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Home Sweet Home
"So that's it?" asked the Master incredulously. The hardly healed bullet wound in his chest throbbed in sync with the drums.
"Yep," said the Doctor. "It's not much, I know. But with a little work here and there it'll be a comfy home for both of us." The Master only stared at him, not sure who of them was the crazy genius and who was only crazy. "Oh, come on!" The Doctor grabbed his arm and dragged him closer to the small weather-beaten cottage in the middle of Northumberland.
"There is a hole in the roof," the Master complained. "No wait, four, five…seven. So that is my punishment? I'll live as a tramp in there for all eternity?"
"Stop nagging. I haven't got my sonic screwdriver for nothing," the Doctor beamed and patted the Master's head.
"This is worse than death!"
"No, it isn't."
"Yes, it is."
"No…oh, this is silly. Be reasonable for a change. We're the last of our kind and we used to be friends." The Doctor ignored the half-rotten door and stepped inside the cottage.
"That was before you developed this hero complex," the Master reminded the Doctor, following him sulkily.
"Someone had to stop you."
"It's the drums," insisted the Master as the Doctor gave him one of his you-naughty-naughty-boy looks.
A flock of wild doves soared off, scared by their presence. Naturally, one dropped a little something on the Master's shoulder.
"This is just great! I'm seriously injured and you drag me into the wilderness. I would ask for a doctor but I'm fed up with them at the moment."
"We wouldn't be here if you had behaved," replied the Doctor and made his way over to the forfeited kitchen. The Master only half-listened. Would it be possible to get hold of the Doctor's screwdriver? If he had something sonic he might be able to get into the TARDIS and then he could --
"Look at that! Awww, isn't that beautiful?" The Doctor exclaimed excitedly and disturbed his evil plotting. He was holding an old, cast-iron frying pan, probably lying there since before the cottage had been built around it. Fortunately, the Master fainted before the Doctor discovered the set of Victorian pottery.
A week later they were still in Northumberland but the cottage had a proper roof now and a fire crackled briskly in the fireplace. The Master was consequently grumpy. With no planet to conquer and no empire to advance, life was dull. He had not seen a single human since their arrival and, although he scorned them for their weakness and their comparative degeneration, he would have welcomed the sight of even a shepherd. Oh, he had soared past the rock bottom on Monday, bloody Monday.
"Would you mind making some tea?" asked the Doctor from his desk. He was writing a letter, no doubt to that faithful and love-sick companion of his. Not that the Master minded faithful and love-sick companions. Devoted and obedient, that's how he preferred them. And everyone else for that matter. But this Martha Jones had fawned over the Doctor and what was so great about him? The current regeneration was almost on the wrong side of lean and wore shoes that made the Master's fashion sensors bleep uncontrollably. The Doctor had never had style.
Therefore the only logical answer was, "Yes, I mind."
The Doctor's hand stopped moving over the paper and he looked up, frowning at him. "Please, Master," he said with a wry smile. That bastard! He knew he couldn't resist him saying his name and please in one breath.
"Alright, alright," the Master grumbled and got up with an audible sigh.
When he came back, carrying a small tray with two cups of tea, a steaming pot and a saucer with sliced lemon, he felt quite rebellious.
"I don't understand why you bother, Doctor." He spit the last word with as much venom as he could manage while carrying a tea tray. "You lied to them when you said we were going to stay in the TARDIS and every single letter you send must build on this lie."
The Doctor took his cup with a small smile. "What's one lie in exchange for your life?" The Master blushed and wanted to hit the Doctor with the tray over his bloody head. "You're a genocide-plotting, pig-headed, incessantly nagging nuisance and a sociopathic lunatic on top of that but you make excellent tea," the Doctor added, beaming, and sipped his tea.
The Master smiled back, "I'm nothing compared to you. I never wiped out our people."
The Doctor choked on his tea and glared at him over his cup. After exactly two glorious minutes of bathing in his verbal victory, the Master heard the Doctor asking, "May I have a lemon slice?"
"I'm bored," the Master complained. It was one of those horrible rainy days and, after actually cleaning the cottage, there was nothing to do.
The Doctor sighed heavily and rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Why don't you tinker with something?"
The Master gave him a long hard look. "What am I? Eighty seven?" Tinkering with civilisations and solar systems, now that was his idea of fun!
"I don't know what your problem is. I like tinkering when things are quiet," the Doctor huffed and stroked his sonic screwdriver affectionately.
It was the Master's turn to roll his eyes. "Yeah, and you aren't particularly good at it. My laser screwdriver was --"
"Bigger and better, I know," interrupted the Doctor and smiled indulgently. The drums in the Master's head beat rebelliously. "We could play some chess," the Doctor suggested as an afterthought.
"Chess? Why would we play a human game that does not even remotely challenge our intellect?" asked the Master sardonically.
"It's different if both players are Time Lords, smarty pants."
"Oh, we're back at pet names, are we?"
For a second, the Doctor looked as if he was about to explode but he only took a deep breath and got up from the sofa to get the chess board.
An hour later both of them were immersed in the game, which proved to be stimulating indeed.
"No, that's cheating!" the Doctor exclaimed when the Master made a conniving move with his knight. Unsurprisingly, he played black.
"You're boring, Doctor. Where is the fun in always playing according to the rules? It's not as if you bothered when Gallifrey still existed."
"Can't you just let it be for one day?"
"No, I'm rather interested in this topic. You see, Doctor, I wasn't there when you did it, when you played God." The black queen conquered a white rook.
The Doctor remained silent but the Master was quite sure that he played with the thought of hitting him.
"I miss Lucy," the Master said after twenty minutes of tense silence.
"You miss Lucy?" the Doctor repeated incredulously.
"That's what I just said."
"Don't be silly, she was no more than an accessory," the Doctor chided.
"And don't I know that?" scoffed the Master and put one of his pawns into the white knight's way. "But she was convenient and, well, nice to have around."
"I bet. She worshipped you."
"She shot me."
"You cheated on her and beat her up, what did you expect?" the Doctor frowned.
"Everything," the Master said with a slow smile and checkmated the Doctor.
A month later, the Master had the Doctor where he wanted him: tied to his bed.
"You won't be able to escape, so untie me!"
The Master grinned madly. "Those humans you love so much, well, they like me. I'll just walk into the next town and see what I can find. Give me a month and they'll beg me to be their Lord and Master."
"You have this strange, inexplicable charisma, I'll give you that," acknowledged the Doctor grudgingly, struggling against the kitchen towels around his wrists. "But people don't forget so easily."
"Puhlease! They forgot spaceships and Cybermen and they actually happened. You eradicated my reign of glory out of their memories when you destroyed the paradox machine. Among my best work, by the way. Were you impressed?" the Master asked eagerly.
The Doctor huffed indignantly. "I'll find you wherever you go. You're stuck on earth."
"Am I now?" The Master closed in on the Doctor and leaned down to whisper into his ear. It seemed the right thing to do, since everything sounded a little devious when whispered. "It's only a matter of time until I find your TARDIS key. Or I'll visit handsome Jack and borrow his."
"You wouldn't!" yelped the Doctor.
The Master straightened up and looked down at the Doctor with mock concern. "Is there still any doubt about what I would or wouldn't do to escape this miserable hole?"
"But you and I, we're --"
"The last of our kind, blah blah blabbity blah. You are under the misconception that this means that I like spending time with you. You wish!" The Doctor's eyes darkened. "Awww, you're not going to cry, are you?" asked the Master, pulling a face.
"Master," the Doctor said almost pleadingly.
"No, it won't help you this time. Look at you," the Master raved, gesturing wildly. "Isn't it fantastic? I'll escape after two months and you'd still live in a tent if it weren't for good ol' Martha Jones."
"Yes, she saved me. Me and the world. That's because my companions actually like me," replied the Doctor with as much dignity as he could muster.
"Or do they love you, hmm, Doctor? Did the great humanitarian break poor Martha's heart in return for her devoted services? You could have taken her but no, you and your morals, pah!" The Master shook his head, both in disbelief and to silence the drumming. "Well, see you later. Bye bye!" He waved and, cackling diabolically, punched the air and rushed out of the room.
Two and a half hours later, he found himself in the Doctor's arms on the sofa.
"The kitchen towels weren't really a master plan," the Doctor said while nuzzling the Master, who looked as if he had swallowed several unripe lemons.
"They were the best I could find," he pouted and tried to wriggle free. "And now let me go to bed."
"But I forgive you," cooed the Doctor and, looking at him affectionately, smoothed the Master's hair. The old grandfather clock struck the eleventh time. The Master had always liked ticking clocks because they distracted him from the drumming. They also reminded him of ingenious plans of evil but now the Doctor's soothing hand made him a little woozy.
"How many times? You can't cuddle it better," huffed the Master.
"I suppose you want me to tie you up in the cellar and let you starve a bit."
"We don't have a cellar."
"It's also a little kinky," grinned the Doctor.
"Yeah, but it would break the monotony nicely," said the Master with a spectacular pout.
"We'll see what we can do about that tomorrow morning at breakfast."
"Oh, tomorrow is Tuesday." The Master's face lit up. "Are you going to make scrambled eggs?"
"Naturally."
"You know, I'll be always better than you. You're a genius but I'm an evil genius," the Master slurred shortly after, eyes drooping. The Doctor's hearts beat against his ear and blacked out the rhythmic drumming, the never-ending drumming.
"Three or four eggs?" The Doctor asked, unperturbed.
"Four. And," the Master yawned, "one of these Death Star shaped toasts. That would be nice."
Fin
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