled. There's at least four or five raspberry jam drops chewed in her mouth. She swallows the mush, gasping. "It's difficult to keep track!"

"I've seen the images. I remember meeting you for a very brief time."

"Not as beautiful as a woman, ay?"

At the slightest hint of teasing in her voice, the Master pretends to go sheepish.

"I shouldn't have said that to you," he admits, grimace-smiling. His dark eyes squint up. "That was inappropriate."

"Oh, I don't mind." She brushes aside her coat, planting her hands on her hips and rocking forward. "Beauty can be found in every living organism, I reckon." Her pretty, pink lips scrunch together in contemplation. "Gloobis. Gloobis are very beautiful."

"I wish I could see everything you've seen. It must be so wonderful."

The Master doesn't anticipate her expression to fall.

She's shutting down. It's the sort of behaviour he's seen from her other incarnations when a difficult subject has been breached.

"Not everything… but…" The Doctor lifts her face, inhaling sharply enough for the Master to sense it, blinking at the ceiling and then looking to him ruefully. "So much of the universe is complex… for better or worse… that's what makes it wonderful. It exists."

Once she's sitting, the Master waves the plastic sleeve of raspberry jam drops under her nose.

"You only live one lifetime, don't you?"

The Doctor's mouth twitches up at the obvious joke.

"I knew someone who thought like that," she mumbles solemnly. "Long time ago."

"Was he nice… or them, yes? I should say them if they're an alien?"

"Sometimes he had been a woman," the Doctor tells him. "It didn't matter really." Something within his hearts stutter. The Master keeps O's appearance as politely dismissive, lowering the hand-towel onto the sink's countertop. "I miss my friend…" She laces her hands in her lap and stares off into the distance, wistful. "I loved him… I used to be scared to admit that to myself. I couldn't tell you why. He was the first love I ever knew besides my family."

A gleam of moisture burns in the Master's eyes. Hot and bright like a dying star.

Did the Doctor remember? Being in the rain and surrounded by the darkness… holding onto the Master's hand as a frightened child? Was that when the Doctor felt the stirrings of love? Or was it challenging each other to race down the corridors of the Time Academy on their first day… laughing and tripping and shoving playfully… knowing already they would be friends?

Was it when they promised to see everything in the universe together… lying in the red grass of the pastures?

Or was it harsh and abrupt like killing Torvic… a younger Master choking for air, nearly drowned, pulling himself out of the river Lethe…? Did the Doctor remember? Did she remember leaping over Torvic's body and hugging the Master, sobbing into his neck and clinging to him like the Doctor was the one Torvic meant to drown…? Did she remember she saved the Master's life…?

He loved her. And he loves her and hates her and everything the Doctor stands for. Everything that makes her who she is.

(Because it's what made the Master who he is.)

That rage and sorrow, towards the Doctor, towards the Time Lords responsible for the Doctor's pain and the Master's pain, towards himself — that love that could burn him alive — will not leave him. Nothing will calm this endless darkness.

"Are you sure you're alright, O?"

She's returned to noticing him, much to his dismay.

"Yeah," the Master whispers, rubbing his temple like he's experiencing a headache. "Forgot to take my medication. I'll be a moment." As soon as he's moving from the sink and towards his backroom, a visibly confused Doctor leaps onto her feet.

"… You didn't tell me that."

"For my anxiety," the Master explains, lying. "I didn't think about it earlier. I didn't want to worry you."

Hurt floods the Doctor's expression.

"That's funny… you tell me everything…" she insists, fussing even with her little half-smile. In a way, the Doctor is correct. They text on WhatsApp about O's missions and decode steganography together and anything else on their minds. The Doctor frequently sends long, prattling voice messages. She's the only one the Master allowed to contact him whenever she wanted. And he, tragically, reveled in it.

An apologetic shrug.

"I guess I do," the Master says softly, interrupted by Graham rushing in, gesturing with a file, and shouting to the Doctor about Weeping Angels.

(He hasn't told her who he really is… not yet. He hasn't told her that O isn't real… well, his miniaturized corpse is very real. Very, very real. But the Master will give the Doctor all of her truth… and revel in her fear and astonishment and pain mirroring his.)

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