End of Time missing scene... sorta
Mar. 6th, 2010 09:59 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
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Title: Three Cheers For Sweet Revenge
Author: Kuroshokora
Rating: M
Summary: The Doctor vs. the Master vs. the Valeyard. Set somewhere during End of Time Part One.
Characters: Doctor, Master, Meta-crisis Doctor (Valeyard)
Warning: Spoilers, mention of character death
Pairing: Doctor/Master. Very very slight implications of future!Valeyard/past!Master
**
The room was dark, entirely empty apart from the blue police box TARDIS in the corner, and a rack of wires and cables twisting around the length and breadth of the wall opposite the magnetic glass door. The Doctor crossed the floor in silence, with only the tapping of his heels and the squeaking of his soles on the glossy white tiles. It was quick, methodical and simple work, but he focused all of his attention on it, not allowing his mind to wander from the task at hand. He couldn't think about anything else, not now. He knew that there was only one topic plaguing his active thoughts at the moment.
He will knock four times...
No. He couldn't think about that. He had to think about the universe, not his own troubles in his own timeline. The end of time, all of time, those were the stakes here and not just the case of a single regeneration. He'd lived long. Maybe too long. He'd seen too much, that was the more likely explanation; he'd hardly stopped. Was that because it was the path he'd chosen, the path he'd taken? Or was it a set path? He didn't believe it. Time wasn't a set progression, and so how could his own destiny be any different? Carmen had said otherwise. But it wasn't definite. Even if people could tell the future, the future of the universe or the future of an individual. It wasn't definite. The future could be changed. Of course it could. Even set events, fixed points, they could be altered. Shouldn't, but could, and those were the rules of a Time Lord. Why shouldn't he be able to change those rules. Why shouldn't he be able to cheat an event in his own existence?
His song was ending....
The Doctor hummed between his teeth in a furious attempt to quash any such thoughts. In his attempt to not think about it, he was doing just that. Maybe it was easier when he had things to do; running around in a state of chaos and keeping busy. Running, running, always running. He shouldn't have insisted he didn't need any help. He didn't want to be alone. He knew it was the most sensible thing, to stay away and keep quiet and out of the Master's line of attention while he worked out how to reroute this machine and stop Naismith from using the Master to destroy the world. Or rather, attempt to. He didn't believe that any human would succeed in using the Master, not even in his current weakened state. The Master was volatile, now more than ever, and he needed help. The Doctor wanted to help him, but first he had to save the world.
Somewhere, distantly, he could hear a noise. He strained to listen, holding tightly to a spool of flex, his brow furrowed. It sounded like... but it couldn't be. He glanced quickly over his shoulder at his TARDIS, standing in the corner, as he'd left it. Not making a sound. And besides, it sounded far away, somewhere else in the building. He strode to the blue police box, footsteps echoing on the ground, and the usual bounce in his step noticeably absent. It was as though all of that had been a charade that he'd finally been allowed to drop. He wasn't sure when it had all become an act, but it almost felt a relief not to have to smile, and laugh, and talk constantly. Only to think.
He pressed his palms to the wood of his TARDIS, and then flattened his cheek against the door to listen. Not a sound. Yet, there was nothing else that it could have been. There was no other TARDIS in the universe.
"What's up, Doc?"
Not in this universe.
He froze at the voice. His own voice. The enunciation, the ups and downs of his Estuary accent, the mocking tone he reserved for the most thick and annoying of the people he met on his travels. A biting edge he didn't recognise, but one that he could almost imagine dripping from his own mouth. He turned, slowly, to look around at the man in the doorway. He hadn't heard him come in, but then, the one person who knew how to sneak up on him was probably... himself.
His Meta-crisis. The product of a fusion of his biological code and that of a human, fired up with regenerative energy, and creating one new life form. The only, so far as he knew, half-human half-Time Lord in existence. Because it was impossible; that was the simple truth of the matter. Biologically, in any case. Naturally. Genetically engineered? Maybe. This had been a chemical reaction. Reactants. Catalystic energy. Product: one half human Time Lord. Only it wasn't that easy. The process had half killed Donna, and now would do so if she even remembered a moment of her time aboard the TARDIS. And the Meta-crisis, although a copy of him in every other way, was forged in the midst of battle. That was why he had entrusted him to Rose. To care for, and to slowly, hopefully, heal him. Like she had done for the Doctor.
He hadn't expected to see this man again. No, maybe he had. Maybe a part of him had known. But not yet. Not now. Not when there was no reason, so far as he could see, for the Meta-crisis to have returned to this universe, and in a TARDIS?
Yes, he had given a piece of his own TARDIS to Rose and her own, human Doctor. He'd offered the image of a time in the future where the two of them might be able to travel their universe. Of course, even with the accelerated process that the Doctor-Donna had suggested, it would still take a good deal of time for the coral to cultivate growth and create a TARDIS that was capable of proper flight. He had hoped that perhaps
by that time, the Meta-crisis would be able to handle the responsibility of an entire universe. Rose would help. Course she would. And it wouldn't really have been fair to hold any Time Lord away from the prospect of travelling. Even a half-human one. Especially one that was part Donna. Because Donna had wanted to travel with him forever, and he'd had to take that away from her. He hadn't wanted to do that to the Meta-crisis as well.
It was his own shape; his body, identical in form but not entirely in the details. He was wearing a coat, a long one, black with the collar turned up under his chin and with a row of silver buttons stretching from his throat to mid-thigh in a mock-Gothic military style that he himself wouldn't consider but actually looked well on him. On the Meta-crisis, that is. The coat was unfastened, showing off black jeans, and a black shirt, with a blood red tie snaking down in soft, loose silk over his chest. His hair was longer, more styled and wild in appearance, and the half smirk half scowl across his face, the Doctor's face, was ugly more in its meaning than the aesthetics.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, reasonably enough.
He had closed the walls of the universe. The end of time, itself. For every universe? The end of all time in its entirety? He hadn't even considered that.
"I flew here." the Meta-crisis returned, sarcastic, his arms folded.
There was something off about his stance. It had a slant to it. An arrogant swagger, with legs placed apart and the rest of his body upright that could look like a stroppy teenager but came off menacing. The Doctor glanced in the direction of the noise he had heard, as though somehow he would be able to see it through the walls. His gaze flicked back, again unsettled by the sight of his own face, and a little of his own mannerisms in it. It was even more odd than when the Meta-crisis had first been created, because they had seemed identical then. They looked alike; they more often than not thought alike. But they had headed down different paths. Different branches of the universe. Maybe the Doctor had changed too.
He didn't understand what was going on, but there wasn't time for him to stand around wondering. He had a job to do, and not even himself was going to get in his way. He crossed the Meta-crisis' path, carrying a heap of wires. The other man didn't move. Just stood there, watching him, with disconcerting dark glances.
"Is that it, then? 'Hello, me! No time to chat, I'm busy being a bloody martyr, as per usual, and the little people should just shut up and let me get on with it!' " the Meta-crisis snapped, suddenly, and the tension in the air simultaneously lessened as though in a great release, and heightened considerably with the pure venom the Doctor recognised in his own words.
He turned, slightly, just from the hips with his upper body swivelling to face... himself, and his legs remaining rooted to the ground. The Meta-crisis took a quick step forwards, and the Doctor resisted the urge to move backwards in response.
"Where's Rose?" the Doctor demanded, automatically.
Had she come with him? He couldn't imagine that he would have left her behind. The Meta-crisis was even less likely to. No, he wouldn't say that his counterpart had stronger feelings for Rose than himself, merely more will to act on them, and the sense of action that far outweighed the thoughts and knowledge that sometimes held the Doctor back. And the Meta-crisis needed Rose, more than the Doctor did.
The Meta-crisis paused, looking suddenly as though a storm cloud had passed over his face, behind his eyes. The familiar, identical hazel eyes seemed to darken as they narrowed to slits, and the pain was raw, raw and real. The Doctor actually did step back, suddenly horrified. Because he knew that look. He knew what it meant. The Meta-crisis didn't say a word, but he didn't have to.
"No." he said quietly "No. She can't be. I don't believe it--"
"Yes."
The Doctor felt as though his legs were giving out, but he held himself upright, stunned into silence. She couldn't be. His Rose. No, no! She couldn't. She was the thing that kept him fighting; the memories of her, the knowledge that somewhere, she was out there making a difference, wherever she was. Because she was his Rose and that was who she was. He was the Doctor who made people better, but she was what gave him that ability and returned him to who he was when he had nothing else. And she was so young, so good, so pure... and selfishly, he knew that he prized her more than anybody in the universe. He would have risked it all. He would have been prepared to sacrifice other people, other lives, in order to keep her safe. That was wrong, but he couldn't help it, because she was everything.
"No! Tell me it isn't true!"
He knew even before the words left his mouth that it was hopeless. He could read his own expression too well. Even when it was worn on a face that he felt he now barely knew, from a man he couldn't quite understand, even when he held all of the Doctor's self in his creation.
"It's true, Doctor. She's dead, dead and it's your fault!"
He stared. The Meta-crisis stared back, eyes still dark and wide, round like pools of ink or twin black holes in his face. His face was else impassive, his forehead drawn back in the smallest of frowns. Dead. Rose. He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to hear more. And he had a feeling that was why the Meta-crisis took a breath, and continued.
"She was dying, all that time. And you never noticed. Never thought. Of course, you thought you fixed it. Don't you remember? She did it to save you. No idea of the consequences, no idea what she was doing. She looked into the heart of the TARDIS, and the whole of time and space flowed into her head."
Of course he remembered. He remembered every detail. How it would have destroyed her, had he not done something about it. Which he had, immediately, to save her. It had cost his own life, creating the regeneration that both he and the Meta-crisis were currently wearing. But he had saved her. She had lived. She had been fine.
"I don't--"
"Of course not! You didn't think! Don't you realise, even now, what that did to her? It wasn't like Donna, not like memories and thoughts. What happened to her, Doctor?"
"I... I had to wipe her memory. To take it away; it was..."
He couldn't make himself say the words 'killing her'. The thought of another death he had almost caused was too much. Another death of somebody he loved. The words stuck in his throat, but he knew the Meta-crisis understood.
"It wasn't like that. Not just the memories and the mind. It was more. It was energy. Fire. It burned her mind from the inside. You watched her. You saw her destroy every one of those Daleks. Every one of them. Burning into her brain. It was more than light, and power, and time. She created a pathway through time and space for herself and to you, and it burned a hole in her head."
The Doctor stared, and shook his head, dumbfounded. He had never....
"You never even considered that, did you? Course, she seemed okay! Sure, she might have picked things up a little more quickly than before. But that was your influence, right? That was the travelling; the TARDIS, the experience! Nothing to do with the fact that there was still a chunk of the universe lodged in her mind!"
The Meta-crisis was practically screaming the words, and they tumbled out in a long stream of hard, harsh and high pitched utterances aimed at the Doctor, who felt the tears well in his eyes and tumble in tracks down his cheeks.
"Didn't it ever occur to you? One glance in her mind, one look, and you could have saved her! I did everything, everything I could think of! But it was too late, and she, she..."
He stopped, and the Doctor let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, unable to talk, to defend himself. Because he had nothing to say to make this better. It had been his fault. He hadn't noticed. The Meta-crisis, with Donna's sharp eye and love for Rose; of course he would have realised that there was something wrong. But the Doctor hadn't thought about that all. The Meta-crisis was right; he had thought that he'd fixed it. He hadn't thought. He didn't think...
"It's all my fault." he said aloud.
Their eyes met; his wide and glassy with the still-flowing tears, and the Meta-crisis still glaring with a malice that the Doctor hardly recognised in his own face. Teeth bared in a bestial snarl, and swaying dizzily as though drunk, the Meta-crisis looked for a moment as though he had no idea who he was, where, or why he'd come here. But his purpose apparently returned, as with a sinister sounding metallic click, he stepped forwards and levelled a gun at the Doctor's chest.
He stared, shocked. He would never do that. This man was blinded with grief perhaps, and the lust for vengeance. Yet even if, if the thought had occurred to the Doctor ... he never would. Never could. And maybe the Meta-crisis was simply angry, full of the rage he'd been born with, baptised in a wave of genocide... but would he do it? Could he? The hand holding the gun was steady, not a single tremble betraying his emotion, and his suddenly icy gaze never wavered. The Doctor was trembling, his eyes on the Meta-crisis' finger as it curled around the trigger. Never pausing. Not a sign of hesitation. Not even a tremor of doubt.
"What are you trying to do?" he asked, his own voice oddly calm.
"Isn't it obvious?"
The Meta-crisis laughed, a cruel, sharp sound that bounced off the walls, though there wasn't a hint of mirth in it. Maybe he would do it. The Doctor felt any sense of common understanding crumble. His eyes flicked to the gun, before fixing on the eyes exactly on level with his. He could see his own face mirrored in them, and the differences between his own expression and the one plastered across the Meta-crisis' was more obvious than ever.
"You. You're the reason. The cause. Your face..." the Meta-crisis began, pausing as though to search for words to articulate his hatred "Maybe I won't kill you fully. Just make you regenerate. I'm sick of looking anything like you. A life for a life. Yours for Rose's, and it's still less of a punishment than you deserve. Seem fair to you?"
It didn't seem fair to him. Although he was feeling it hard to argue with the logic. His mind was still numb. Rose.... and it was his fault. Maybe he did deserve it. He opened his mouth to speak, and realised that he didn't know what to address the man as. Or rather, he didn't want to say the name that had been on the tip of his tongue since the other man had begun speaking.
"Doctor..." he said instead, but the Meta-crisis held up his other hand, the one not holding a gun, to cut him off.
"Don't call me that. You think I want a second-hand name? And besides..."
He paused, and the Doctor knew what he was thinking. That had been what Rose called him.
"I don't go by that name anymore. Call me--"
"-- Valeyard."
They both stopped still, and looked to their left. The Doctor's gaze rerouted over the... Valeyard's shoulder, and the other man twisted to look right down the barrel of another gun, which was held to his head.
Click.
The Master tilted his head to the side, and jabbed the Valeyard in the side of the head with the hard metal. Dimly, the Doctor wondered where on Earth he had managed to procure a World War One automatic revolver in the 21st Century, and then reasoned that Joshua Naismith probably had a collection of vintage guns lying about his mansion somewhere. He believed the Master, almost without question. He'd already known; a part of him had known since he'd seen the Meta-crisis wipe out Davros' fleet. That this man might have the potential to become the fragment of himself that would later be known as the Valeyard. Later for him, anyway. The Doctor had lived out one confrontation with him. The Master, too; the Master had known the first time around when the Doctor hadn't been able to see it.
"Master?" the Valeyard questioned, shocked out of the whole revenge mode to stare at the man pointing the revolver to his skull "You're dead! I saw you die... he saw you--"
"Really?" the Master inquired cheerfully "I'm looking pretty good for a dead bloke, then."
He pushed the gun further against the man's head, and the Doctor watched with some trepidation, not daring to move. The Valeyard kept his head still, resisting against the pressure of the revolver, and shoving his own gun into the Doctor's ribs. Refusing to recoil despite the pain, he glanced between them. The Master glanced momentarily at him, from the corner of his eye, and then returned to gaze steadily at the Valeyard.
"You're pointing the gun at the wrong person." the Valeyard snapped, shifting position slightly as the Master persisted in keeping the barrel of the gun digging into his head.
"No. No, I don't think I am. This is exactly what I want to be doing."
"You should be with me, not against me! I'm his enemy too! I want to get rid of him....!"
The Master laughed, scornfully, twisting his neck to the other side with a crunching noise. Not for the first time, the Doctor wondered what had gone on between them. The last time he had met the Valeyard, the Master had gone out of his way to stop him, because...
"That's my job. You don't deserve to lodge a bullet in his body. And besides... just because you're an enemy of the Doctor doesn't mean you're a friend of mine."
This was the calmest the Doctor had seen the Master since his resurrection. It must be the control element. For a moment, he wondered whether the Master's madness really was an illusion, or maybe it was the adrenaline that kept him sane. Maybe it quieted the drumming in his head. The Doctor bit down on his bottom lip, and shuffled one foot backwards, as though he would have been able to sneak away while the two of them were preoccupied with each other. But it only earned him a twin pair of burning glares, and the Master almost looked as though he was reconsidering pointing the gun at him after all. He stilled.
"Feeling left out?" the Master asked sardonically "We could get you a gun too. Then we could all play Russian Roulette."
"I think I'd win." the Valeyard scoffed, tilting his automatic pistol up so that it caught the light, the barrel clinking against the Doctor's shirt buttons as he dragged it up his chest.
"No. Please. Both of you, stop!" the Doctor pleaded, reaching to put a hand on the gleaming metal of the Valeyard's gun.
Enraged, the Valeyard's eyes moved from a curious scan of the Master's current form to glaring daggers at the Doctor, who held both of his hands up in surrender.
"Stop. Please. I'm sorry, I really am, you have no idea how sorry I am. But this won't solve anything. Just put the guns down, both of you-."
"Sorry." the Valeyard spat "You say that so often that it doesn't mean anything anymore! You might as well spit on her grave! I want to make you sorry; I want you to hurt like she did. She was in agony, Doctor! For months! And you weren't there because you left us, you left her, and I want you to realise that!"
He lifted the gun and smacked it hard around the Doctor's face, sending his head rolling to the side, and knocking him offbalance. He stumbled, and fell sprawling to the ground, throwing out his arms to stop his head from colliding with the hard ground. His chin still smacked against the floor, and his teeth clacked painfully together, the wind knocked out of him. Above him, he heard another loud click, which he recognised as being from the Master's revolver being cocked again. Probably for effect rather than necessity, since nobody had fired yet. Yet...?
Curling up with his knees pulled to his chest, the Doctor rolled over so he could watch the other man warily. The Valeyard's gun was now pointing straight at the Master, straight between his eyes. The Master kept his own steady. The two of them were circling, slowly, around the Doctor like two vultures staking each other out over carrion meat. Neither of them seemed to be paying any attention to him at all, focused entirely on each other. The Doctor scooted to a sitting position, his eyes flicking between them. He knew that look. Both of those looks. The blazing intensity in the Master's eyes... hatred, anger, the look he usually reserved for the Doctor. The Me--Valeyard was still furious, he could tell that, but he recognised the confusion in his own eyes.
Of course, the Valeyard didn't know his own future. But the Doctor was sure he remembered, from the Doctor's memories, when they had met before. Seeing his own future through the Doctor's eyes, and the Doctor hadn't really known then, either. Hadn't realised exactly what was going on, how the Master knew. The Master's past, the Valeyard's future. That was the problem with timelines. But it meant that they all knew, all three of them, that whatever happened here, this wasn't over. For the Valeyard. But what about for him? The last time, the Valeyard had wanted to take his regenerations. His song was ending... What about for good? Maybe that was what it had meant. This time, it could be over for good.
"I'm not here for you. I don't care. You take over the world, the universe, I don't care." the Valeyard was saying "But I'll shoot you if you get in my way."
"If I killed you now, it wouldn't make that much different. I've seen your lifetime; I know what happens to you. You're nothing. And you would die, wouldn't you? You're still just human." the Master returned "And I could shoot you, you scheming bastard, because it'll make my universe a better place if you're not in it!"
The Valeyard blinked, looking momentarily taken aback, maybe even hurt. For a split second. And then his gaze hardened.
"My future, right?" he said with another not-Doctor-like laugh "Got all that to look forward to!"
"Not if I kill you now."
They circled once more, getting closer to each other, like some bizarre medieval folk dance. With handguns. Their arms were crossed at the elbow to shove their guns into each other's faces, glaring straight at each other.
"Give me the Doctor, and I'll leave." the Valeyard offered softly, dangerously.
The Doctor wasn't sure if the Master picked up on the silent, implied 'for now' in that statement, but he didn't waver.
"No. No deal. You're not in a position to make bargains, I'm afraid; you're in the weaker position and we both know I could kill you. You leave, without the Doctor, and hope I don't shoot you in the arse on the way out."
It was a bluff. The Doctor's attention snapped from the Master to the Valeyard, wondering if his other self had realised. The Master was playing on his extended mortality against the Valeyard's current humanity, but the spanner in the works was the Master's current state left little power of negotiation. He had been dragged back from wherever he had been when dead. The Doctor didn't believe in heaven or hell despite having met a creature claiming to be the devil, but he was willing to believe that the Master had been somewhere, another plane of existence or dimension, because he was still half there. Could he really regenerate? Or was he throwing down a bargaining chip that didn't actually exist to sway the Valeyard without turning to blows? ...only the Master was bargaining for the Doctor's life, rather than his own.
"No way." the Valeyard snarled "I've been waiting too long to get back here, to show him..."
"You know, your future self had at least got over the teenage angst by the time I met him. This version is just pathetic!"
The Valeyard lurched forwards, gun in hand, and the Master countered the movement, parrying with his forearm as though they were fencing. He crossed one leg over the over at the ankles, stepping neatly over one of the Doctor's arms without looking. The Valeyard copied his movements in the opposite direction, managing somehow not to trip over the Doctor either. The Doctor wanted to say something, to make them stop, but he had a feeling that it would only make it worse. He felt as though he'd stepped into some sort of Western, a Western in which the cowboys danced in bizarre tango-like circles. And he wasn't sure who the bad guy was. Were they both the bad guys? Who did he want to win?
He felt as though part of him wanted it to be over with. For the Valeyard to kill him and be done, and take his place in this universe as though nothing had happened, and he could look after it all. But if he died, who would be there to stop the Master? The Valeyard and the Master could fight across the stars, but would it be for the fate of the universe, really? Maybe it would be better if he did die, because it wouldn't be his responsibility anymore. They could do what they damn well liked, burn up the cosmos if they so wanted. It wouldn't be anything to do with him. Not his business. He couldn't help it if he was dead, could he? One final, selfish act. Give them everything. Let them destroy it. Let them wrench it from him. Could he really be bothered fighting anymore?
"Do it, then." he said suddenly, breaking the tension as efficiently as if he'd slapped the both of them in the face.
They turned, as one, to look at him.
"What." the Master asked, both eyebrows raised, intoning it as a statement rather than a question.
"If you're going to kill me... do it!"
It was almost a plea. Addressed to both of them. The Master had said that he didn't want the Valeyard to do it; he wanted to do it himself. So this was his chance. Whoever got there first. He was ready.
Slowly, he stood up, straightening his back and standing between them. The diagonal cross of their guns made an X in front of his face, and he swallowed, his throat dry, but not wavering. The Master was still wearing an expression of shock that would have seemed comical in another cirumstance, and the Valeyard's face was blank, but his eyes were wide. The Doctor looked between them, and then spread his own arms wide, sweeping them back to point at himself.
"Right then." the Valeyard said, finally, and pulled his gun away from the Master's to aim straight at the Doctor's face.
The Doctor stared down the barrel. It occurred to him that the Valeyard wanted to do it like this to destroy his face first, so that they'd never look anything alike again. Even when the Doctor was dead. Would he regenerate from that? Did he want to?
The Master didn't move, his gun still pointed at the Valeyard, resuming their earlier positions. That surprised the Doctor, in truth. Was he really going to stand by and watch somebody else do the job he'd been attempting for centuries, when he had the perfect opportunity to shoot first? He couldn't believe that. Did the Master assume that the Valeyard wouldn't go through with it? That didn't sound right either. But he wasn't so sure that it mattered, when he was about to die anyway. The Valeyard moved his forefinger over the trigger, beginning to squeeze, and the Doctor closed his eyes, bowing his head in submission. He wasn't sure if he'd exactly accepted this, but he didn't feel as though he cared anymore. It wasn't just Rose. But the realisation that actually, there was so little to live for.... why did he keep going? He should just accept this with grace, and dignity, and...
His eyes flew back open as a shoulder barged into his, and he fell for the second time to the ground, this time landing hard on his back. A bullet whistled above his head, burying itself in the wall opposite, and he looked up, dazed, trying to work out what had happened. The Valeyard stared, also confused, lowering the smoking gun that was pointed in the direction that the Doctor had been standing just a few seconds previously. The Doctor was hit with two thoughts at once: first that the Valeyard had fired, and would have killed him without a thought, and second that the Master had pushed him out of the way, and that was the only reason that he was still alive.
With a long stride, the Master stepped in front of the Doctor and pointed his own gun at him. He ran his thumb over the cylinder of the gun, apparently lining up a shot. The Valeyard stepped to the side, apparently having got over the fact that the Doctor was still alive, and darted small, squinty sideways looks at the Master, sizing him up. The Doctor watched him, recognising the mental processes going on inside the Valeyard's head as clearly as if they'd been spoken out loud. So far, he'd been proven unsuccessful at predicting the man's actions. So different to his own. A different man. He might have the Doctor's intelligence, but he didn't have his morals or his control. He was, as the Doctor had always feared, what the Doctor could have been if he went down a particular path. He barely understood him, or how he could have got to this state. But he could still read the expression on the Valeyard's face. He watched him look at the Master, and recognise him as an enemy, not only to the Doctor in the memories residing inside the Valeyard's head, but to the Valeyard's future. He saw him slowly realise that the Master was in the way, and that the man holding a gun posed a far greater threat than the man lying defenseless on the floor.
The Doctor and the Valeyard both realised, at the same time, that the Master was an unnecessary factor in this equation. Slowly, the Valeyard began to raise the gun that he'd been holding loosely against his thigh.
"Master. Move." the Doctor said sharply, and the Master spun on the spot, just in time to see the Valeyard's pistol pointed straight at him.
The Master's eyes widened in shock, the Valeyard's narrowed in intent. For a moment they stood still, as though they were frozen in time, and then everything started up again in a split second of action. Another loud gun shot, and the Master thrust one arm in front of his chest, sending a strong blue bolt of sparking electricity straight at the Valeyard, catching him off guard and lifting him off his feet with the intensity of it. The Master shifted stance, concentrating, and sending the man-that-wasn't-the-Doctor crashing into the wall of circuits and wires with a loud crunch. The Valeyard twitched, as the discharged electricity swirled and crackled around his limbs, and then slumped motionless, face-forward, onto the floor.
The room subsided into complete silence. The Master swayed on the spot, before his legs seemed to give out under him and he collapsed in a heap. The Doctor supposed that using that amount of energy had considerably weakened his already unstable cellular structure. He himself stood shakily, crossing over to where the Valeyard lay to check his pulse. The thought did flash across his mind, if only for a second, that he hoped that the Master would have killed him. But it passed, and he was relieved when he felt the man's single heartbeat beneath his fingertips. He wasn't sure exactly what to do with him, but he needed him out of the way for now.
"Can I have his TARDIS?" the Master asked, with a laugh that sounded as though it had been torn from his body.
The Doctor turned to look back, and stopped in the process of checking the Valeyard over to stare at the crimson puddle seeping out over the white floor. He hadn't realised...
His hearts seemed to stop beating as he raced back to the Master's side, dropping to his knees beside him. With the black hooded sweatshirt the Master was wearing, he hadn't even noticed that he'd been hurt. The blood hadn't shown. But it was more than that... he just hadn't seen. He'd been too wrapped up with his own thoughts. Guilt, worry, and fury with himself vied for dominance over his mind, and he swallowed painfully, blinking back tears. A few minutes ago, it had been as though he felt nothing. Now, he felt everything, vividly... the pure loss, and the terror that he was about to lose somebody else.
"Get off me." the Master muttered grudgingly, as the Doctor hauled him into his lap, rolling his hoodie up over his stomach to examine the bullet wound "It's... a flesh wound. Nothing serious."
"I didn't see. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, look what I do for you!" he said with another harsh laugh, an expression of pain crossing his face at the effort it took.
"You saved my life." he said softly, sincerely.
"Didn't want him to have all the fun, that's all." the Master insisted, and winced, looking down at his own abdomen.
The wound wasn't lethal. It had missed any vital organs, and although his stomach was slick with his own blood, it looked much worse than it was. It wasn't a scratch though, by any means, and the Doctor could see the metal circle of the base of the bullet lodged sideways against the Master's pelvis.
"Anyway." the Master continued "You asked to be killed. It would have been too much of an anticlimax; doing as you said, ending it just like that."
That was the explanation he would have expected. The Master liked a show, and he would want to make a spectacle out of the Doctor's death. He would want it to mean something; to be televised around the world, or at least have an audience of the Doctor's companions, for the shock factor and the exhibitionism of the destruction. It was a logical reason for sparing his life, he supposed. But the Master's tone lacked conviction, and even if it was only inside the Doctor's head, he liked to think that it was because when it came down to it, he hadn't wanted it to be over. Maybe he was too addicted to the fighting, to being chased and getting to overcome the Doctor instead of simply getting everything that he wanted. That was what he thought, anyway. Though he wasn't stupid enough to press the matter with the Master, and paused instead to root in his jacket.
"I owe you one." he said, pulling a pair of thick metal tweezers from his pocket.
"I don't need looking after." the Master snarled "Bugger off."
"Stop being a baby. It isn't going to hurt." he said, carefully easing the legs of the tweezers into the open wound to connect with the rim of the bullet.
"That wasn't what I--" the Master started to say, his words tailing off into a strangled hiss, clamping his teeth together painfully as the Doctor pulled the blood-coated bullet out of the hole in his side and tossed it aside.
It bounced across the glossy floor with a series of loud clinks, rolling in the direction of the unconscious Valeyard, and the Master held himself as still as possible, arching his back slightly, panting soft huffs of breath from between his clenched teeth. The Doctor smoothed his fingers soothingly through the Master's mess of blonde hair, combing his fingertips through it and flattening it against his scalp, yanking off his own tie and wadding it up in his hand and pressing it against the wound to staunch the bleeding.
"Deja vu." the Master mumbled, looking up at the Doctor from half lidded, pained eyes "At least it wasn't a girl this time."
"You aren't dying." the Doctor told him firmly "Not even if you want to. We're going to carry on, the two of us."
"You've changed your tune."
"I realised I didn't want to lose anybody else."
"I don't need you. I don't want you." he ground out, struggling to sit up, pushing at the Doctor's chest.
"You need somebody. You always do. You had to rely on people to bring you back."
The Master needed his followers, his minions, his allies. Even if he discarded them afterwards. He needed somebody now more than ever. Allowing the Doctor to patch up his wounds would be a start. He wouldn't be back to his full strength, and he wouldn't have done anything to take away the drums, but it would be something. And at least he would be keeping the universe safe from the Master... or did he mean keeping the Master safe from the universe?
What he wanted to do, more than anything, was to hide the Master away in his TARDIS and stop all the clocks. Halt time, and live away in a pocket of it. They could heal. They could talk, and fight, and revitalise. Maybe he needed to fight, to be pushed, to learn how to fight again. He'd lost all of his rhyme and reason. He didn't even know why he kept going, anymore.
"Haven't you got better things to do? Wouldn't you rather save the universe than clean up after me?" the Master demanded, struggling in his arms.
"No. I never did." he murmured, almost inaudibly, but it was enough to make the Master stop squirming and stare.
"Pardon?"
"One night. The universe can wait. Let me... just.... just let me."
He had lowered his head over the Master's before he realised what he was doing. The Master's lips tasted of earth and the metallic tang of blood, and his mouth opened in shock before tilting his head up to meet the Doctor's, clumsily resting one weak hand on the back of his neck and holding tightly to his hair as though he might fall away if he didn't hang on for dear life. They were both hanging on.
And the Doctor didn't feel like giving up any time soon.