A/N Okay, so I was watching "The Last of the Time Lords," and this just came out. Nnrgh. I can't control it... the Doctor/Master love was killing me slowly... right, so, anyways, this is basically Ten's POV of the Master's death. Mhm. Nice and creative. Yeah, well, I really don't feel up for writing totally original DW stories, since I've only (?) seen seasons 1, 2, 3, & 5... meh, whatever. Just read. And review. Or, y'know, bad things will happen. Oh, god, I'm exhausted right now *yawn* I'll just shut up now, shall I?

Rated T for... death.

Disclaimer I don't own Doctor Who or any associated characters, events, etc.

Bang.

You've always hated the sound of gunshots. Always. It started a long time ago, back on Gallifrey, when you were young—young even by human standards. The sharp sound was too much for your sensitive ears, such a merciless blow of noise. It got worse later, though, when you learned exactly what it symbolized—one shot equaled one death. The moment the bang's short life had died, chances were, its target's had as well, or at least was inevitably on the way to do such. And now, this one, this shot—it's already dying away, and for someone who travels so easily through time, it's painful, so damn painful to realize that you can't make these moments right now any longer, nor can you reverse them. Crazy, half-formed ideas flit through your mind—get to the TARDIS, go back and stop this from happening, stop that woman's finger from pulling the trigger, that woman in her horrible red silk dress that screams of blood… turn this back around, don't let it happen… how was it that seconds, moments ago, everything had been fine, and now there was this—this cold, spiky reality of the expression on his face, almost frozen… he knows he's been shot just as surely as you do. The slight clinking noise of metal on the floor comes from where she's standing, that creature that did this to him, confirming that it wasn't some sort of… of error in your mind, a dash of stray noise with no real substance… this is, absolutely and definitively, happening.

You don't exactly know why you're running towards him, your feet echoing over the wooden floor in the otherwise absolute silence. All you're aware of is that you need to get to him, need to be with him. Need to feel him, know that, for however long he has left, he's alive—that's amazing knowledge right there, more magnificent than any of the stupid facts catalogued in your remarkable brain, just that he's alive… it's… infinitely good. Positive. A green light. As long as you know he's alive, things will be okay. All of them. Somehow, they will. But he won't be alive for long. Which is what hurts. That realization… this is the sort of time that can't be twisted, redone and looped into neat little lacy rows of perfection. This time, right here, is irreparable. It's deadly. Not to you. To him, which is worse, so much worse. You know higher numbers than many species could count to within their lives, but none of them quite capture the magnitude of just how much more horrible it is.

Get to him. Be with him. Be with him.

You find your arms around him, and your mouth moving, too—how does it manage that?—"…there you go, I've got you, I've got you…" It isn't much to be saying, but it's something. Know that. Know that I have you. If there's a single person in this galaxy who you can trust right now, it's me, I promise. His face is twisted into a wide-eyed grimace, and it violently strikes you how much this must hurt him. Hold on… what would it feel like to be shot? Fire, most likely. You know fire, know how it feels to be burned. Is he being burned right now? Ignore the fire… please… don't let it hurt you. There's an awful sensation gripping your stomach, and a much worse one higher up, in your chest, shrouding both of your hearts, which are beating too hard and too fast, so ferociously that it seems they might burst. Don't let it burn you! Your throat and eyes are screaming—everything is screaming with the agony of this, and you want to get even closer to him, as near as you can, feel as much of his breathing, living body as is physically possible before he has to be gone… gone… don't leave me!

Each of his inhalations is rasping and ragged, pushing out against your arms, but at least they're there, and you savor the heat that comes with them, radiating out from his limp form. So limp… he's not making any effort to hold himself up now, none at all. He's turned it completely over to you. Let me fix you. Let me heal you. Let me save you… just hang on… you're a Time Lord, you ridiculous man, of course you'll be okay… just in a different form, that's all... shame… I was growing fond of this one… he'll be different once he regenerates. You'll miss this part of him… but that's okay, because he'll still be there, as he has been, really, all this time. When Martha told you about the pocket watch… you knew right away, somehow. You knew what it meant. It meant that it was him. That he was here.

Don't leave now!

"Always the women," he hisses out, eyes straining in a sort of frustrated disbelief. He's not looking at you. Why isn't he? Not at anything, really, in fact. Those eyes, those beautiful dark brown eyes, they're somewhere else… somewhere that isn't even is this room. Is he thinking about the woman who killed him? His wife? He never should have trusted her. You complete idiot, you think wildly, arms trembling with the effort of holding him away from you, not crushing him to yourself like you so desperately want to. She never loved you, or she wouldn't have done this. I forgave you! You heard me say it! After all of this, all of the people that you killed, I forgave you! And do you know why? Do you know why?

You find yourself talking again, muttering words that aren't important, they're just to have some sort of response to him, to let him know that you're still here, listening. His reaction is to keep breathing, and that's enough. For a moment, you think that this would be enough, for things to just keep on going like this, with your holding him and feeling his lungs work, in and out, let his hearts keep pounding. His two hearts. One for each of yours. No other creature in all of the galaxies has quite the same anatomy of you two. That means that you have a connection… a connection that others couldn't possibly come near approaching. Not even Rose… oh, Rose. How much less important she seems now, practically trivial. Rose is alive. She's alive and well and probably at least somewhat happy, and she's with her family, even her father. That's what matters, isn't it? As long as she's living. This is different. Him—he isn't going to be, not much longer, a nightmarishly vivid fact made all the more real by his next words.

"Dying in your arms… happy now?" he coughs out. Oh, God, no, of course I'm not happy, you fool… why would this make me happy? Why the hell would it? Tell me, why don't you? TELL ME!

Then you have to remind yourself that making such a scene would be absurd, since this isn't what it looks like anyways. You've grown too used to traveling with humans—flimsy humans, weak humans, with their single lives. He's a Time Lord. He has thirteen lives, and you know, you're positive that he's not anywhere near the end of the line yet. You're much farther along than him, on your tenth. He hasn't been through all that. He has more left, so, so much more. So much more life, beautiful, pure life, shimmering with multicolored gorgeousness, and it's in him right now, and it will be. A new face, new quirks… those won't mean anything. Maybe they'll even offer you two a chance to start over. I can regenerate, too, if that helps! It'll be easy, I can shoot myself or something… fresh start for both of us, that sounds good, doesn't it?

"You're not dying, don't be stupid," you insist, and your mouth can't form the words fast enough. "It's only a bullet. Just regenerate."

"No," he breathes, and it hurts you so badly, so badly, because it's… true. He wouldn't lie, not on his deathbed, not in as pathetic a position as this. Everything is flooding back, a thousand times worse. He's refusing. He's refusing, the stupid thing. You hate him right now for saying that, but at the same time you can't possibly let him… die, no, of course not, that would be ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

"A little bullet, come on," you growl angrily, lips drawn back from your teeth, giving him a slight shake to bring him back to reality. There's no way that he'd be so… dumb, so… suicidal.

"I guess you don't know me so well," he whispers, then his eyes widen tauntingly. Now he's looking at you. Is that the last thing he'll see? Your face? Don't think that, you can't think that. He has multiple lives to still live out.

He's not… he won't do this… he can't, not really…

"Regenerate." There must be some way for you to make him, to force him to if you have to. "Just… regenerate!" How can you stress the vitality of that? You need him to. Absolutely need him to with every fiber of your existence. And you're not even sure why anymore. It's a blind desire, but a very, very real one. Martha's family and his wife have completely vanished from your mind. They're gone. They don't matter. Every single neuron in your oh-so-capable brain is fixated on him. You're shaking, and your throat aches as the next words come out with a rough urgency. "Please—please just regenerate! Come on!" You need a way to tell him that you'll do anything, absolutely anything. You're begging, because you're that desperate. He, the dying one, isn't at your mercy. You're at his. He matters more to you than he does to himself, and your only hope is that, perhaps, somehow, you're enough to keep him tied here. If you won't live for yourself… live for me. Please, please live for me.

"Spend… the rest of my life… imprisoned with you?"

That hurts, too. Each word is its own individual weapon, the extermination beam of a Dalek, the deletion by electrocution of the Cybermen, the poison on a hundred primitive humanoids' spears and anything, anything else that you don't want to think about right now, not because such a recollection would be too painful, but the opposite—any of them would be blissful, cheap avoidance of what's really the danger here. Imprisoned. You wouldn't imprison him. Why can't he understand that? You'd never do such a thing. In fact, if he wished it, things could be the opposite way around. You'd be his slave, if that was what it took just to have him. You the slave, and him the master. The Master. Your Master.

"But you've got to, come on," you plead. Your breathing is so shaky, so uncertain. Every inhalation is a strain. You don't want to have to breathe right now. You just want him. To be able to concentrate every particle, every atom of your body and mind and soul on him. Everything's aching, your stomach and hearts and throat and the space behind your eyes, which are smarting harder than ever. "It can't end like this," you insist, because it can't. This can't be it. It's impossible. Not a word you tend to believe in, and yet… a true one. If a single thing in the many galaxies you've traversed simply cannot happen, it's this, right here, right now, somewhere above Earth, one of the most familiar planets of them all to you. Perhaps the most familiar, other than Gallifrey. How you wish you were on the latter right now, with him, as a child—not a care in the world. Just the two of you… playing… laughing… you're both older now. Hundreds of years older, and you're here, and he's dying—he's dying… "You and me," you choke, "all the things we've done… Axons, remember the Axons? And the Daleks." Images, memories race across your mind as you recite them. A hot streak races down your cheek, convalescing into a warm drop near your chin, and you don't stop to think about what it might be. You don't pause to name it, because the name doesn't matter. It's nothing more than the pain materializing, the horrible pain. You grit your teeth together, holding back something—a sob, a scream—a release… what it is exactly doesn't matter, not really, because you can feel its definition deep down inside you, amidst the chaotic whirlwind that you seem to consist of right now. "We're the only two left." The only ones. The only ones. And yet it's not just that. If this was some… other Time Lord, right here, one that wasn't your Master… it wouldn't be the same. Because it wouldn't be him. Of course it had to be, though. Of course the universe had to make this as unbearable for you as possible, by making it be him. It's getting harder and harder to breathe. "And no one else." It's like you have to force your lungs to make each movement, in, out, like there's a blockage in your bloodstream that prevents the oxygen from getting to where it needs to be.

He does nothing. Just keeps watching you, almost smiling, but just a little bit. You know that he's not listening. Not really. Not in the way that matters. Then things crack, and you scream the next word, teeth bared, moving from begging to threatening, insisting, demanding that he do what he has to. What he has to. "Regenerate!" Your whole face feels hot with the frantic power of your command. Do this. Anything it takes. I can repay you, I swear.

Not flushed. Not crying. He's cool and relaxed, pale though you can't feel any blood on him, and now there's a full smirk on his face, one that shows his teeth. His eyes are less wide than before, slowly slipping shut. "How about that," he slurs, and for a moment, what he must be seeing flashes in your mind—your own face, twisted into a mess of desperation, red and tear stained, staring at him like your life depends on it… it doesn't, which isn't fair. Of course it doesn't. Nature isn't kind enough to kill you when you want it. Instead, you'll be forced to keep going on after this, after he's gone.

He takes another breath, lets his eyes widen for a full second, so that you can see every minute, pristine detail of them—the little hairs and strands of chocolate interspersed with gold and even fern green, brilliant with life, life—it's there, and you take that instant to drink it in, just to feel it and revel in it… it's there. Right here, right now, it's there, and you're staring into it, and it into you. Then the last of his energy is gathered, spat out in two little, monosyllabic, perfectly clear words.

"I win."

He groans as his breathing elevates, harsh and rapid and violent, not perfect, not pretty, but rough and real. And yet the words coming out of him… you already know what they are. An afterword. An epilogue. Just a little bit tacked on to the true end. "I want it to stop, Doctor. The drumming… I want it to stop."

Let me stop it for you! you want to wail. You should be able to. You should… Doctor… such a useless title now, useless, meaningless, because it's already happening, those last breaths are hitching up in his chest… you can feel the pounding of his twin hearts, their heat bleeding through the fabric of his shirt into your arm, and for just the briefest fragment of time, your pulses are thrumming together, identical, each essential for the life of the other…

You see it at the same time you feel it. The eyes roll back gently, lids falling shut over them, even as that twin beat is gone, leaving yours stranded, alone, abandoned. Truly the last of its kind.

Because there's no way to retrieve him.

Ever.

You're gathering him up to you, his shell, and burying your face into his hair, not caring about how it might look, just feeling him, pretending that he's still there, that you aren't holding a corpse. You knew that the life would be gone soon enough. And now it is. Vanished. Left. He left you. He left you because he didn't care enough about either of you to stay. Because you weren't worth it. And now you're alone. You'll never, ever stop being alone. Rocking him back and forth, you let it escape you—briefly, but powerfully, a wordless cry of… whatever might be the very, very worse emotion there is, beyond words, beyond anything.

He was hope… perseverance… love… power… he was laughter and smiling and everything good that there is in the universe—everything bad, too, but who cares about that when it comes with its opposite? He was everything. Absolutely everything.

And now he's gone, along with all he carried with him.