Archive of Our Own

Hey. I didn’t mean what I said on Gallifrey. Sorry for taking ages to tell you that. I was in prison. 

Xx

You’re alive, right? Course you are. 

Tell me you’re alive.

Master, please

Please

Koschei

Please be alive

The Doctor stares numbly at the string of messages. Her fingers hover over the keyboard of her phone- the phone she’s barely touched since escaping prison, close to a year ago now. She’s not had cause to, with Yaz close at hand all the time, and O- the Master, she corrects herself with a small scowl- no longer on her very short list of acceptable people to share her feelings with. All of the WhatsApp messages she’s sent since that fateful incident on the plane so long ago now have been left unread. 

She’s a scientist at hearts. And data suggests, plain and simple, that the Master isn’t using his phone anymore. Either that, or he’s dead, but she doesn’t- can’t, won’t- believe that that’s true. 

She bites her lip, thumbs flying over the keys and hitting send before she can think herself out of this very bad idea. It’s all risk and reward with the Master, and she’s always been one for taking risks. 

Apparently you’re plotting against me. Got it on very good authority that you’re cooking up something sinister. Want to come clean?

Five seconds pass. Ten. The Doctor stays still for as long as she can (not very long), then hurls her phone onto her bed, face down. This is futile. Silly. He’s not going to text her back. He’s never texted her back before. 

She leaps up, hurrying around the room and gathering up some scrap metal and enough tools to put something together. Distract her hands, and she’ll be okay, hopefully. Returning to her bed, she shoves her phone under her thigh, and gets to work building…whatever her hands feel like building. Her brain is elsewhere at the moment. 

The first thing she builds is some kind of very small tank- the type for fish. That seems impractical, since she’s working with iron, and that rusts far too easily to put water in, so the Doctor disassembles it and re-forms the scrap metal into a tree. It’s pretty, but it doesn’t have many leaves, and the few that it does have jangle annoyingly. So the tree is scrapped too, and she gets started on constructing a interestingly geometric lampshade. 

And then her phone buzzes. 

It’s a very quiet, innocent buzz- sometimes, it feels like the Master’s presence should be heralded by some kind of dramatic brass band fanfare, or a crash of lightning, but her phone can’t really do that. Probably. Nevertheless, the soft noise still makes the Doctor practically jump out of her skin. 

Yanking off her metalworking gloves, sending the half-constructed lampshade crashing messily to the floor, she snatches up her phone and unlocks it to read the message. 

I didn’t know you cared. 

She stares at that for a long moment. It’s not the gloating she’d half expected- or perhaps it is, in some kind of roundabout way. There’s a lot of avenues for reply, here. Snark. Anger. Honesty. After some deliberation, she goes for something that’s somewhere between all three. 

Yes, you did. 

Short, to the point, and perfectly balanced between warm and icy-cold. That feels appropriate, the Doctor thinks. 

His reply comes less than thirty seconds later. 

What do you look like right now?

That throws her. She considers questioning him, or not responding at all, or repeating her earlier question. But this is the first time she’s heard from the Master since Gallifrey. She’s terrified that any wrong move might make him stop replying again. 

So the Doctor sits up, and pushes up her welding goggles. She raises her phone, snapping a photograph of herself and studying it with a critical eye. She looks a little tense, a little pensive, eyes dark and serious in the less-than-brilliant light of her bedroom. It’ll do. It’s not like she needs to worry about looking attractive; she’s dealing with an enemy, not flirting with some playground crush. 

The Master’s response comes quickly. 

You always do have such dazzling eyes, Theta. Ever since we were children, they’ve always been one of your most attractive features. 

That’s…disarmingly sincere. The Doctor is thrown by the use of her name, by the warm tone- she can almost picture the Master’s face inches away from hers, his warm hand on her cheek as he murmurs those words to her. The image sends a shiver down her spine; she’s so caught up in the moment that she almost misses her phone buzzing for a second time. 

It keeps buzzing, this time. He’s calling her. Shocked, it takes the Doctor a good few seconds of staring before she shakily reaches out and presses ‘accept’. This is a bad idea. Of course it is. But apparently she’s doing it anyway. 

She holds the phone to her ear, and says nothing. There’s a long silence. Then-

“…Doctor. Oh, it’s been a while, hasn’t it, love? This is just delicious…” The Master’s voice is low, rich, practically purring into the phone. The Doctor presses a hand against her mouth, eyes stinging with tears. He’s alive. He really is alive, and talking to her. There’s no doubt about that now. Somehow, even when they’d been texting, there had been a part of her that had been scared. 

“Hello,” she manages. It’s choked and tense, but she gets the word out anyway. She hears his shaky exhale into the phone, and she has to bite her lip to stop herself imagining his face actually that close to her ear. Her hearts twinge with a dozen painful memories- other phone calls, soft conversations in the dark, childhood confessions. 

“Don’t tell me you’re crying,” he murmurs. “Did you really think I was dead, my dear? Have you ever thought I was dead, even once, in all of my lives? Have more faith in me than that, Doctor. That’s the least you owe me, after everything you’ve…you’ve inflicted upon me.” 

She can’t keep back a soft whimper. It’s shameful, embarrassment prickling up and colouring her cheeks when she realises that he’d definitely heard that noise. 

“Hush now,” the Master coos. “You’ve got such a handsome face, don’t spoil it with tears. Save those for when you see what I’ve got planned for you.” 

That snaps the Doctor very abruptly back to reality. She sits up straight, scrubbing at her eyes. A couple of deep breaths, and she’s mostly back in her right mind. As much as she ever is around the Master, anyway. 

“Yeah. About your plans,” she says sharply. “What are you doing? And why are you doing it? Since when has your plotting against me ever turned out well for you?” 

“I killed you once,” the Master retorts. “Pushed you off a radio tower. Jodrell Bank, if I recall correctly. Still not going to apologise.” 

“Wasn’t expecting you to,” the Doctor grumbles. “That’s once, though. Once out of all your stupid schemes that you manage to make me regenerate. And then I went right ahead and trapped you in Castrovalva all of one day later.” 

“I’ve killed you indirectly, too,” the Master says thoughtfully. “If I hadn’t fried that generator in the Naismith mansion, you wouldn’t have needed to absorb all that radiation to save your friend. And then you wouldn’t have gotten shot by Cybermen if you hadn’t taken me out to prove I could be good. So, perhaps I shall simply kidnap Miss Khan and stick her in some elaborate trap, and have you sacrifice yourself to ensure her safety.” 

“Don’t even joke about that,” the Doctor growls. Had anyone else threatened to lay a finger on Yaz, she’d already be darting back to the console room to go annihilate them in person. But this is the Master, and the rules are different for him. 

“Mm, you’re right,” he sighs. “That’s far too simple of a plan. My tastes are much more refined. You’re going to love what I have in store for you, Doctor…” 

“I very much doubt that.” She frowns, then folds one arm across her chest, since the other one is busy holding her phone. Looking stern feels like it’s important, even though she knows that the Master can’t actually see her. 

“How can you doubt it when you don’t even know what I’ve planned for you, love?” There’s a note in his tone- ask me, he seems to be pushing. Ask me what I’ve planned. And the Doctor knows exactly how he will respond when she does. 

She asks him anyway. 

“Tell me what you’ve planned, then?” 

“No.” There’s obvious glee in the Master’s voice. She recalls a similar exchange on Gallifrey; the manic, miserable glitter in his eyes. He’s achingly sad, right down to his core, and part of her wants to hold him close, bury her face in his hair and assure him that everything will be alright. That she’s never thought of him as anything lesser, not for one second. She’s so rarely been gentle with him, in these bodies. The Doctor’s not much inclined to gentleness this time around, but perhaps for him…

“I’m sorry, Master,” she says softly. “That I made you feel like you have to do this. You don’t. You really don’t, I promise.” Her eyes are closed as she speaks; she’s picturing twin suns and red grass, his father’s estates glowing golden at the height of summer. Gone now, all gone, but the memories are indelible. 

He’s quiet for a long moment. The Doctor lifts her phone away from her ear, even, checks that he hasn’t hung up on her. He hasn’t. 

“…Sanctimonious prat,” he snarls into her ear after a full forty-five seconds. She doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s entitled to his anger, and for once she’s not feeling inclined to respond in turn. “D’you remember years ago, back in your UNIT days, when we ended up fencing? You were unbearably smug, even back then. Unbearably.” 

The memory has a smile tugging at the Doctor’s lips- she can’t help herself. That body of hers had been well-suited to a fencing sword; he’d looked like some circus ringmaster in command of the room, even helping himself to a sandwich during their fight just to prove how easy it was for him. 

“Of all the examples of me being unbearably smug, why bring up that one?” 

“…No reason,” the Master hums, a little too quickly to avoid her suspicion. She makes a mental note to keep a very close eye out for swords, or UNIT, or Sea Devils. Just in case. 

“Hmm,” the Doctor says, and then falls silent despite her natural urge to ask probing questions. Maybe she can coax an elaboration out of him. 

No such luck. 

“We fought with swords once before then, too,” he murmurs. “Well, I say swords. Sticks, really. Do you remember? We were barely eighty, just teenagers. Playing some stupid game out in the fields.” The Master’s tone is soft, longing; she lets her eyes flutter shut again, getting swept up in the story. She’s long since lost control of this conversation, and all she can do is tell herself that she’ll take it back when the time is right. “Neither of us had very good technique. I think we were just…just trying to make as much noise as possible. Just having fun. Letting off steam. And then- I knocked you over. Cheated, really, got in close and pushed you. You grabbed my robes on the way down, pulled me over on top of you, and…in that moment, Theta, I swear I forgot about everything but you. The game, my responsibilities, the drums…how was I ever supposed to do anything but kiss you? And you were so warm…” 

The Doctor lets out a shuddering breath. She does remember. She remembers Koschei’s weight on her hips, one long-fingered hand tangled into her soft blond curls. She’d laughed against his mouth, wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him back with all the joy of someone without an ounce of guilt in their hearts. They’d stayed out in that field all afternoon, tangled up together, utterly alone and utterly thrilled with each other. 

“Koschei,” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. “Of course I remember that. How could I ever forget a second of it?” 

It’s his turn to whimper into the phone now, soft and sad, and the Doctor’s hearts ache in her chest. She longs to have him close again, to kiss him, to know him. There are so many parts of his psyche that are distant to her now, hard and jagged and cold. She wants to trace over every last one of them, warm them with whatever energy she has to give. There’s so many feelings between them these days, but she’s reminded of Clara’s words to her so long ago now- hatred is too strong an emotion to waste on someone you don’t like. 

“Come see me,” she says suddenly, the words bubbling up and out of her before she can really think about them. “Come see me, I know you know how to find my TARDIS. I’ll keep the humans away. We can talk. Just- just the two of us. Please?” 

There’s a few moments of silence, punctuated only by the Master’s shaky breaths. Then- 

“Ask me again,” he says. “Use my name.” 

“Come see me,” the Doctor repeats again, immediately. She knows the answer he wants to hear. She knows the answer that will get her what she wants. Her chance to take back control of this conversation that’s gotten so wildly out of her hands. “Please, come and see me, Koschei.” 

The phone line clicks. He’s gone, hung up on her, and the Doctor is alone with the quiet hum of her ship. She bites her lip, uncertainty stirring in the pit of her stomach. If there’s one thing the Master is good at, it’s unsettling her. Keeping her off balance, on the back foot, never quite sure if she’s made the right move. 

But she has to trust herself, too. Trust that she knows the Master as well as he knows her, trust that they are woven together tightly enough that he won’t ever be able to stay away from her for too long. 

She clutches her phone to her chest like it’s a weapon, and she waits.