Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Time moves differently for a Time Lord. They perceive time like no other being in the universe would. What feels like a long time for a human is but a blink of an eye for a Time Lord. They can touch the past, experience events that are long forgotten or that only reside in memories, and they can also look ahead, witness things that haven't happened yet, everything that could or must not be. For a Time Lord, the past is a window they can open and climb into if they so wish, and the future a door that is perpetually ajar and only needs a little push to be able to step through.

With that level of perception, anyone would deem it hard to catch a Time Lord off guard. And yet, the events taking place right now still manage to take the Doctor by surprise, surpassing his nature as a Time Lord and overriding his inherent senses.

Everything happens so fast. He watches the altercation, but can't even hear the screams over his heartbeats pounding in his ears. He runs, but doesn't even perceive that his legs are moving. He sees red, but doesn't even feel the sting of the blade piercing the skin of his arm and cheek as he puts himself in between the fight.

Then all he can feel is the Master, as if every sense in his body had been automatically tuned to perceive only him. He sees the Master's bloodied hoodie, hears the Master's groans of pain, smells and tastes the Master's blood in the air, and feels the Master's weight as he lets him lean on him. The Doctor doesn't even know how they manage to get out of there; the only thing occupying his mind is the Master, and the need to get back to the TARDIS as soon as possible.

Leaving the dark alleyway and a trail of blood behind them, they reach the Master's room aboard the TARDIS, and the first question the Doctor asks himself is why he's taken the Master to his room instead of the medical bay in the TARDIS. Is it because it's a more familiar place? Because he thought the Master would feel more comfortable here than in the sterile medical bay that the Doctor rarely sets foot in? Because it's closer? Because he was in a panic? His hands are shaking and there's blood all over them. He looks down at himself and part of his blue suit is now crimson. One of the sleeves of his jacket is torn. Did he get hurt too? Is that his blood or the Master's? All the events are becoming a blurry mess in his memory. He can't look back and retrace his steps with clarity, but more frightening is the fact that he can't look ahead and see a clear path that he could take to fix this. The window is shut and the door is locked. But Time Lord perception doesn't matter when he has the Master bleeding on the bed, only actions do, and he has to do something now.

“You're losing too much blood,” the Doctor hears himself say as he slowly comes back to reality. He takes his tie and suit jacket off and rolls the sleeves of his now bloodied pale blue shirt up to his elbows.

“I guess t-this is it,” the Master replies, his voice coming out strained. He smiles weakly, his teeth and lips partially painted in red. He's still pressing one of his hands to his abdomen and there is blood streaming through his fingers. For all he knows, his hand could be the only thing preventing his insides from spilling out of him. “N-Not getting out of this one.”

“No. Don't you dare.” Dread begins to pool in the Doctor's stomach. The adrenaline is wearing off and anxiety is taking over, bubbling up from his centre and encompassing his chest, ending with an oppressive sensation that feels like fists wrapping around his hearts. The lump in his throat could suffocate him any second, and why does his arm hurt so much all of a sudden? “Don't do this to me again.”

The Master's weak smile fades, and a light of conviction sparks in his eyes. “I'm not regenerating.”

It's happening again. They have been here before. The Master bleeding in the Doctor's arms, refusing to regenerate and waiting to die. A cruel victory for the Master that would have only brought more pain and sorrow. He narrowly escaped death that time, but looking at the ocean of red all around them threatening to drown them both, neither of them is sure that the Master will escape it this time. Not without regeneration. Not without taking action.

The Doctor swims to the surface of his own dread, fighting to keep himself afloat. What is the point of calling himself the Doctor if he can't help in a situation like this one? He's not giving up now.

“You won't need to regenerate. I'm fixing this.”

And with that, the Doctor jumps to his feet and does what he does best: he helps.

When they landed on a seemingly peaceful planet to visit a market of artisan goods, the Doctor never even considered the possibility that he or the Master could get hurt. He had done proper research about the planet instead of picking a time and a place at random – something he had learned to do ever since he took responsibility for the Master. He can't travel on a whim like he used to, not when the Master is a constant source of trouble. He now has to take every variable into consideration, measure and estimate the risks, and keep the Master safe while also making sure everyone else is safe from the Master. It's exhausting, but the Doctor thought he was doing a good job at it.

That is until the Master got in trouble, because of course he would. It's his own fault, the Doctor thinks as he rummages through the bathroom cabinets in search of the first aid kit he knows he keeps there. He should have done a better job at scouting the planet, but it's not that easy to find information about a black market he didn't even know existed in the first place. The crime rate here is the lowest in this sector, and yet, the Master had managed to find the few outliers in the whole planet, anger them, and get himself in trouble with them. Because of course he would.

The Doctor begins to recollect more details of the events. He remembers he had been looking for the Master for hours after he had wandered off, and finding him only because he heard the Master's scream coming from a dark alleyway. The scene the Doctor found when he got there was disturbing. The Master was curled up in a fetal position on the ground, covering his head with his arms while two men beat and kicked him relentlessly.

That's when his memory starts to become blurry.

The Doctor knows he ran to the Master's rescue, and that he managed to distract one of the men and push him out of the way, although he doesn't exactly remember how. He does however recall recognising the insignia the man was wearing, informing him of his involvement with a criminal band, and how that gave him enough information to assume that whatever happened there had to do with the black market he missed in his research. Curious the things you pay attention to in stressful situations. He doesn't even remember the man's face.

The Doctor also knows that, by the time he got to the Master, the knife the other man was carrying had already cut through the Master's layers of clothing and skin, making him bleed. The Doctor remembers putting himself in between the two, and getting a cut on his arm and cheek as he shielded the Master with his own body – that explains why his arm is hurting – and then…

He doesn't remember what happened after that. Only a flash of blinding light, and the vague memory of walking back to the TARDIS with the Master limping by his side, wrapping an arm around the Doctor's shoulder and leaning most of his weight on him. And then here they both were, in the Master's room, with the Master bleeding on his bed. He should have called for help, or flown the TARDIS immediately to land in the middle of a hospital. But he didn't. He doesn't know why. He's usually good under pressure, always manages to find a solution, but for some reason, as he felt the Master's blood soaking his suit and the Master's heavy breathing near his neck, the only thing he could think of was to get the Master to safety, and safety for the Doctor means the TARDIS.

The Master's words echo in his mind. He knows he meant it when he said he won't regenerate. He didn't regenerate the last time and almost died permanently because of it. But the Doctor also meant what he said. He is determined to fix this, and that determination grows in strength when he finally finds the first aid kit and a metal basin.

But once he gets back to the bedroom, both his hearts drop at what he finds.

The Master has stopped writhing in pain, and more worryingly, he has stopped applying pressure to the wound, only because he seems to have fainted. The Doctor refuses to think of the worst.

He runs towards the bed, climbs onto it and kneels by the Master's side. He checks the Master's pulse on his neck, and lets out a breath of relief when he feels the faint but still present rhythm of four under the pads of his fingers.

“I was just resting my eyes,” the Master mutters in a strangled whisper, looking at the Doctor through half-lidded eyes.

The Doctor only replies with a hum, the fear on his expression dissipating but not fading away completely.

While the Doctor had been away for a couple of minutes, the Master had also tried to replay the events that led to his injury to keep himself distracted from the pain.

He hadn't meant to get in trouble, not really. He just wanted to try his luck and make a purchase that would offer a way of escape from his awful situation. Perhaps ‘awful’ is too strong a word, but the lack of freedom ever since the Doctor had the brilliant idea to take him with him has been driving him up the walls. There's a limit to the amount of visits to boring planets he can take, and getting a vortex manipulator from the black market seemed like a good idea at the time. Too bad the people he tried negotiating with were as deceptive as he is.

The Master keeps replaying the events in his mind as the Doctor takes off his shoes to make him more comfortable and pulls up his hoodie and sweatshirt to expose his abdomen. The sweatshirt is so soaked in blood that it clings to his skin and makes him wince as the fabric is peeled off.

The Doctor feels tears prickling in his eyes when he sees the bruises adorning the bit of exposed skin on the Master's torso – dark purple painted with deep scarlet from the open stab wound. He's not ready to see more just yet, so he only uncovers enough to be able to tend to the wound that requires his immediate attention.

“I need you to stay awake for this,” the Doctor says as he opens the first aid kit and starts pulling medical supplies out, spreading them over the bedsheets for easy access. “Talk to me. What were you doing with those people? Did you know they were criminals?”

The Master rolls his eyes, because that's as much as he can do.

“Of course I did. I was… t-trying to buy something.” He looks down and observes the Doctor pouring a bit of water from a plastic bottle over the wound to clean some of the blood away. It makes him hiss and momentarily shut his eyes in pain before he glances at the Doctor again. “D-Do you even know what you're doing?”

“I have some basic first aid knowledge,” the Doctor says, not entirely confident in his own statement. His hands are starting to shake again as he checks the wound very carefully, opening it just a little with his fingers to check how deep it is. He clenches his jaw when he feels the Master twitching under his touch.

“Basic knowledge? And you call yourself the Doctor?!” the Master growls, gripping the sheets underneath him with his fists.

When the blade had first entered his abdomen, it had felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. It didn't hurt as much as he had expected, but the shock of it still rattled him to his core. He doesn't dare to look down again, and instead focuses his attention on the Doctor to read his expression.

The Doctor looks worried, but after examining the wound further, the frown on his brow begins to relax slightly.

“It's not too deep. I—I don't think it tore any organs.” There is relief in the Doctor's tone, but also the beginning of a sob that he's trying very hard to contain.

The Doctor pours some water in the metal basin and washes his hands. There is too much blood on his forearms to waste time washing it away, but as long as his hands are clean, it will have to do for now. He reaches for the packet with the sterilised needle and thread, but his hands are so shaky that it takes him a while to get it open. He doesn't look at the Master, but can feel his piercing eyes on him.

“What were you trying to buy?” the Doctor asks, partly to keep the Master awake, but mainly to give himself a distraction from the tempest of thoughts inside his own mind as he prepares the materials to close the wound.

The Master considers lying, but it wouldn't offer any tactical advantage in his current situation. It's not like he got to keep the item he was trying to purchase. He ended up beaten up and empty handed. “A vortex manipulator,” he finally replies absentmindedly.

“A vortex manipulator? Really?” The Doctor frowns, briefly reminiscing about the times he had travelled using that method. He pours some more water on the wound to clear the blood, and hears the Master hissing again. “You know better than that. Awful way to travel.”

The Master can't contain a tired little snort. Of course the Doctor would have something to say about it. He's the owner of the last TARDIS in existence, what does he expect everyone else to do?

“As long as it takes me away from you.”

Needle driver in hand, the Doctor stops before he can even touch the skin, and turns his eyes towards the Master for a second before lowering his gaze. So that's what all of this is about. After months of travelling together, the Doctor had hoped the Master had made himself at home. He had tried to escape a few times at the beginning, as it was to be expected, but the Doctor thought they were on better terms now. He thought he and the Master were finally finding some happiness together. He was obviously wrong.

He tries to hide his hurt by focusing on his task, but as soon as he pushes the needle through the skin, more blood comes out from the wound and he has to quickly grab some cotton with his other hand to clean it.

“Just… leave it,” the Master starts weakly, “l-let me bleed to death.”

The Doctor's features contort into a grimace. The Master's words feel like a spear lancing through his hearts, and he forces himself to inhale deeply to calm his rapidly accelerating breathing as well as his nerves. He has to pull out the needle from the skin to start again, his hand trembling so badly now that he can't even keep the needle in place without causing more damage.

“I'm not letting you die,” the Doctor declares firmly, and this time he takes a proper look at the Master through a veil of tears, not attempting to hide his hurt anymore. The Master keeps his gaze on the ceiling, but the Doctor doesn't stop staring at him. “Why are you being like this?”

“It's the only way I can win.” The Master's voice comes out in a whisper, and the Doctor isn't sure if it's because he's losing what little strength he has left or because he doesn't believe what he's saying. The Master isn't sure himself. “A-And why do you care so much?”

“You know why…” The Doctor swallows as more memories invade his mind. They have been in this situation before. It hurt back then and it still hurts now. “We're the last. There's no one else.”

The Master's lips curl in a tiny smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “Is that all? Wouldn't you rather be the last one than being stuck with me? I bet…” He chuckles sardonically. His voice is strained and thin, and he can barely keep his eyes open anymore. “I bet that before you found me you felt oh so very special being the last of the Time Lords.”

The first tear rolls down the Doctor's cheek and he quickly wipes it away with the back of his hand. It catches the Master's attention, who finally turns his eyes towards the Doctor.

“No. I felt miserable,” the Doctor states truthfully with a tremble in his voice. “Worst pain I've ever felt.”

That surprises the Master, although he doesn't show it. He has always thought he knew the Doctor well, and he still believes he does, but there is something different about this Doctor, and the Master suspects that the Time War has a lot to do with it.

“Still… I'm sure y-you'd rather be stuck with any Time Lord other than me,” the Master replies.

There is the beginning of a smile forming on the Doctor's lips as he shakes his head, and a faint glimmer in his eyes that could be easily mistaken by the tears gathering there, but that in reality is caused by something else – or rather a collection of somethings; memories of a childhood shared and promises made.

“There's no one else I'd rather be with right now.”

A look of confusion furrows the Master's brow. He stares at the Doctor, at his reddened eyes brimming with tears, his slightly bloodied face and the little cut on his cheek. Then, as if a switch has been flicked inside him, the Master's gaze softens when he sees the Doctor's expression thaw into a sob that he tries to keep under control. The Doctor truly means everything he just said, the Master realises.

The Doctor's chin and lower lip quiver, and he sniffs and throws his head back to prevent more tears from falling. After taking a long, deep breath, the Doctor lowers his head and bends forward to focus his attention on the wound again, needle driver with the needle and thread at the ready.

He starts shaking again, and gets startled by the Master resting his hand on his. The Master gives him a little squeeze and rubs his knuckles with his thumb in a soothing manner, and the Doctor glances up and finds the Master staring back at him with a rare fondness kindling in his eyes. It's enough to calm the Doctor down and stop the shaking of his hands.

He nods, partly as a thank you and to let the Master know that he's ready, and waits for the Master to remove his hand to start suturing the wound properly.

The needle goes in and out slowly, methodically, creating a pattern with the thread to close the wound that has mercifully stopped bleeding. The Doctor takes his time, giving the Master a couple of breaks during the process so he can catch his breath. The Master's eyes remain half-open and glued to the ceiling for most of it, drifting in and out of consciousness and with his brow and upper lip twitching slightly every time the needle perforates his skin. He only makes a sound at the end, a little whimper escaping from his throat when the Doctor tightens the thread and cuts the excess with the scissors he took from the first aid kit.

The Doctor lets out a shaky breath and leans back a little to admire his handiwork. It's not perfect, but it has done its job of closing the wound. He then looks at the Master, still lying motionless and about to stare a hole through the ceiling.

“You did well,” the Doctor says softly as he cleans his hands in the basin again, then squeezes the Master's arm, trying to offer some comfort the same way the Master did for him just moments ago.

The Master rolls his eyes slightly and shakes his head. “I didn't do anything, you did all the work.”

“But you took it well,” the Doctor clarifies, and then lowers his tone as he continues, “I can't imagine how much pain you must be in. Master, I'm so sorry. I—”

“Don't. You know it's not your fault,” the Master snaps back with resentment. “The last thing I need right now is your guilt. Or your pity.” He shifts in bed, grunting with discomfort and pain. “Besides, I've had worse.” He lowers his gaze and tilts his head, pointing at his abdomen with his eyes and then looking back at the Doctor.

The Doctor follows his gaze and sees the scar of the bullet wound just above the new stab wound. He hadn't noticed it before as it's now covered by a purplish bruise. The Doctor realises he has to do something about those as well.

“Right… I should get some ice packs for your bruises. And we should take this off, it must be uncomfortable,” the Doctor says as he pinches the sleeve of the Master's hoodie still soaked in blood.

The Master nods in agreement, and allows the Doctor to very carefully pull the hoodie and sweatshirt up, uncovering more of the Master's abdomen and chest. The Doctor freezes for a few seconds, staring at the mural of blacks and purples adorning the Master's torso. Thankfully, there aren't as many bruises as he had feared, just a couple of big ones on his ribcage along with the smaller ones on his abdomen, but the Doctor doesn't like the look of any of them. He dreads to think what could have happened if it had taken him longer to find the Master.

“They're not as painful as they look,” the Master lies. He still doesn't fully understand why he's suddenly feeling the urge to comfort the Doctor, but it's helping him too, somehow.

The Doctor is not convinced by the Master's statement, but decides not to make any comment.

As delicately as he can, the Doctor raises one of the Master's arms to slide off the sleeves of the hoodie and the sweatshirt at the same time, earning a few hisses and groans from the Master. He repeats the same process with the other arm – which turns out to be a little bruised as well – until he can finally hoist the Master up just enough to pull both the hoodie and the sweatshirt off completely, throwing them to the floor where his blue suit jacket and tie still rest. He removes the Master's sweatpants as well, finding another bruise in one of his thighs.

Now with most of his body bare, the Doctor can ascertain the situation better, pulling aside how much it pains him to see the Master this way, and making a mental note of grabbing more than a couple of ice packs.

He grabs a packet of bandages and works on dressing the wound with some gauze to keep it and the stitches protected. He only uses his fingertips to be as gentle as possible, the Master's abdomen feeling so tender that the Doctor fears any touch could hurt him more, but the Master remains silent and uncomplaining. He finishes by adding some bandage tape to keep the dressing in place.

“I’ll go get the ice packs now. Will you be okay on your own?” the Doctor asks worriedly. Even though the Master is looking a little better than a while ago, losing sight of him in his current state makes him uneasy.

The Master simply nods and waves a hand, gesturing for him to go. He observes the Doctor gather some of the things inside the first aid kit and leave with it and the metal basin, stopping briefly to take the bloodied clothes with him as well. 

Once the Master is alone, he finally releases a long, shaky breath, feeling all the muscles and nerves in his body scream at him after all the tension he submitted them to for the last few minutes, keeping all the pain at bay while the Doctor worked on suturing the wound. He didn't want to break in front of the Doctor, but now the all-encompassing ache is making his eyes well with tears. He lets them fall, unable to contain them anymore, and allows the pain to wash over him, overwhelming his senses for a moment until the torrent of discomfort becomes a familiar sensation that he can tolerate and get accustomed to. The sting of the stab wound is not even as uncomfortable as the continuous soreness of the bruises. He could have wailed when the Doctor was helping him take his clothes off, but it feels a lot more bearable now without the damp fabric sticking to his skin.

After a few minutes of agonising pain, he finally manages to relax a little, willing his body to calm down and lie completely still. In this stillness, he notices he can feel the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, and the slight pull of the bandage on his lower abdomen. After a while, he hears the distant sound of running water coming from the adjacent bathroom, informing him of the Doctor's presence nearby.

He remembers the Doctor's words, about how miserable he felt when he thought he was the last of his kind, and how there is no one else he would rather be with. Any other time, the Master would have doubted that statement. He would have assumed that it was another of the Doctor's tactics to earn his truth by appealing to his hearts and ego. But there was something in his tone of voice, in the faint glimmer in his eyes, that assured the Master that he was being sincere. The Doctor wants him by his side, and the Master knows this to be true despite how hard it is to believe.

While the Master waits in his bed, getting used to the pain and coming to terms with this new realisation, the Doctor takes a deep breath in the bathroom.

He has already retrieved the ice packs as well as some painkillers, leaving them on top of a small cabinet while he painstakingly washes his hands again in the sink. The blood on his arms has dried, and no matter how hard he scrubs, it doesn't seem to come off. With his gaze unfocused and his mind once again clouded with a stormy ocean of thoughts and memories, it takes the Doctor a while to notice that his forearm is bleeding. He turns off the tap and examines the cut that extends for most of his forearm, and which he has made a little worse with all his rubbing. He had forgotten again that he had received a cut, the faint memory of the blade piercing his skin while he shielded the Master from the knife of the assailant now coming back to him as he watches the blood pouring from the wound and spilling down the length of his forearm and hand, dripping from his fingers and down the drain.

It's a cruel irony how despite having all of time and space within his reach as a route of escape, there are certain things he cannot outrun, no matter how far or fast he tries to run away from them. Perhaps it's because he got very close to being the last of his kind again after almost losing the Master – the only familiar face left from the only place and time that remains out of his reach. Or perhaps it's because his fear of loneliness is worse than he thought. Whatever the reason, it unfortunately unearths memories that he had buried a long time ago; memories of war, blood, screams, ashes and embers dancing across a dark red sky that used to be burnt orange; memories of death and destruction, and a terrible choice that only he could make.

All the memories that have haunted him for all these years and the past he has always tried to outrun, as well as all his anxieties and the stress of the recent events finally catch up with him, and the dam holding everything together inside his chest breaks, releasing all the dread and fear like a torrent that floods him and overwhelms him completely. The Doctor only realises he has started crying because the tears streaming down his face are making the cut on his cheek sting.

Avoiding making eye contact with himself in the mirror, he takes a few steps away from the sink until his back touches the wall behind him. Exhausted, he slides down slowly and sits on the floor of the bathroom, flexing his legs and drawing his knees to his chest to hug them and bury his face behind them.

Then, in the solitude of the dimly lit bathroom and drowning under the weight of his sorrow and grief, the Doctor weeps.

While he might have lost track of time, the Master is fairly certain that the Doctor is taking longer to return than expected. He stopped hearing the sound of running water a while ago, and now that sound has been replaced by another, more faint and distant one that doesn't take the Master too long to recognise.

“Doctor?” he calls, raising his voice a little, but receives no reply.

The adjacent bathroom is not very far from his bed, only ten paces give or take, but those ten paces sound like a lot in his current condition. He tries calling for the Doctor again, a bit louder this time, but only gets silence back.

After taking a few deep breaths to prepare himself, the Master sits up with no small amount of struggle. Instinctively, he presses a hand to the bandage covering his wound as he manoeuvres to the side of the bed, grunting a little as he finally rises to his feet and gets out of bed. He sways in place, feeling a bit faint although not enough to actually fall. As a precaution, he reaches for the wall with his free hand and leans on it while he waits for the dizziness to pass. Once the room has stopped spinning, he starts for the bathroom, taking it slowly and being aware of every step he takes. In the end, he counts fourteen paces.

Standing on the threshold of the bathroom, the Master finds an even more saddening scene than he anticipated. The first thing that catches his attention is the blood staining the sink and the trail of red droplets on the floor. Then his eyes land on the figure coiling against the wall opposite the sink and mirror, where the trail of blood stops.

The Doctor looks so small and pitiful like this, curled into a ball with his shoulders shaking slightly along with his sobbing, and the Master feels an ache in the pit of his stomach that is not caused by any of his injuries.

He approaches the Doctor, his bare feet barely making a sound on the tiles of the bathroom, and carefully drops on one knee and then sits next to him with his back against the wall.

The Doctor only notices his presence when the Master lets out a little grunt after the effort, his head popping up from behind his knees and turning to the side in shock to find the Master next to him.

“W-What are you doing here?” the Doctor asks bewildered, wondering for a second if the Master is another memory that has come alive to haunt him, before remembering where he is and what happened just a while ago. “You shouldn't move!”

“Well, I called for you a couple of times and you didn't answer,” the Master starts. His lips curve in a smirk. “Also, I heard you crying, and I couldn't pass up an opportunity to see you feeling miserable, now, could I?”

The Doctor exhales out of his nose, slightly amused by the Master's comment, but unable to shake the feeling of guilt for making the Master come to him in his condition.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left you on your own.”

The Master waves a hand, downplaying the severity of the situation, because, really, it's not that severe. He's still very much in pain, but at least he's not bleeding to death in a dark alleyway. He turns his head to take a proper look at the Doctor, and feels something like a pinprick in his chest when he sees the Doctor's face dampened by his tears and a little bit of blood from the cut on his cheek.

“So, what is it? Why are you crying?”

A veil of sorrow falls on the Doctor's expression, darkening his gaze and furrowing his brow as he remembers everything that was tormenting him mere minutes ago. He swallows and lowers his eyes to look at his hands, still reddened by the Master's blood as well as his own.

“It's just— I couldn't get the blood off my hands,” the Doctor decides to say, choosing to share only part of the truth.

“Is that all?” the Master inquires knowingly.

“I…” The Doctor hesitates, trying to find a way to escape, to hide, to avoid this conversation he is never ready for even though he longs for understanding and knows that the Master is the only person in the whole universe who could offer it to him. “I also started to remember things.”

“The Time War?” the Master asks, but it's more like a statement. Because he understands, of course he does, but perhaps not in the way the Doctor wants or needs. The war is a scar they both share, but which they remember and suffer differently.

The Doctor nods. A grimace flutters over his features, and he clenches his jaw to fight against the beginning of another sob. He doesn't say any more, and instead lets the silence fill the room.

The Master stares at the Doctor's hands, the way the blood that spilled from his wound has created patterns on his skin, wrapping around his knuckles and fingers like little tendrils and filling the lines on his palms like rivers of red. There is beauty in it, the Master thinks. Beauty in seeing the Doctor's hands stained in blood. He wonders if they looked like this after he put an end to two almighty civilisations. He longs to know more of what transpired at the end of the war, everything he missed after he ran away in fear, but knows this is not what the Doctor needs right now, so he stays silent, sharing in the quietness with the Doctor and allowing for the silence to embrace them both and express what words cannot.

After a long while, the Master gives the Doctor's shoulder a nudge to grab his attention.

“Come here,” the Master says, spreading his legs a little to leave a space between them and patting the floor with one of his hands.

The Doctor gives him a puzzled look, his eyes flickering back and forth between the Master and his open legs.

“What?”

“You like hugs, don't you? This is a one time offer, take it or leave it.”

The Doctor's puzzled look morphs into one of disbelief. “You didn't get a concussion, did you?” he asks, not knowing how else to react to the Master blatantly offering him a hug. That's not like him at all.

“Very funny. I'm trying to be nice for once, don't make me regret it,” the Master replies, already regretting it.

Reluctantly, the Doctor moves away from the wall and shuffles over on his knees until he positions himself in front of the Master. His eyes immediately dart down to the Master's torso covered in bruises, and the bandage close to his navel which now has little spots of red from the wound underneath.

“I can't. I will hurt you.”

The Master opens his arms invitingly. “It'll be fine. Just don't lean on me too hard.”

Still hesitant about it, the Doctor moves slowly, sitting between the Master's thighs with his legs tucked to the side. Then, just as carefully, he wraps his arms around the Master's shoulders, barely resting his chest against the Master's and avoiding any contact with his abdomen. The Master loops his arms around the Doctor's torso and brings him a little closer, tightening the embrace and running his hands up and down the Doctor's back in a soothing manner. That tender caress is enough to make the Doctor emotional again, and he burrows his face into the space between the Master's neck and shoulder and begins sobbing quietly.

“That's it. Let it out,” the Master whispers as he tilts his head to rest his cheek on top of the Doctor's head, his spiky hair tingling his nose a little. He still feels conflicted about his sudden urges to comfort the Doctor, and it's not like he's doing this to repay him for rescuing him and tending to his wounds, but he can't deny that he wants to do this for him. “You just couldn't let me die, could you? You sentimental idiot.”

The Doctor shakes his head, rubbing his face against the Master's neck already wet with his tears. “I couldn't… I couldn't lose you again,” he murmurs, his voice cracking and muffled against the Master's skin.

The Master reaches for the Doctor's head with one of his hands, threading his fingers through his hair and massaging his nape to calm him, making the Doctor whimper softly.

“Well, you didn't lose me. You saved me. I'm here,” the Master replies, and realises he feels grateful for it.

The Doctor's sobs begin to subside, and he can't help the little smile that blooms on his face afterwards. It's true; the Master is here, with him. He can feel the warmth radiating from him, from the Master's bare skin under his fingertips and against his face; he can sense his smell, the pleasant vibration of his voice and the comforting weight of his arms around him. He can feel the Master everywhere, like a welcome and calming presence that begins to heal some of the wounds inside him. And yet, there is still a lingering sense of guilt that suffocates him. A feeling of something being wrong. The smile fades away.

Carefully, the Doctor pulls back just enough to be able to look at the Master's face. He needs to ask, despite how much the question clawing at his throat hurts him. He needs to know.

“Are you really that unhappy staying with me that you'd rather die?”

The question knocks the wind out of the Master. He stares at the Doctor, at his slightly pained expression and the fear in his reddened and swollen eyes. It feels as if time has stopped around them, freezing this moment with that dreadful question hanging between them. Tears begin to gather in the Master's own eyes, mimicking the Doctor's. The Master knows the answer. He has known it ever since the Doctor said those three words to him that day aboard the Valiant; those three words he never wanted but still needed to hear.

“No. Not really,” the Master replies sincerely, a fond smile forming on his lips. There is no other place I would rather be but by your side, it's what he doesn't say, because he can't still fully believe it himself, or doesn't want to, but his hearts scream it so loudly that he wonders if the Doctor can hear it. “Staying with you is not that bad.”

The Doctor, after feeling like he was on the edge of a precipice awaiting the Master's answer, gifts him with a smile of his own as a weight is lifted off his shoulders. He knows that the last few months haven't been easy for the Master; adapting to his new way of life, to being bound to the Doctor and under his surveillance. At the beginning, it almost felt like the Master was his prisoner, and the Master made his unhappiness very clear countless times. After a few trips, he became more of a passenger, still being contrary but starting to enjoy their travels despite himself. Now they are in another transitional spot, not quite in the best of terms but much better than at the beginning of their journey. Yet, if the Master were still unhappy now, if his answer had been different, the Doctor is certain that he would have respected his wishes and let him go. As much as it would hurt him to lose him, he would always prefer the Master to live on without him than staying unhappy forever – or worse yet: end up dead.

But the Master's answer has given the Doctor hope. Hope that, given time, they would become friends again as they used to be. Two friends travelling and seeing the stars together as they promised they would do all those centuries ago.

The Master cups the Doctor's face in his hands, catching a stray tear with his thumb and looking at him with a besotted expression. To his own surprise, he draws the Doctor closer and kisses his forehead, and actually delights in the way the Doctor's smile widens when he pulls back. Letting himself get carried away, the Master leans in for another kiss, this time on the Doctor's dimple by the side of his mouth, and because he's already there, he dares to go a bit further and presses a quick peck to the Doctor's lips. He can't contain a groan of exasperation when he pulls back again and sees the Doctor staring at him endearingly stunned.

“Look at what you've done to me. I'm soft now. It's disgusting,” he grumbles, letting go of the Doctor's face lest he embarrasses himself further.

A little laugh bursts out of the Doctor, all the tension, worries and heartache from a moment ago finally dissipating. “You're a bit more bearable now,” the Doctor starts, sniffling a little and barely controlling his sudden joy. “I would call that an improvement.”

“Disgusting, I tell you,” the Master shoots back, feigning annoyance, but the tiny upturn of a smile on his lips betrays the sentiment.

Being this close to each other and sharing this tender moment between them is certainly nice, but the Doctor can feel the coldness and the discomfort of the bathroom tile floor beginning to creep up on him, and he becomes aware of how uncomfortable it must feel for the Master, who's only wearing his underpants and still in pain.

“Come on, let's get you to bed before you catch a cold as well.”

Before the Doctor can fully rise to his feet, he's stopped by the Master grabbing his wrist.

“Before we go, we should do something about this or it will get infected,” the Master says as he gently turns the Doctor's arm around to show the cut on his forearm. “Where did you put the first aid kit?”

“Oh, right…” The Doctor had already forgotten about it again. “It's okay, I’ll take care of it later.”

The Master shakes his head. “It will be easier if I do it for you. It’ll only take a minute.”

The Doctor is visibly hesitant, giving it some thought for a moment, but ultimately decides to accept the Master's kind offer. He nods, and helps the Master to get up. It takes some effort and some groaning from the Master, but they manage it.

While the Master washes his hands with his hip cocked against the sink to support his weight, the Doctor retrieves the first aid kit from the cabinet and leaves it open on the flat surface of the sink. Without turning off the tap, the Master gets more soap and takes the Doctor's hands to scrub them and wash the blood away, doing the same with the Doctor's uninjured arm until they're clean. Then, after clearing the soap, he brings the Doctor's forearm with the cut under the stream of water, cleaning the wound and waiting for the bleeding to stop.

The Doctor remains silent, his eyes moving back and forth between their hands and the Master's face, his gentleness and care producing a tingle in the Doctor's belly that is hard to ignore.

The Master dries his and the Doctor's arms and hands with a soft towel, being extra careful with the wound. He takes an antibiotic ointment from the first aid kit, and applies it gently over the cut with the pads of his fingers under the attentive gaze of the Doctor. He then proceeds to cover the wound, wrapping the Doctor's forearm with gauze.

“This brings back memories, doesn't it?” the Master comments fondly. At the sight of the Doctor's confused expression, he continues, “I used to patch you up all the time when we were kids. You were always getting hurt”

The Doctor raises an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, I was the one patching you up most of the times.”

The Master chuckles as he secures the bandage with tape. “Fine, we patched each other up.”

The Doctor smiles and curiously watches the Master folding a towel and wetting a side of it.

“C’mere,” the Master says, and surprises the Doctor by grabbing his chin and tilting his head to the side to clean his cheek. “You're lucky this cut wasn't too deep. I don't think it’ll leave a scar. Although…” he trails off, rubbing the Doctor's cheek delicately with the towel.

That unfinished sentence brings the Doctor's brows closer together. “Although?” he asks, and catches the slight upwards curl of the Master's lips out of the corner of his eye.

“I think a face scar would look nice on you,” the Master replies, not hiding his amusement at his own thought.

The Doctor snorts. “Of course you would think that— Ow! Careful,” the Doctor complains, giving the Master a stern glare after feeling him pressing on the wound a little harder than he needed to.

The Master's smile widens, but decides to stop his teasing and finish up by applying the antibiotic ointment on the cut and putting a couple of tiny strip stitches to keep the wound close.

“There you go, all done.”

The Doctor takes a quick look at himself in the mirror, impressed by the Master's job, but averts his gaze and clears his throat when he catches sight of his swollen eyes. His smile returns when he looks at the Master again.

“Thank you,” he says affectionately, then takes a deep breath and nods. “Okay, to bed now!”

The journey back to the bedroom is a lot easier for the Master now that he has the Doctor helping him, although he still takes his time, leaning his weight on the Doctor as he takes careful steps. He waits on his armchair for the Doctor to change the sheets, and sighs with relief once he finally rests his aching body on the clean bed.

“The ice packs! Hold on,” the Doctor shouts, startling the Master as he runs back to the bathroom.

The Doctor is certainly cheerier now, the Master notices, and he finds himself feeling a little glad to see the Doctor returning to his old self, although he didn't miss his high energy. He sees him come back shortly after with a bottle of pills, some small towels and the forgotten ice packs, and watches him take a seat next to him on the bed.

“Here, take one of these,” the Doctor says as he tilts the bottle to pour one pill into his palm and bring it to the Master's mouth.

“You're drugging me now? What are you going to do to me while I'm out?” the Master jokes.

“What? Nothing! It's just painkillers.”

The momentary look of shock on the Doctor's face brings a smile to the Master's lips. “I'm just messing with you,” he replies as he tries to school his smile into a serious expression before opening his mouth and sticking out his tongue teasingly.

The Doctor shakes his head, amusement visible in his features. He places the pill on the Master's tongue and observes him swallow it in an exaggerated manner.

“Forget what I said. You're not more bearable now,” the Doctor teases, and rolls his eyes when the Master's expression melts into a pout.

The Doctor grabs one of the instant ice packs and takes a quick look at the instructions before squeezing it and shaking it in his hands, waiting for it to become cold. He wraps it in a towel and places it over the Master's ribcage, and then uses two more ice packs and towels for the Master's thigh and arm. The Master winces, but soon relaxes and welcomes the soothing coolness.

“Will you stay?” the Master asks all of a sudden, his voice a bit low and imbued with sleepiness.

“Of course. I need to keep an eye on you. Now rest.”

Having said that, the Doctor stands up and goes around the bed, bringing the armchair a bit closer to the bed and taking a seat. The Master falls asleep shortly after that.

When the Master opens his eyes again, he's not sure of how much time has passed, but the first thing he notices is the absence of the cold ice packs on his body, and the softness of a lightweight blanket pulled over him. The painkillers and the ice packs have done their job, because the hot, throbbing pain from before has turned into a tolerable soreness that he can barely feel as long as he doesn't move too much.

The room is dimly lit by the lamp on the bedside table, and turning his head to the side, he sees the Doctor in the armchair, now wearing his brown suit – sans jacket and tie – and a more casual dark blue henley instead of his usual button up shirt. He has a book in his hands with what appears to be a wasp on the cover, and he's wearing his glasses. The bandage on his forearm is covered by the long sleeve of the henley, but he still has the tiny strip stitches on his cheek. He's so focused on reading his book that he doesn't notice the Master is awake.

“You can read faster than that,” the Master comments, shuffling a little in bed to half-turn his body and look at the Doctor more comfortably.

The Doctor raises his eyes from the book and smiles at the Master. “Sometimes it's nice to read slowly,” he says before returning to his book.

“If you say so.” The Master shrugs. “How long have I been sleeping?”

“Just a couple of hours. You really should rest more.”

The Master hums and tries to stir in bed, but stops mid-motion when he feels the sting of the sutures in his lower abdomen and the stiffness of his whole torso.

“Mmm, I can't sleep. I'm feeling lonely,” the Master says with a hint of teasing in his voice, which the Doctor seems to pick up on judging by the raise of one of his eyebrows.

“I'm in the room with you.”

The Master grins. “I meant in bed.”

The Doctor exhales through his nose humorously, having a pretty good idea of where this is going. The Master enjoys flirting with him every now and then; sometimes to throw him off balance, and other times simply because he's bored. The Doctor puts the money he doesn't have on this being a situation of the latter type.

“Go to sleep, Master,” he says as he turns a page of his book. He stopped reading a while ago, but keeps pretending to read to discourage the Master, even though he knows well that ignoring him doesn't usually work.

The Master's first instinct is to keep teasing, but there are more pressing matters at the moment, like the reason why he woke up in the first place.

“I would, but I need to use the loo.”

The Doctor lowers his book to his lap and spares the Master a glance, then closes the book and puts it down on the bedside table along with his glasses as he stands up.

“You should have started with that. Come on, up you get.”

Getting up and out of bed is still quite taxing for the Master, but the Doctor is patient and helpful, taking as much weight off the Master as he can and short of carrying him bride style, which he offers but the Master refuses categorically.

As they're approaching the toilet, with the Master wrapping an arm around the Doctor's shoulders for support, the Doctor stops and hesitates.

“Which one is it?”

“I just need to pee.”

“Okay. Do you prefer to do it standing or sitting down?”

The Master rolls his eyes. He's sure the Doctor thinks he's being so attentive, which, in fairness, he is, but in such an earnest way that the Master can't help but feel annoyed by it.

“Standing is fine,” he replies, not hiding his irritation. Unfortunately, as soon as the Doctor lets go of him even the slightest, he begins to feel dizzy and has to hold onto the Doctor again for dear life. “Actually, sitting down might be better.”

The Doctor nods, and lets the Master hold onto his shoulders as he bends to pull the Master's underwear down, politely turning his head to the side as he does so. He helps the Master to sit on the toilet and turns around to give him some privacy, but stays close since the Master doesn't let go of him and keeps a grip on his henley even though he doesn't really need support anymore.

After a minute and a half of silence, with only the unmistakable sound of urination filling the bathroom, the Master tugs gently at the Doctor's clothes.

“I'm done.”

The Doctor turns and helps him up, and as before, lets the Master lean on him as he pulls his underwear up, then waits for the Master to tuck himself inside his pants.

“This is humiliating,” the Master says, worrying that the warmth he's feeling breaking out across his face is manifesting itself in a blush.

“We have been through worse, you and I,” the Doctor replies, and there's that fond smile on his face again that so often annoys the Master, although he doesn't mind it too much right now.

“Not as humiliating as this.”

The Doctor chuckles, and flushes the toilet before he helps the Master to approach the sink.

As the Master washes his hands, he catches the Doctor's reflection on the mirror. His eyes are not reddened anymore, but they're still a bit swollen from the crying and there are subtle shadows under them, probably caused by the lack of sleep.

“Have you slept at all since yesterday?” the Master asks.

The Doctor looks at himself in the mirror but promptly looks away. He presses his lips together in a thin line, brow furrowed and feigning confidence, and nods.

“Yeah, don't worry,” he lies. “Let's get you back to bed.”

The Master notices, and decides he won't let that slide so easily.

Back in the bedroom, the Doctor takes a seat on the armchair again once the Master is back in bed. He is about to grab his book when the Master draws his attention.

“Come closer, I need to tell you something.”

The Doctor frowns, glancing to the sides in confusion.

“There's no one else here, and I can hear you just fine from here.”

The Master rolls his eyes. “Sure, but there's your TARDIS, and I don't think it likes me very much.”

That part is true, the Doctor has to admit. Although the TARDIS is usually respectful of the Doctor's privacy and doesn't spy on him or his private conversations. At least he thinks it doesn't.

“Well, can you blame her after what you did to her?” The Doctor doesn't even want to think about that. It still gives him shivers. “But she's warming up to you, I think.”

The Master is not so sure about that, if his coffee always coming out cold no matter how many times he heats it in the TARDIS coffee machine is any indicative of it. He often ends up drinking the Doctor's tea anyway, since whenever the Doctor makes himself a cup, most times he forgets about it. At least the TARDIS has stopped messing with his shower, so that's definitely an improvement.

“Just come here, will you?”

Reluctantly, the Doctor finally approaches the bed and gets closer to the Master to let him whisper in his ear. As expected, the Master has nothing to say at all, and instead places a kiss on the Doctor's neck. The Doctor can't help the soft laugh that comes out of him as he pulls back.

“Okay, that's enough of that. You need to rest,” he says, covering the Master with the blanket. He should have expected something like this. The Master isn't one to drop his teasing so easily.

Tapping his lips with his index finger, the Master asks, “One here?”

“No. Come on.”

“Don't you have a heart? Grant this dying man's wish.”

The Doctor snorts and shakes his head. “You're not dying,” he replies.

“Thanks to you. Let me repay you.”

“There's no need. Now rest,” the Doctor insists, his patience growing a little thin.

“Will I have to beg? It's just a little kiss.”

Perhaps it would be easier to just indulge the Master and let him win this time, the Doctor decides. So he finally gives in and bends over the Master to meet his mouth with his in a chaste kiss. It's a quick and gentle press of their lips, but the Master sits up a little to chase the Doctor as he draws back and get another kiss out of him, which the Doctor reciprocates, pressing their lips for a bit longer before they break apart.

The little smile blooming on the Doctor's face doesn't escape the Master's attention.

“Happy now? Go to sleep,” the Doctor demands firmly, although there's a bit of softness dripping from his voice.

“A bit more?” the Master asks with a pout.

“Master…”

“What do I have to do to get you in bed with me?”

And there it is. The reason behind all this teasing. The Doctor rolls his eyes, but he's starting to feel a little playful himself.

“I will happily get in bed with you if you behave.”

That puts stars in the Master's eyes. He doesn't even attempt to hide his sudden excitement as he gushes, “Really?”

The look on the Doctor's face turns serious before he replies, “Not like that.”

And just like that, the excitement in the Master deflates like a balloon.

“You're no fun,” the Master laments.

But it's a short-lived disappointment, because to his delight, the Doctor walks around the bed to get to the other side and lie down next to him, shuffling a little until he gets comfortable.

With a bit of difficulty, the Master turns around to face him with a smile forming on his lips, content to have convinced the Doctor to get in bed. He could stretch the teasing a bit further, but he's feeling tired himself. The Master rests one of his hands in the middle of them, close to the Doctor's but without touching him. To his surprise, the Doctor moves his hand just a little, enough to brush their knuckles together. It's a simple gesture, but it's enough to light something inside the Master. He really is getting soft.

“Will you sleep now?” the Doctor asks with a tiny hint of exasperation, although the relief of lying down and finally resting his body is evident in his face.

“I will sleep now,” the Master promises. And so he does.

The night turns out to be restless for both. Despite sleeping for most of the night, the Master's slumber is haunted by nightmares and the never-ending sound of the drums, which so often increases in potency during the night.

The Doctor barely manages to get a couple of hours of sleep, spending most of the night monitoring the Master, wiping the sweat from his brow with a cloth and reaching out to him to calm his mind (he never lingers for too long or reads his thoughts, partly because it would be a violation of the Master's privacy, and partly because he's a bit afraid of what he could find) and decrease the intensity of the drums as much as he can. He still hasn't found a solution to the drumming, but taking some of its strength away is the best temporary fix he can think of. Judging by how the Master's features relax after he does that little trick, it seems to work well enough.

The Doctor wonders if the Master will remember this in the morning, if he can feel his presence inside his mind even in his unconscious state, like how you would feel the air in a room shift when someone else sets foot in it. Watching the Master writhe and whimper in his sleep, his brow crinkled in a pained frown, his jaw clenched and his lips trembling, the Doctor wishes he could do more for him. He wishes he could take away any pain and misery that hurts and torments him, gladly taking them for himself if that would mean the Master wouldn't suffer anymore.

He wishes he could make him feel safe, happy and loved.

He reminisces about the Master comforting him in the bathroom, how easy it was to be open and vulnerable with him and find solace in his understanding; how safe he felt in the Master's embrace, as if everything would be all right as long as he stayed in the Master's arms. Could he ever make the Master feel the same way?

He remembers the kisses they shared, how tender and sweet they were, like a soothing balm for his very soul. The Doctor still doesn't know what to make of them. The Master's teasing and flirting are one thing, but the kisses felt different. They felt real, sincere. If he didn't know any better, the Doctor would think that the Master was expressing his love for him. Not specifically romantic or platonic, just… love. The love that has always been there between them ever since they were kids and which has evolved and devolved with the passing of time; the love they often hide, feel ashamed of or reject. How much they have complicated things for themselves. The Doctor loves the Master, and knows the Master has love for him as well in his own way. Is it foolish to think they could act on it? Share it and express it unabashedly? Could the Master feel the same way? What if those kisses were proof of it? What if the Master is trying to make him understand, but he's too afraid to see it? What if his hearts are too broken to love again?

In the quietude of a very long night, as he watches over the Master and guards his dreams, the Doctor asks himself these questions, and decides he's the type of person who would at least try.

Chapter Text

The next time the Master wakes up, he wakes up to the smell of soup. Opening his eyes, his gaze immediately falls on the familiar figure sitting on the edge of his bed, eating a sandwich with a leg crossed over the other, bouncing his foot up and down while keeping his eyes fixed on a particular spot on the wall, deep in thought. The Doctor is still wearing the brown suit, and this time he put on his jacket. His coat is laying on the feet of the bed, and the Master finds it safe to assume that the Doctor had gone out while he was asleep.

“You're going to leave crumbs on my bed.”

The Doctor is startled, doing a little jump as he turns his head to look at the Master.

“Mm!” The Doctor swallows a bit dramatically and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You're awake. I thought you were going to sleep the whole day away,” he says, then reconsiders. “Not that there's anything wrong with that. You can sleep for as long as you like.”

Stirring and sitting up in bed, the Master feels the stiffness of his restless sleep as well as the soreness still lingering in his body. He vaguely remembers waking and falling asleep multiple times throughout the night, and he's pretty sure the Doctor was there with him the whole time. He has a faint memory of hearing the Doctor's voice and feeling his touch on his forehead, but it's difficult to try to remember more than that when he's still feeling a little groggy. At some point the discomfort must have stopped, and he managed to get some hours of sleep. He wonders if the Doctor managed that too.

“What time is it?” the Master asks in a husky voice.

“It's noon already, and you really should eat. You haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon.” The Doctor jumps to his feet and grabs a tray with legs designed for eating in bed. He places it over the Master's lap and takes his half-eaten sandwich from the tray again. “Remember when we went to Shan Shen and we ate in that nice little restaurant? I brought you that soup you liked.”

The Master remembers that soup well. He hates to admit it, but this really is a very kind gesture from the Doctor. He even brought him a side dish of chips, a glass of juice, another of water and some bread.

“Soup? Really?” he complains jokingly, because admitting outright that he loves this would be too much. He regrets it when he sees the Doctor's expression thaw into a pout.

“Oh… sorry, I thought some warm soup would be nice, but I should have asked what you wanted. I can bring you something else.”

The Doctor is ready to take the tray away, but the Master stops him by holding up a hand.

“I was kidding. This is… this is very nice,” the Master admits sincerely, and summons up the nerve to say the next part. “Thank you.”

Warmth blooms on the Doctor's face, a smile tugging at his lips. He nods in response to the Master's gratitude, and takes a seat again.

“Do you want me to…?” he asks, pointing at the spoon and doing a motion with his hand.

The Master immediately understands what he means, but instead of feeling insulted, he laughs it off. “I can feed myself, don't worry.”

The Doctor nods again and goes back to eating his sandwich. The Master is not so happy about that.

“Is that all you're going to eat?”

Slowing his chewing, the Doctor looks down at his lunch and then at the Master. “I'm not that hungry. And I had a quick breakfast this morning, it's fine.”

“By quick breakfast you mean sticking your fingers inside the jam jar?” The Master knows what he's talking about. He has seen the Doctor do things he would rather forget.

The Doctor's face contorts into a look of offence, opening his mouth and letting out a gasp. “I’ll have you know I had a proper toast with jam,” he replies with indignation. “Whatever utensil I used to spread the jam is irrelevant.”

The Master laughs, a bit charmed by the Doctor's reaction. The Doctor ends up laughing with him.

“At least have some of my chips. I'm not that hungry either, and this is too much for me.”

The Doctor accepts the Master's offer, and they have their lunch together, sharing not only the chips, but also the rest of the food as well as a few bites of the Doctor's sandwich. They end up spending a couple of hours sitting in bed after eating, chatting about everything and nothing, and only reminiscing about their happy childhood memories in Gallifrey. Neither of them brings up the war.

After a while, the Doctor gets up, taking the tray away, and then grabs hold of his coat.

“While I was out I found some waterproof bandages in a pharmacy,” he says as he finds the packet within the infinite space inside the coat pocket. “I thought you could do with a shower. You’ll feel more comfortable afterwards.”

The Master raises an arm and takes a sniff at himself. “Yeah, I desperately need one.”

The Doctor chuckles fondly and prepares everything to change the dressing on the Master's abdomen. He examines the bruises first, noticing the change of colour – now lighter than they were the day before – and the reduction of the swelling. He removes the bandages that he already changed once during the night, and checks the wound and the sutures before applying some antibiotic ointment. He stops when the Master stifles a moan.

“Does it hurt?” the Doctor asks, worrying that he has pressed too hard on the wound despite how careful he's trying to be.

“Not much, but it's itchy.”

The Doctor replies with an ‘oh’ and a smile, and rubs the wound gently as he spreads the ointment. His smile widens when the Master lets out a prolonged moan of relief, closing his eyes to really bathe in it.

“Much better, mm? The itching is a good sign. It means it's healing properly.”

Once he's finished with the lotion, the Doctor covers the wound with the waterproof bandage – making sure it's properly sealed against the skin – and does the same with his own arm with some help from the Master. He removes the little stitches on his cheek since the cut is not that worrying, and helps the Master to get up from bed and move on to the bathroom.

There is one thing that catches the Master's attention as soon as they enter the bathroom, and that's the plastic stool inside the shower that he's certain wasn't there the day before, or any day before that.

“Did you get a stool for me? I'm not a complete invalid.”

The Doctor glances at the stool, then at the Master. “You can barely walk on your own or stand for too long,” he says matter-of-factly. Then his voice softens as he continues, “Besides, I don't want you moving or bending too much until your wound has healed a bit more.”

The Master can't argue with that, so he doesn't protest anymore and stays silent while the Doctor helps him undress. Given that he has only been wearing his underwear since the night before, it doesn't take long.

He's ready to get in the shower, waiting for the Doctor to help him inside, but to his utter surprise, the Doctor begins to undress himself, starting with his jacket and the blue shirt underneath.

“You're getting in the shower with me?” he asks a bit bewildered, watching the Doctor peel off layer after layer of clothing. Really, it's ridiculous the amount of layers he wears, but it adds to how tantalising it is to watch him strip. “Saucy,” he comments when the Doctor reveals his sleeveless white vest.

“I told you. I don't want you moving too much, so I’ll help you wash, if that's okay,” the Doctor replies, intentionally ignoring the Master's last comment. He takes his vest off, exposing his bare chest and torso, and rolls his eyes when he catches the Master raising his eyebrows and making an ‘o’ shape with his mouth.

He finishes by taking his shoes, socks, trousers and underpants off, and without wasting any time, he approaches the Master and urges him inside the shower, helping him to take a seat on the stool.

The shower is designed for one person, so there is barely enough space for the two of them, but they make do. The Master rests his back against the tile wall, hissing at the cold against his skin, and spreads his legs a little to leave some room for the Doctor who remains standing.

The Doctor takes the shower head and turns on the tap, pouring the water over his free hand and waiting for it to get warm. He then turns around and takes the Master's hand to aim the water at it.

“Is this warm enough?”

The Master nods, a smirk visible on his lips since a while ago. “Yes, it's fine.”

“I’ll wash your hair first, then.”

Closing his eyes, the Master lets the Doctor wet his hair and body, the warm water pouring over him with the perfect amount of pressure, raising the temperature of his body and calming his muscles and nerves in the process. He misses that comforting feeling when the Doctor turns the water off, but the sensations that follow are just as soothing. He keeps his eyes closed as the Doctor massages his scalp, the fruity aroma of the shampoo and the gentle rubbing of the Doctor's fingertips on his head relaxing him further and drawing a pleasing moan out of him.

The Doctor can't help smiling, delighted by the Master's calm expression and the little sounds of satisfaction that escape from his throat. It's lovely, really, to be like this with him, the Doctor finds. Doing such a mundane thing as taking a shower and getting so much enjoyment from it. The night before he worried about how he could do more for the Master, how he could make him feel safe and comfortable. It turns out that something as simple as having lunch together and taking care of the Master's hygiene are as good a place to start as any.

Being done with the shampoo, the Doctor rinses the Master's hair thoroughly before grabbing the conditioner and applying it just as delicately, turning the Master's head this way and that way and feeling pleased by how pliant the Master is being. He rinses the Master's hair again, and takes one of the new sponges he bought during his quick trip in one hand and the shower gel in the other.

“Body next,” the Doctor announces, and proceeds to kneel on the shower floor – which has just enough space for his legs to fit – almost having to slot himself between the Master's legs.

Understandably, the Doctor's new position takes the Master's by surprise when he rubs his eyes and opens them, finding the Doctor kneeling before him and rubbing the soapy sponge on his neck. He has been civil thus far, but the Doctor can't expect him not to comment on this turn of events.

“So all I had to do to get you on your knees was get stabbed?”

That cracks a smile out of the Doctor, and an amused little exhale through his nose.

“Don't start,” the Doctor warns, pulling his gaze up to give the Master a look before focusing back on his task.

It would be so easy to tease him further, but the Master chooses to play it nice for the moment, if only because being so delicately washed by the Doctor is turning out to be a more pleasant experience than he could have ever imagined, and not nearly as humiliating as he feared. He wants to enjoy more of this before he gets on the Doctor's nerves.

The gentle rubbing of the soft sponge on his neck, shoulders and collarbones makes the Master close his eyes and immerse fully in the sensations. He rests his head against the wall and feels the Doctor making his way to his chest and then to his abdomen, being extra careful with the bruises and avoiding the bandage entirely. The Doctor moves on to the Master's arms next, raising one at a time to reach every inch of skin and clean his armpits, which gets a stifled chuckle from the Master.

“Are you ticklish?” the Doctor asks with a lopsided smile on his lips that the Master doesn't see with his eyes closed, but can still sense in his voice.

“No,” the Master lies. He's not about to disclose his vulnerabilities to the Doctor, but he fears it's too late anyway and the Doctor has already figured it out.

As tempting as it is, the Doctor decides not to push the matter further, but locks away that new piece of information in his mind for future use.

He brings the Master a little closer, bending him forward just enough to be able to clean his back, and lets him lean against the wall again when he's finished. Next stop is the Master's legs.

The Master opens his eyes for this part. Seeing the Doctor on his knees washing his thighs, legs and feet produces a spark within him that is very hard to ignore. He watches, unable to avert his gaze or shake the feeling that there is something almost reverential about this act, in how the Doctor is casting aside all ego, yielding to him and to his desire to take care of the Master, and showing his devotion in such an unabashed way that it almost brings tears to the Master's eyes. Is he even worthy of this reverence and affection? After everything he has done, all the pain and misery he has brought to his life and those he loves, how could the Doctor care for him so adoringly? That he is even asking himself these questions already proves how much travelling with the Doctor has changed him. He truly is getting soft, and despite himself, he finds this not to be such a bad thing after all.

When the Doctor tilts his head up to look at him with that fondness kindled in his eyes and that loving smile on his lips, the Master gazes upon him and can only smile back.

The Doctor rises to his feet and washes the gel away from the Master's body with the shower head. “Almost done. But, um…” He glances at the Master's crotch before flicking his eyes back to the Master's face. He offers the sponge. “Could you…?”

And just like that, the chorus of celestial harmonies stops and the Master is back to reality. A little laugh bursts out of him.

“What, you're shy now?”

The Doctor's head follows the movement of the rolling of his eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind the gesture. “I just don't want to make you uncomfortable.”

The temptation to keep teasing him is becoming progressively harder to control, but the Master chose to be nice and he's determined to keep this up.

“Sure,” he replies with a grin, and takes the sponge from the Doctor's hand to clean his intimate parts.

The Doctor turns around to give him some privacy, which the Master finds terribly endearing as well as enjoyable, because the Doctor doesn't look bad from this angle either.

He's finishing washing himself when he sees the Doctor wetting his hair and picking up a shampoo bottle that looks unfamiliar to him.

“Did you actually bring your own shampoo?” he asks amusedly.

The Doctor turns around to face him again. “Of course. I like to take care of my hair.”

The Master could have guessed that. No more teasing, he repeats to himself. “Can I wash it for you?”

There's a second of hesitation in the Doctor, but soon his expression softens as he nods and hands him the shampoo bottle. He turns and takes a seat on the floor of the shower, positioning himself between the Master's legs. He then crosses his own legs and throws his head backwards so the Master can easily access it.

Shampoo already poured in one of his hands, the Master runs his fingers through the Doctor's hair, massaging his scalp as gently as the Doctor did to him, and revelling in the pleasing hums that it elicits in the Doctor. It's nice to touch his hair without all that product he puts in it, and he finds that the Doctor's hair is quite longer and softer than he expected.

The Doctor leans into the touch, not hiding his crave for more, and delights in how the Master indulges him, scratching a little harder when the Doctor pushes gently against the Master's hands. His eyes remain closed, and his mouth goes slack with pleasure. He's so relaxed he could almost fall asleep like this, in this state of utter comfort and satisfaction, with the Master's hands sending shivers through him and applying the perfect amount of pressure in their strokes to calm his muscles and nerves and eliminate any tension remaining in his body. Unfortunately, after washing his hair for a bit longer than necessary, the Master taps him on the shoulder, snapping him out of his momentary trance.

“Can you get the shower head for me?”

Keeping his eyes shut to avoid the shampoo getting on them, the Doctor reaches for the shower head blindly, handing it to the Master and missing the tap a couple of times before he finally turns it on.

The Master rinsing his hair is just as pleasant as the washing, the soft torrent of water and the caresses of the Master's hands bringing him again to that state of almost floating, all his worries and anxieties dissipating as his mind swims in a calm ocean for a change, with the stormy clouds that often cover the landscape of his consciousness nowhere to be seen.

After applying the conditioner, the Master asks the Doctor to turn around, and the Doctor complies without question, kneeling in front of the Master, resting his arms on the Master's knees and lowering his head for the Master to rinse his hair again. Which he does, just as tenderly as before, but once the Doctor's hair is completely washed and clean, the Master drops the shower head carefully on the floor and worshipfully cradles the Doctor's face in his hands. He rubs the Doctor's eyes very softly with his thumbs to get the water off them, and then traces the dark circles under them, stroking them so very gently. The Doctor opens his eyes and looks at him with a light of confusion in his gaze, which soon turns into a glimmer of affection, big brown eyes gleaming with adoration.

The warmth in the Master's eyes doesn't go unnoticed by the Doctor's either, producing a tingle in his belly and a fire that ignites in his chest and expands to encompass him entirely, threatening to set him ablaze. The Doctor would gladly embrace those flames.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” the Master asks softly, voice dripping with sweetness.

The Doctor opens his mouth to answer, but stops before any words leave his lips. He doesn't feel like lying anymore.

“Not much, no.”

Instead of reproaching him, the Master smiles. “Would you like to sleep the rest of the day and night with me?”

The Doctor's face beams with excitement at that offer. He nods enthusiastically. “I'd like that,” he replies, joy radiating off of him. “Let me finish washing first?”

“Of course.”

Rising to his feet again, the Doctor grabs the other sponge he brought, pours some shower gel on it and begins to wash himself. He's thorough but quick, not wanting to waste much time, especially since the Master is waiting for him.

The Master, for his part, wouldn't mind staying like this for a while longer. Getting comfortable in his stool, he stares at the Doctor with rapt attention, watching the bubbles and soap slide down his slim body, all sharp angles and pale skin dusted with a smattering of hair (the Doctor's legs are quite hairy, he notices, and as his eyes wander, he can't help smiling at the little trail of hair on his lower belly) and a mantle of freckles that the Master feels the urge to explore and map. He wonders if the Doctor would let him.

Finishing rubbing himself with the sponge, the Doctor's eyes accidentally land on the Master, and can't help but notice the grin on his face.

“What?” he asks, although he knows what that grin probably means.

“Nothing. Just admiring the view,” the Master replies, and his smile widens when the Doctor snorts and shakes his head.

The Master continues observing him as the Doctor washes the gel away, and his eyes travel down again, following the water trailing over his skin. At the angle he's currently at, he notices a scar on the Doctor's lower abdomen, close to his navel, and without hesitation, he reaches with a hand and traces it with his fingers.

“How did you get this?”

Surprisingly, neither the touch nor the question startles the Doctor, and he simply looks down to see what the Master is referring to.

“I think I've had it ever since I regenerated,” he answers after giving it some thought. He really doesn't remember getting it. It's one of those things that are part of him and he doesn't pay much attention to after regeneration, like the shape of his nose or the fact that he now has sideburns.

“You regenerated with it?” the Master asks curiously.

“I think so.”

The Master hums with a bit of disappointment, expecting a big and dramatic story about it, and not a physical trait derived from regeneration. Still, it's kind of charming, and it reminds him of his own new scar.

“I guess we'll have matching scars now.”

The Doctor's eyes linger on the Master for a while, watching his expression soften as he continues caressing the scar. The Master's fingers send a tingle through him.

“Hmm,” the Doctor replies, a little smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose so, yes.”

“This regeneration of yours also has a lot of freckles,” the Master comments, stopping his caresses on the Doctor's scar and leaning back.

The Doctor raises his eyebrows and looks down at himself again. “Does it? I mean, I know I have some on my face and arms.”

“And on your shoulders and back,” the Master adds, pointing with his index finger and smiling when he sees the Doctor turning his head to the side to take a peek at his own shoulder. “They're nice. They suit you.”

The smile that blooms on the Doctor's face sets the spark inside the Master alight.

“Thank you,” the Doctor replies, his voice imbued with softness.

A couple of minutes later, the Doctor is done washing, and the two of them step out of the shower, the Master aided by the Doctor. Perhaps it's because he hasn't moved that much thanks to the Doctor's idea of taking a shower while sitting down, but the Master finds it easier to stand now, not needing to use the sink or the Doctor for support.

The Doctor wraps a big towel around the Master's shoulders, and takes a smaller one to dry his hair, making a mess of it as he rubs the towel wildly on the Master's head. The Master gets a chance to retaliate when the Doctor lets him dry his hair, bursting into a cackle when he sees the Doctor completely dishevelled after his ministrations. The Master convinces him not to put any product in it, letting his hair fall naturally for a change with his wet locks flopping adorably over the Doctor's forehead, giving him an even more boyish look. The Master can't keep his eyes off him while the Doctor dries his body with the big towel, refusing to let the Master bend down to do it himself. In the process, the Doctor tickles the Master a few times, pretending it wasn't done on purpose.

Who would have thought that something as mundane as taking a shower and then drying oneself could become such a pleasant ritual when it's done with someone else. As if sharing one mind, they both realise they wouldn't mind doing this more often, even after the Master doesn't need help anymore. Neither of them voices this desire just yet, but they keep it in mind.

Once they're both sufficiently dry and they have brushed their teeth, the Doctor sticks out his elbow, offering his arm to the Master. The Master clicks his tongue in annoyance, but can't hide how amused he is by the Doctor's gentlemanly gesture. Swallowing his momentary embarrassment, he loops his arm through the Doctor's and they walk the small distance back to the bedroom arm in arm, completely unbothered by their nakedness.

After their very pleasant shower, the Doctor and the Master return to the Master's bedroom followed by a cloud of steam from the warm water, the heat still lingering in their naked bodies as they approach the bed. It's here when the Doctor realises something important he has forgotten, his mind so focused on taking care of the Master that he didn't even think of what he needed himself.

“I forgot my clothes,” the Doctor announces, letting go of the Master's arm.

Before he has a chance to leave the room, the Master stops him.

“Don't leave. We can just lie like this in bed.”

The Doctor looks at him a bit bemused, wondering if this is more of his teasing and if there's a hidden agenda behind that suggestion. He's about to decline, since grabbing a change of clothes wouldn't take him long, but then he sees the Master looking at him with a pleading expression on his face that he can't possibly refuse.

“All right, fine,” he finally accepts, and shakes his head and smiles when the Master doesn't even contain his enthusiasm. “But let me turn up the temperature a little.”

While the Master takes a seat on the bed, the Doctor searches through his coat pockets at the feet of the bed, the only piece of clothing he left in the room. He frowns, burying his hand deeper in the pocket until his whole arm disappears. After a long while of searching, he gives up.

“Where did I put my sonic screwdriver?”

The Master hums in thought, and suddenly, as if a light bulb had turned on above his head, he lets out an ‘oh!’ that startles the Doctor.

“It's in one of the pockets of my sweatpants.”

The crinkles between the Doctor's brows become more pronounced. “Why do you have my sonic screwdriver?” he asks as he bends to pick up the sweatpants he abandoned on the floor the night before. Sure enough, the sonic screwdriver is there.

“I took it from you and used it to momentarily blind those guys in the alleyway, remember?” The memory is coming back to the Master at the same time as it's coming back to the Doctor. “I guess I instinctively put it in my pocket afterwards. I… I didn't mean to do anything else with it, I swear,” he adds a bit nervously, feeling the need to explain his behaviour and reassure him of his intentions, even though it was done accidentally.

“It's okay, I believe you,” the Doctor replies instantly, not doubting the Master for even a second. He might have doubted him yesterday, but not now, curiously. “I had forgotten about that… Well, that answers that question. I couldn't remember how we escaped from that.”

“Yeah, me too…” the Master trails off, realising he had forgotten about it too. The shock of the events really did a number on them both.

The Doctor twiddles with the settings of the sonic screwdriver to connect it to the TARDIS heating system and activates it, raising the temperature of the room a little. He throws the screwdriver on top of his coat and climbs onto the bed, helping the Master to lie down comfortably before he lies down next to him, both facing each other and leaving very little space between them. They are so close to one another that their knees touch.

There is a moment of awkward silence, where they look into each other's eyes with no idea of what to say or what to do, until the Doctor's lips quiver and the Master's follow suit, both of them trying to stifle a laugh but failing, unable to help the laughter that bubbles out of them. It feels a little strange to be like this after everything they have been through. Only a month ago they were at each other's throats, and just yesterday the Master was trying to find another way to escape, and the Doctor thought he would lose him again. Today, they shared a meal, a shower and a few laughs, and now they are lying together in bed, feeling giggly and content and comfortable in each other's company for the first time in a long time. Neither of them is sure of what to make of their new situation, and while the Doctor is hopeful for this development, the Master can't help feeling a familiar pinprick beginning to burn in his chest, the first signs of distrust making their presence known.

Their laughter dies down after a while, and they stay in comfortable silence for a little longer. The Doctor reaches out with a hand and touches the bandage on the Master's abdomen. He peels off one side, and carefully removes the dressing little by little until exposing the wound. After throwing the used bandage aside, he examines the wound and the stitches, feeling relieved to see that the waterproof bandage did its job and kept everything dry. He removes the bandage on his own arm as well, letting their wounds breathe.

Feeling a little daring, he touches the skin around the Master's wound, just a light graze of his fingertips, and gasps when the Master places his hand on top of his and makes him touch the actual wound and press a little harder. The Master clenches his jaw, wrinkles his nose and shows his teeth in a grimace, but doesn't stop pressing, not even when the Doctor tries to pull away.

“Stop it, you'll hurt yourself,” the Doctor pleads, his brow furrowing in a worried look. He is forced to yank his hand away to stop the Master, hissing when he hears him grunt in pain. Luckily, the stitches haven't broken, but the pressure has drawn out a bit of blood, a red drop trailing down the Master's skin.

The Doctor hurriedly grabs some medical cotton he left on the bedside table the day before and cleans the blood.

“Why would you do that?” he exclaims, horrified by the Master's sudden change of behaviour. He can't help but wonder if he did something wrong that triggered this.

“So you’ll have to keep taking care of me. Or are you tired already?” the Master shoots back, and there is something so cold in his tone of voice, his words feeling like hands tightening around the Doctor's throat.

“I’ll always take care of you,” the Doctor replies confidently, thinking that that was always a given ever since he took responsibility for the Master.

“Because I'm your ‘responsibility’?” the Master spits out bitterly as if he had just read the Doctor's mind.

And then it all becomes clear. Why the Master is acting like this. Why the Master was suddenly overcome by doubts and distrust. Why the last few hours feel too good to be real.

“Because I—” Because I love you, the Doctor wants to say, but something stops him from saying it. The words get stuck in his throat, suffocating him, and a stabbing pain settles in his chest like a knife twisting and piercing through his hearts. Tears begin to well up in his eyes. “Because I want to,” he says instead.

The Doctor's hesitation doesn't go unnoticed by the Master. He looks into the Doctor's eyes and knows, with absolute certainty, what the Doctor truly means. It's enough to make the Master tear up as well, tears prickling to the surface and brimming in the rims of his eyes. He cups the Doctor's face in his hands, caressing his cheeks tenderly and catching the first tears with his thumbs, and then, just as delicately, he brings him closer for a kiss.

It's just a gentle press of their lips that lasts only for a few seconds, but it's imbued with years of yearning and unspoken love, of forgiveness and repentance, and the taste of their combined tears. It conveys everything they wished they could say but are too afraid to voice. After breaking the kiss, the Master gathers the Doctor in his arms for a warm embrace, and they tip their foreheads together, their shaky breaths caressing each other's mouths as they sob very quietly.

“I'm sorry, I—” the Master starts, trying to find the right words. He needs the Doctor to understand, but something tells him that he already does. “I-I guess I got a bit scared. You have been so kind and…”

There is so much he wants to say. How undeserving he feels of all of it. How he feared this would only last for as long as he was physically hurt. How his own ego and distrust has prevented him from welcoming the Doctor sooner, from accepting and embracing what the Doctor has been offering him since the beginning; his kindness, his help, his friendship, his trust, his understanding…

His love.

The Doctor nods. “It's okay, I understand,” he whispers, and he means it. He understands the Master's fears because he shares many of them. They both have been hurt in the past, and opening their hearts to something like this is terrifying. The fear of getting hurt again will always loom over them, but the Doctor is determined to give it a try.

The Doctor's arms are wedged between his chest and the Master's, but he has enough room to reach with his hand and gently stroke the Master's chin with his knuckles, drawing a little smile out of the Master.

“I'm happy to have you here with me,” the Doctor adds after a while. It's the closest he can get to those three words that always get stuck in his throat, but the Master seems to infer them nonetheless.

“And I meant what I said yesterday,” the Master replies. “Staying with you is not that bad. It's even fun, now and then.”

That cracks a little laugh out of the Doctor, and the Master joins him, their bodies shaking together along with their laughter. It's nice to be able to laugh again, the tension from a moment ago finally fading away.

Caressing the Doctor's face again, the Master delights in the way the Doctor leans into the touch, pressing his cheek against his palm. With his thumb, he underlines the little cut on the Doctor's cheek, a little comet shooting through constellations of freckles that the Master begins to chart and commit to memory. The brown eyes that stare back at him are kindled with a light of love and devotion that is almost overwhelming, and they give the Master the courage to say something he has been meaning to say for some time now. He couldn't fully believe it before, but now he's convinced of the truthfulness of it.

“Thank you, Doctor. For taking me in and taking care of me. I'm happy to be here,” he says softly, earnestly, and it's as close as he can get to those three words as well.

The relief the Doctor feels at hearing those words is such that new tears of happiness spring up to the surface. Warmth and joy break across the Doctor's face, with a smile as bright as a thousand suns and a new glowing light sparkling in his eyes. The Master has no choice but to kiss him again to stop the spectacle of utter bliss occurring in front of him, lest he becomes blind or more embarrassed than he already is after opening his heart to the Doctor.

The Doctor immediately kisses him back with newfound passion, surprising the Master by capturing his lips between his own and deepening the kiss. The Master follows his lead, soon becoming breathless but doing his best to keep up with the Doctor's pace. He smiles inside the kiss when he opens his mouth a bit more and the Doctor's tongue slips inside, exploring the interior of his mouth with ardent curiosity and letting out a little moan when the Master reciprocates in equal measure, both revelling in savouring each other and feeling the sweet friction of their bodies against one another.

“B-Be careful,” the Doctor manages to say inside the kiss, feeling the Master's whole body pressing against his. He can feel the soft rasp of the Master's stitches on his abdomen, and tries to pull away a little to leave some space. “You… you're still hurt.”

The Master hums and complies reluctantly, staying as close as he can without hurting himself further and intertwining his legs with the Doctor's for some more contact.

Lying naked wasn't a bad idea at all, the Master finds, because he can't get enough of feeling the Doctor's warm skin against his. While one arm is wrapped over the Doctor's shoulders and serving as support for the Doctor's neck, his other hand wanders across the expanse of the Doctor's back, creating abstract patterns over his shoulder blades and drifting to the curve of his side, his waist and hips, raising goosebumps wherever his fingertips touch.

The Doctor is hesitant at first, but it doesn't take him long to begin an exploration of his own, running his hands across the Master's chest and flattening them over his hearts for a moment, feeling the rhythm of four under his palms before moving upwards to trace the Master's collarbones and caress his neck, feeling the vibrations caused by the Master's soft hums during their kisses and finally finding residence cradling the Master's jaw.

After a few minutes of nipping at each other's lips, teeth gently clacking and tongues melding and knowing only the taste of one another, they pull apart just enough to catch their breaths, their passionate kissing and the heated air between them warming their skin already hot and glistening with sweat.

The Doctor smiles and laughs softly, lowering his hands to rest on the Master's shoulders while the Master's hand continues roaming across his body, getting dangerously close to the Doctor's backside before retreating to his front. He closes the distance again and presses gentle kisses on the corner of the Doctor's mouth and chin, and nibbles playfully at his jawline while his hand strokes the Doctor's ribcage and abdomen. Their lips meet again in a succession of tender kisses, and the Master's hand reaches the Doctor's belly, fingers being guided by the little trail of hair that goes down and down until finally, in a rush of anticipation that he can barely contain, the Master grazes the length between the Doctor's legs.

He hasn't even attempted to grasp it yet, when the Doctor instinctively flinches back and away from the touch, lowering his head sheepishly and breaking the kiss. Almost instantly, one of the Doctor's hands reaches down and gently grabs the Master's hand.

The Master looks at him a bit confused by his sudden shyness. “No?” he asks softly, wondering if he misread the situation or if he went a bit too far too fast.

The Doctor wets his lips, the taste of the Master still lingering on them. His hearts have started racing a lot faster now, threatening to leap out of his chest.

“I don't—” he starts, struggling to explain himself. He can't help feeling a little guilty for putting a stop to it, and doesn't want the Master to misinterpret him. “I'm not really into this. I mean—” He sighs, frustrated with himself. It's not a conversation he's had very often, and he is not exactly ready for it at the moment, especially when they're in the midst of enjoying themselves. He squeezes the Master's hand, silently pleading for understanding.

“Into what? Sex?” the Master offers, and relaxes when the Doctor nods. He was already imagining worse things – starting with rejection, despite having no reason to believe the Doctor doesn't like him, especially after everything they have been doing for the last while – but the reason behind the Doctor's reluctance isn't as bad as he was fearing. “That's okay. But you're fine with kissing, right? I mean, we just kissed a lot. Do you want to stop?”

The Master's surprisingly considerate reaction calms the sudden nerves bubbling inside the Doctor. He would be lying if he said he wasn't expecting at least a little bit of shock or even mockery from the Master, and perhaps the Master from months ago would have reacted that way, but the Doctor rejects that thought and focuses on the present, and on how thoughtful the Master is being.

“Yes, kissing is fine,” he says through a little chuckle of joy that bursts out of him. “And we don't have to stop.”

A lopsided smile overtakes the Master's features, satisfied with the Doctor's answer and the granted permission to continue with his ministrations, which he promptly resumes by surging forward and capturing the Doctor's mouth with his own.

Bringing his hand to the Doctor's face, he breaks the kiss to trace the Doctor's lips with his thumb, urging him to part them and let him prod at his canine. He has often wondered if they are as sharp as they look, and now he has the opportunity to confirm with glee that they are, checking them by using his thumb and then his tongue in a new kiss that doesn't last long, because he soon moves on to the Doctor's neck to leave a trail of kisses that bring out more laughter from the Doctor.

He touches the skin with the tip of his tongue, barely a graze that makes the Doctor shiver, and then whispers in his ear, “Is this fine?”

The Doctor only manages to nod enthusiastically before getting overcome by the pleasant sensation of the Master's tongue dragging across the sensitive skin of his neck, followed by wet kisses that send more shivers through the Doctor's body.

“And is this okay?” the Master asks softly, his teeth grazing the Doctor's shoulder and sinking into it when the Doctor nods again. He licks the bite mark and moves on to the next part he wants to explore.

The Master asks the same question every time he reaches a new place in the Doctor's body, asking for permission to kiss, bite, lick and caress every inch of skin he finds, discovering together what the Doctor feels comfortable with without going too far. Most of the answers he receives are affirmative, followed by ‘careful with your bruises’, and ‘don't bend like that, let me get closer to you’ in between hums and gasps of pleasure, and the occasional meeting of their mouths.

Exhausted, and content with his work of covering most of the Doctor's upper body in loving marks, the Master drops carefully next to the Doctor, who's panting softly and sprawled over the bed in a complete daze, reddened all over from the Master's attention as well as his own blushing.

The Master rolls to his side and gets comfortable resting his head on the Doctor's bicep. Lazily, the Doctor wraps his arm around him and turns his head to kiss his forehead.

“Shit,” the Master says under his breath, catching the Doctor's attention.

“What is it?”

“I've been flirting and coming on to you this whole time. Did I ever make you uncomfortable?”

The Doctor exhales through his nose amusedly. “I don't mind your flirting.”

The Master tilts his head upwards to look at him, getting a perfect view of the Doctor's slightly flushed face. “Oh, so you like it.”

“I didn't say that.”

“You didn't deny it either.”

The Doctor chuckles again, his lopsided smirk showing that little dimple on the side of his mouth that the Master is becoming obsessed with.

“You're lucky I'm the one who got badly hurt, or I would be taking advantage of you,” the Master continues, biting back a smile. “I would be having my way with you right now.”

The Doctor snorts. “I don't think you would.” And he's certain of it, if the last half hour (or hours – his perception of time is really slipping from his grasp now) is anything to judge by.

“What makes you so sure of that? I got you naked in bed with me, didn't I? And I had you at my mercy just a moment ago.”

“Hmm.”

“You've really made me soft. Bloody disgusting.”

The Doctor hums again and laughs softly. The Master is not wrong; he has definitely become softer. The Doctor can't imagine being like this with him months ago, when all that was between them was bitterness and resentment. Perhaps sharing the recent traumatic event has drawn them closer somehow. Or perhaps this change has come to be because they both have learnt to be a bit more open, vulnerable and kind with each other. Talking things more openly has definitely played a part in it, and the Doctor is feeling a bit more comfortable about the things he can share with the Master.

“I'm okay with sexual relations, by the way,” the Doctor starts after a little while of comfortable silence. It gets the Master's attention, who tips his head up again to look at him expectantly. “I’ve had them… very occasionally. It's just— it's not something I'm particularly interested in, or something that I actively seek. You caught me a bit by surprise earlier, that's why I stopped you. But I can have sex. I can enjoy it, too.”

While this topic is not something that the Doctor thinks about very often, or something that worries him, he feels that talking about it out loud has lifted a weight off his shoulders, especially knowing that the Master is interested in him in that way as well. Their relationship is rapidly evolving and growing more intimate, so sharing these things sounds like an important step to him.

“Is that an invitation?” is the Master's reply, and it makes the Doctor chuckle again.

Lowering his gaze, the Doctor catches the fond smile on the Master's lips. He really had nothing to fear. “Just letting you know.”

The Master's smile widens. He presses a kiss to the Doctor's chest before replying, “Good to know, then.”

Unable to contain himself much longer, the Doctor turns to his side and flings his arms around the Master in as tight an embrace as he can manage while being mindful of the Master's injuries. The Master immediately hisses and pulls his hips back, not because he's hurt, but to get the erection he had been trying very hard not to think about for the last few minutes away from the Doctor.

Unfortunately, he wasn't quick enough, because the Doctor ducks his head to see what touched his thigh, even though he has a pretty good idea of what it was.

“Just ignore it. It will go away,” the Master says quickly, feeling a wave of warmth rushing to his face and avoiding making eye contact with the Doctor.

“Are you sure you don't want to take care of it? I really don't mind.”

The Master's eyes dart back to the Doctor. There is something soft in the Doctor's gaze, and a glint of something else.

“What, here with you?”

The Doctor shrugs. “I can leave, if that would make you more comfortable.”

“No, no, I don't want you to leave,” the Master replies a bit too quickly for his own liking.

His rapid response prompts a cheeky half-grin from the Doctor. “Okay then, I'll stay.”

And then everything clicks. The Master realises what that glint in the Doctor's eyes signifies and what he's trying to achieve. The Doctor wants him to do this, with him being present and watching.

Well, if the Doctor wants a little show, the Master is more than happy to oblige.

“Are you sure?” he asks, just to make sure he hasn't misread the Doctor's intentions.

“Yes, I'm sure,” the Doctor replies, sounding a bit more commanding now, and that's all the reassurance the Master needs.

Shuffling a little in bed, the Master adjusts his position to get more comfortable while remaining on his side to face the Doctor at all times. He imagines that, with his torso covered in bruises and the wound uncovered, he's not the prettiest sight right now, but the Doctor doesn't seem to mind, given the way he's looking at him. It's not exactly a lascivious gaze, but he's definitely interested and openly curious. The way he is staring at the Doctor, though, is quite different, and not as innocent as it was in the shower.

“Do you mind if I look at you while I do it?” the Master asks, already devouring the Doctor with his eyes.

To his delight, the Doctor also readjusts his position, shifting away from him to give the Master a better view of his whole body whilst lying on his side. He flexes an elbow to prop his head on one hand, while the other rests elegantly in front of him on the bed. His hip is slightly raised, producing a sensual curve on his slim waist, and his legs are positioned in such a way that his crotch is just a bit obscured, making it all the more enticing. In this posture, he looks like he's ready to be painted on a canvas, and the Master feels a rush of pride at being the only one able to see the Doctor like this.

Not wanting to waste any more time, the Master finally reaches down with one of his hands, and feels a shudder shooting through him when he clasps his hardened erection, the sensitive skin immediately reacting to his touch and pulsating against his palm. Gathering the precome with his fingers, he smears it across his length to make it slicker and his strokes more pleasant, starting with a light pumping motion that is a bit faster than he means to, driven by the heat bubbling in his belly, the alluring vision in front of him, and the arousal of being watched while he touches himself.

His eyes wander up and down the Doctor's body, but they always end up lingering on the Doctor's face, marvelled by the way the Doctor stares at him with anticipation and interest, attentive of every small movement and little noise that spills from the Master almost as if he's studying him, his mouth hanging half-open, completely captivated and expectant. As much as he wants to take it slow, the Doctor's unwavering attention only entices the Master to increase the speed of his strokes, and the effort it entails soon makes the pain in his arm flare up, turning his pumping more erratic until he's forced to stop, hissing as he rotates his wrist.

“Are you okay?” the Doctor asks worriedly, sitting up in bed and ready to get closer if necessary.

“Yes, it's just— my arm is still a bit sore.”

“Can't you use the other hand?”

The Master grimaces disappointedly. “It's not the same.”

There is a brief moment of silence, and then the Doctor shifts in bed again and approaches the Master, his knees gently bumping against the Master's as he closes the distance between them. He clasps the Master's bicep, and lets his hand travel down his arm until he reaches the Master's hand, taking it in his own and giving it a little squeeze.

“I’ll do it for you, if you like.”

The Doctor's suggestion stuns the Master, who looks at him as if he just offered to sacrifice his life for him.

“You mean you'll wank me off?”

The Doctor can't help snorting amusedly and shaking his head at his wording. “Yes,” he assures him, caressing the Master's knuckles with his thumb.

He sounds confident about it, and the Master is not about to turn down such a kind offer. The Doctor said he was okay with sex, after all, and a bit of manual stimulation is a good place to start.

“All right. Wait—” Something he had forgotten before comes rushing to his mind. If they're doing this, better do it properly. “I forgot I have some lube in my bedside table.”

The Doctor glances at the bedside table behind him and chuckles. “Right. Give me a moment.”

Rolling over, the Doctor extends his arm and opens the drawer of the bedside table. He has to sit up to take a proper look inside and rummage until he finds two small bottles of different shape and colour.

“Which one?” he asks as he grabs the red one first, turning it over in his hand to inspect it.

“Whichever you like. Oh, that one is flavoured.”

The Doctor's brows shoot up. “Is it?” he wonders out loud, and not waiting for an answer, he removes the lid, squeezes the plastic bottle, and swipes his tongue over the opening to taste the lube that comes out.

“Don't eat it!” the Master shouts, utterly baffled by the Doctor's behaviour. “What are you, a child?”

Ignoring him, the Doctor swirls his tongue inside his mouth, making a whole spectacle of savouring the lube. “Mmm, strawberry,” he announces after some deliberation, and turns his eyes to the Master when he hears him groan. “You shouldn't have told me it's flavoured. Do you want to try it?”

The Master scoffs, perplexed by the whole situation. “Do I want to try it? Of course I don't want to try it!”

The Doctor shrugs and brings the bottle to his mouth again, pressing a little too hard and getting some lube on his lower lip, which he promptly licks unaware of the look of bewilderment the Master is giving him.

“Mm, are you sure you don't want to try it? It's tasty.”

While the Master's first reaction is one of disgust, if he's completely honest, watching the Doctor licking his lips and dragging his tongue across the round opening of the bottle is doing something for him. He feels his own mouth watering, and gets the urge to have it occupied as soon as possible.

“Fine. I'll taste it on you, then.”

The Doctor's face lights up, and he bends down to bring their mouths together. The Master's tongue meets the Doctor's and he is astonished by how rapidly he can sense the strawberry taste being passed over to him. The interior of the Doctor's mouth is so sweet that the Master instinctively deepens the kiss to chase the taste, devouring the Doctor's lips and tongue with an eagerness that makes the Doctor moan in surprise before he can react and reciprocate with the same enthusiasm. They end up kissing for a while longer than anticipated, their mingled moans drowning inside each other's mouths until the strawberry taste has almost completely faded away, getting replaced by the taste of one another.

When they finally break the kiss, their faces are flushed and their lips swollen and gleaming with their combined spit, a thin string of saliva still connecting their mouths while short, hot breaths come out of them.

“Yep, strawberry,” the Master speaks first with a croak, and the Doctor roars with laughter. To the Master, that's the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.

Their mirth is so contagious that they spend a good minute laughing together, and the Doctor is still visibly giddy when he regains enough composure to speak again. “So is this one okay?” he says jiggling the lube bottle in his hand.

“Sure. It's just for masturbation, so any would do. Although, it's a bit of a waste.”

“Why?”

One side of the Master's mouth ticks up in a half-smirk. “Well, you're not going to put my dick in your mouth, are you?”

Instinctively, the Doctor lowers his gaze and glances at the Master's erection still hardened and standing tall between the Master's legs. He swallows and looks back at the Master with an intense earnestness.

“Do you want me to?”

From the moment that question leaves the Doctor's mouth, a barrage of images and thoughts go through the Master's mind. The Doctor's lips around his length, his tongue presses flat against his hardness, his hesitation, his (most likely) inexperience. Would the Doctor choke a little, trying to take more than he can handle in his desire to satisfy him? Would the Doctor stare at him the whole time while his erection disappears inside his mouth, or would he feel shy and avoid eye contact? Would the Doctor let him force him a bit, test the limits of his gag reflex? The Master can feel the tingle of his own desire coiling tightly in his lower abdomen. He knows the Doctor would probably agree to most (if not all) of it if he asked, but as tempting as it is, deep down, the Master can't bring himself to put him in that situation. At least not yet.

“Nah, it's fine,” he replies as the fantasies in his mind begin to evaporate. “You really don't have to do any of this.”

The Doctor would have agreed to it, no question about it, even though he doesn't feel completely up for the task just yet, but there is a sense of relief soaring through him upon hearing the Master's reply. He still wants to do this for him, though, and he's determined to follow through.

“I want to help. Let me help.”

Once again, the Doctor is being so earnest about it that the Master can't help but roll his eyes in feigned irritation. “You're so annoying. You do know that, right?”

“You always make sure I do,” the Doctor replies with a smile showing all his teeth.

He unlids the plastic bottle and pours some lube into his palm, smearing it with his fingers until his hand is sufficiently slick and the lube has warmed a little. He lies down close to the Master again, facing him and looking down briefly to take hold of the Master's erection, clasping it gently. The Master's belly tenses involuntarily at the touch, and when the Doctor lifts his gaze, he catches the Master closing his eyes for a moment in an anticipatory flash of pleasure.

“How do you normally do it?” the Doctor asks quietly, afraid to break the spell they have just fallen under. He moves even closer still until his nose brushes slightly against the Master's.

“Do you masturbate?” the Master asks back just as softly.

“Not often.”

“But you do.”

A little wheezy laugh escapes from the Doctor's throat. He finds the Master's curiosity quite endearing. “Very rarely,” he begins. “It's a quick and easy source of dopamine, so it helps sometimes. Especially when I'm travelling alone.”

Of course the Doctor has a scientific response to the question, but the last bit and what it implies doesn't escape the Master's attention. He's well aware of the Doctor's loneliness by now. “Then touch me like you usually touch yourself,” he whispers, his lips grazing the Doctor's with a feather-light touch.

The Doctor nods, and begins stroking the Master's length slowly, tentatively. Despite not being something he does often, the movements come naturally to him. He knows what feels pleasant to him, and wonders if it will feel the same for the Master. Judging by the way the Master's breath flutters, and how he can feel the Master's pulse accelerating in the palm of his hand, he must be doing it correctly. Feeling a little daring, he sweeps his thumb gently over the head of the erection and then squeezes it lightly with his fingers, drawing out a bit more precome and delighting in the Master's reaction, in how his whole body thrums at the sensation as a little broken moan spills from his mouth.

The Master can't decide if he wants to stare at the Doctor's face – who's looking at him as if the Master is the most precious and fascinating creature in all of time and space – or stare down and watch the Doctor's long, slim fingers curling around the most intimate part of his body, caressing him delicately but purposefully. The Doctor has beautiful hands, and the Master has been paying more attention to them lately, observing them as the Doctor carefully tended to his wounds, as he washed his body tenderly, and now as he touches him lovingly. The Master makes a mental note of kissing them when he gets a chance.

“Is this okay?” the Doctor asks after a while of silence where the only sounds filling the room were the Master's pleasing hums.

“Y-Yes, you're doing fine,” the Master replies, almost breathless.

He can feel the arousal bubbling in his belly, its tingling sensation rushing through his body every time the Doctor increases the speed of the pumping of his hand or squeezes the tip of his length playfully. He knows he will finish soon at this rate, and finds himself craving more before that inevitable end.

“Doctor…” he starts, his voice low and rough. “D-Doctor, touch yourself too.”

The Doctor's brows twitch, and his teeth worry at his lower lip. “It's okay. I—I don't need to.”

“I think you do.”

Lowering his gaze, the Doctor notices his own half-hardened erection, and his breath catches in his throat. Being this close to the Master, touching him and feeling his warmth against him have understandably produced a reaction on him as well. His hand stops, and he shifts a little in bed, whimpering when his length brushes the Master's thigh.

The Master caresses the back of the Doctor's hand with his palm and nudges his forehead with his nose to bring his attention back to him. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” the Doctor replies immediately, surprising himself. His answer would have been different long ago, but he has no doubts now. He would trust the Master with his life.

Content with his answer, the Master grabs the Doctor's hand and rubs it gently and repeatedly to slick his own with the lube. Then, lacing their fingers together, he reaches down and grasps both their erections tightly in their hands. The Doctor gasps and his body trembles at the sensation, his other hand reaching for the Master's shoulder instinctively.

“Ready?” the Master asks, tipping their foreheads together. When the Doctor nods, he continues, “What is that ridiculous thing you say? Allons-y?”

It cracks a chuckle out of the Doctor, breaking the tension completely and calming their nerves. The Doctor nods again, and the Master proceeds to start their mutual stroking, moving the Doctor's hand along with his in a pumping motion that starts slow and gentle so as not to overwhelm the Doctor. He mimics what the Doctor did before, this time squeezing the tips of both their erections together, and the two of them moan at unison, the air between them so heated that it adds condensation to their already sweaty skin.

They fall into a pleasant rhythm, the Master yielding control to the Doctor to set the pace and letting his hand be led by him for a while, revelling in the Doctor's increasing urgency before he has to take control again when the Doctor's movements become more erratic and uneven.

“I-I’m not going to last,” the Doctor warns with a shaky voice, each pump tightening the coil in his belly that threatens to break at any second.

The Master smiles and brushes the Doctor's nose with his own. “That's okay,” he reassures softly against the Doctor's lips before pressing a quick peck to them.

The Doctor kisses him back, drowning the crescendo of his moans inside the Master's mouth, their tongues melding lazily as their mouths grow slack and their kisses clumsy. The Master can feel the Doctor's body trembling against his and the Doctor's pulsating arousal in his hand. The room is filled with the sounds of their lips clicking, their soft panting and the slick sound of their hands working to bring each other to their climax. The Master can't help but relish the way the Doctor arches his back and rocks his hips slightly, seeking more contact and chasing his release.

When the Doctor breaks the kiss and buries his face into the Master's shoulder, the Master knows they have reached the end. He quickens the rhythm of their hands and the Doctor tenses, then snaps as his orgasm swells through him and rushes to the surface, shaking his whole body as a loud moan is drowned against the Master's skin. The Master holds the Doctor's head with his other hand, kneading the back of his neck and anchoring him as the Doctor rides the crest of his climax.

After a long moment submerged in his daze of pleasure, the Doctor returns to reality and, surprising the Master, resumes the stroking, shuddering at the overstimulation but not giving any signs of stopping.

“Doctor?” The Master ducks his head trying to check on the Doctor, and when the Doctor raises his head to look at him, the Master's breath hitches. The Doctor's eyes are darker than he had ever seen them and brimming with tears of pleasure; there is a flush spreading from his neck to his cheeks and reaching all the way to his ears, painting his face in a lovely shade of crimson not dissimilar to the cut on his cheek; his hair is completely dishevelled with locks plastered to his damp forehead, and his lips are reddened and glistening under the warm light of the room. It's a breathtaking sight, and the Master drinks it in, feeling his own release approaching as the Doctor speeds up the movement of their hands.

It only takes a few more strokes for the Master to come, his whole body squirming as it's overcome with the tiny spasms of his electrifying release, the torrent of pleasure washing over him and blurring his vision momentarily, although he doesn't take his eyes off the Doctor.

Pressing their foreheads together, they both take a moment to descend from their climax together, their heaving breaths caressing each other's face and the synchrony of their heartbeats enveloping them both in a symphony of their own. The Master, still with his hand cradling the Doctor's head, strokes the Doctor's nape soothingly, as the two of them finally release the grip on their softening lengths, drawing out a small final whimper out of the Doctor.

“Are you okay?” The Master is the first to speak, his voice hoarse.

The Doctor nods, a small satisfied smile curling one side of his mouth. “Y-Yes. Sorry, it's been… it's been a while.” He can't even remember when was the last time he did something like this, especially with someone else.

The Master chuckles. “Don't worry about it. Did you enjoy it?”

The Doctor's smile grows. “Yes, it was very nice,” he replies sincerely. “Did you? Enjoy it, I mean.”

“I most certainly did.” The Master licks his lips and grins. The Doctor might not be very experienced, but what he lacks in experience, he more than makes up for in enthusiasm. He genuinely enjoyed it.

The Master cards his fingers through the Doctor's mussed and slightly wet hair once more, sweeping some stray locks off his forehead. The Doctor is having a hard time keeping his eyes open, his gaze slightly unfocused under half-lidded eyes.

“We were supposed to go to sleep,” the Master mutters, feeling tired himself. He smiles, catching the Doctor trying to stifle a yawn and failing. “I'm sure you'll sleep like a baby after this.”

“Mmm. I should clean up first, though.”

That little detail had escaped the Master's mind, and when he lowers his gaze, his eyes widen at what he finds. Somehow, in the midst of his climax and afterwards, the Doctor had the foresight to aim at himself so that their combined seed landed on his own abdomen, avoiding any of it from falling on the Master's bruises and – more importantly – his uncovered wound. The result of that action is an image the Master won't forget in a hurry.

“You're right, but it's such a pity. This is a nice look on you.”

The Doctor follows the Master's gaze downwards and snorts through his nose. “Yeah, yeah. Stay here, I won't be long.”

The Doctor keeps his promise, and it only takes him a couple of minutes to go to the bathroom to clean himself and return to the bedroom, holding in one arm the clothes he had left in the bathroom to put them in the armchair instead, and a small wet towel in his other hand. He climbs onto the bed and nudges the Master to lie on his back, and without saying a word, he begins cleaning the Master's hand first and then his crotch very gently with the wet towel, wiping any excess of lube and removing the stickiness. The Master can't help hissing a little at the feeling of the towel rubbing against the sensitive skin despite how delicate the Doctor is being.

“Not so shy now, are you?”

“Shut it,” the Doctor warns him, giving him a look, but there is no real heat behind it.

After finishing, the Doctor throws the towel aside to deal with it later and grabs the packet of bandages and the antibiotic ointment from the bedside table, proceeding to tend to the wound on the Master's abdomen and covering it again. He applies some ointment on his own forearm as well, and allows the Master to do his cheek for him and bandage his arm.

Once they're both ready and their wounds treated, the Doctor grabs the blanket to cover both of them and settles in bed again, as close to the Master as he can, and gathers the Master in his arms so that he can burrow comfortably against his chest. This time, the Doctor is the one to thread his fingers through the Master's hair, caressing his scalp and bringing out soft hums from the Master.

“Promise me you’ll sleep tonight?” the Master murmurs sleepily against the Doctor's chest.

The Doctor is more than happy to oblige. He doesn't think he could stay up another night anyway, but now that the Master seems to feel a lot better, he's sure sleep would come easier to him. “I promise,” he replies. “But before I do…”

Moving his hand, the Doctor places his fingers on the Master's temple and his thumb on the Master's cheekbone. He closes his eyes and concentrates for a few seconds, using the little energy he has left to search and find what he's looking for.

A little gasp escapes from the Master's mouth, and once the Doctor finishes and lets go of him, he lifts his head to stare at the Doctor, realisation dawning on him. “You… you did that last night, didn't you? I felt it,” he begins, emotion creeping into his voice. The ever-present drumming inside his head is now a faint background noise, like sounds coming from a distant room. He remembers feeling this same calmness the night before. “I wasn't sure of what it was, but it was you.”

“It's just a temporary fix, I'm afraid, but it seemed to help you last night,” the Doctor explains. “It should last for a few hours at least. It's all I can do until I find a better solution, but I'm not giving up. Does it feel any better?”

The Master can feel his eyes welling up with tears. The only reason he hasn't been overwhelmed by the noise lately is because he has been distracted by the Doctor, his senses so focused on him that it turned the never-ending drums into a bearable annoyance that he could push to the back of his mind. The Master couldn't even conceive the idea of subduing that drumming even further, and there is a sting of fear at the prospect of living without that noise that has defined him for so long. What would he be without that noise? Perhaps he could fill that void with something else – or rather with someone else. He looks into the eyes of the person who has helped him in more ways than he could have ever imagined, and decides that it's worth a try.

“Much better. Thank you,” the Master replies wholeheartedly, warmth and calmness washing over him as he burrows deeper into the Doctor's embrace. “Good night, Doctor.”

The Doctor kisses the Master's head and tightens his arms around him, listening to the quiet breathing and pulse of the Master, a harmonious duet of heartbeats matching his own that numbs the drumming he now carries within himself as long as he stays close – a small sacrifice he is more than willing to bear. “Good night, Master,” the Doctor whispers back, and finally falls asleep.

When the Doctor wakes up after a long and restful night, the first thing he notices is that his head is not resting on the pillow anymore, but on a slightly harder and decidedly warmer surface. Half-opening his eyes, he distinguishes skin, a smattering of barely discernible body hair and… a nipple. He soon comes to the realisation that he's sleeping on the Master's chest, and his first instinct is to move away, worried that he's making the Master uncomfortable – or worse yet, hurting him by resting half of his weight on his tender and still injured torso. He reconsiders this when he feels the Master's arm swathed comfortably around his back, keeping him in place. Raising his gaze, he sees the Master with his neck and head resting on the pillow which at some point he put upright and against the headboard of the bed. Half of his face is obscured behind a book – the same book the Doctor had been reading the night before and which he had forgotten on the bedside table. It takes the Master a while to turn the page, the Doctor notices.

“You're reading slowly,” is the first thing the Doctor says. Not good morning, or expressing surprise at waking up not just next to the Master, but on top of him. It's curious how natural it feels to be like this. The Doctor allows himself to bathe in the intimacy and comfort of it.

“I still don't see the appeal of it,” the Master replies. He takes a moment to finish a paragraph before he continues. “Besides, I already know who did it.”

The Doctor can't help the little chuckle that bursts out of him. “Of course you do. Did you sleep well?”

The Master moves the book out of the way to look at the Doctor as he replies, “I did. I reckon you did too?” Just looking at the Doctor he already knows the answer. The bags under the Doctor's eyes are practically gone, his hair is an absolute mess after hours spent in bed, and there is a remnant of drool in the corner of his mouth; all signs of a good night sleep, although they both fell asleep even before the sun had settled, as a manner of speaking. Not that they are near any sun at the moment, with the TARDIS floating in an undetermined point in space.

“Like a baby. You were right.” The Doctor nuzzles up gently against the Master's frame, coiling and rubbing one leg between the Master's and realising a little bit too late that they're both still naked under the blanket. When he looks up again, he finds the Master staring back at him with a devilish little smile adorning his features. “We should get dressed,” the Doctor comments, surreptitiously moving his thigh away from the Master's crotch.

Still smiling, the Master looks away and raises his arm to return to his book again. “If you think it necessary,” he says nonchalantly, but the Doctor can still perceive a hint of teasing in his voice.

As pleasant as it has turned out to be to spend a couple of days in the bedroom with the Master (all the stress of the situation that brought them here aside) and despite how well he has slept (probably the best sleep he's had in a long time) the Doctor can't help but feel a bit restless. The only time he left the TARDIS in the last 48 hours, give or take, was during his quick trip to grab some food, and he can already feel the hunger for both sustenance and adventure settling in his belly.

Careful not to disturb the Master too much, the Doctor jumps out of bed and approaches the armchair where he left his clothes the day before. Rummaging through them, he clicks his tongue. “I forgot to bring a change of underwear,” he mutters to himself, but the Master hears him.

“You can borrow one of my pants. I don't mind,” the Master offers. Glancing at the Doctor, he smiles when he observes him opening a drawer to grab two pairs of pants without further question, then decides to abandon his book entirely and watch the Doctor parading naked around his room instead.

While a naked Doctor is certainly enjoyable, there is something mesmerising about watching him get dressed, observing every layer fall into place, every bit of skin and the reddened marks he himself drew on the Doctor's body disappearing under the fabric. The Doctor's brown suit is a bit crumpled and ill-fitting, full of wrinkles and creases. The Master often wondered why the Doctor wouldn't get a nicer suit for himself, but now, really looking at him, he realises that that too tight and crinkled suit fits the Doctor and his personality perfectly. The Master wouldn't want to change that about him.

“So! I was thinking,” the Doctor begins as he tucks his dozen shirts inside his suit trousers. He approaches the Master and helps him get out of bed as he continues, “We have been confined to this room for a couple of days now. Not that it wasn't nice! I had a great time. I hope you did too, despite, you know…” He gestures at the Master's torso. The Master makes an attempt to reply, but is stopped by the Doctor carrying on with his energetic train of thought at the same time he begins dressing the Master, starting with the extra pair of pants he grabbed. Neither of them is fazed by the intimacy of it, and the Master even allows the Doctor to tuck his length inside the pants.

“...and we haven't eaten much either. And I don't know about you, but I'm feeling a bit hungry,” the Doctor continues and the Master opens his mouth and closes it again, resigned to having to wait for the Doctor to finish. While he talks, he opens the dresser and waits for the Master to point to the clothes he wants to wear, then grabs them for him. “So I was thinking – if you're feeling better, of course – I was thinking we could go out! Find a nice and quiet planet. One without too much excitement or danger. I don't want you running around while you're still injured.”

“No running? That sounds impossible with you involved,” the Master manages to interject while he adjusts the jeans the Doctor just helped him slip into, but the comment goes unnoticed by the Doctor.

“Get some fresh air… We could even have a picnic! Oh, I love picnics. And nibbles! If we're having a picnic, we need to bring lots of nibbles. What do you think?”

A good night rest and the end of animosity between them have evidently returned the energy and cheery disposition to the Doctor. The Master often found this attitude of his a bit tiresome, but now he realises he doesn't mind it too much. He's even growing to like it.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” the Master asks with a cheeky smile on his lips that becomes visible when his head pops out of the opening of the sweatshirt.

The question stops the Doctor in his tracks as the realisation hits him. There is the faintest blush emerging from the Doctor's neck and spreading to his cheeks.

“I didn't— I didn't really think of that. But I suppose that's one way of putting it, yes.”

There is a feeling of trepidation burrowing into the Doctor's chest. He was so caught up in his own excitement and the recently established familiarity that he had forgotten how new this is for the two of them. Something has undoubtedly changed between them, and it's not really because of what happened the day before just before they fell asleep. If the Doctor had to pinpoint the exact moment the shift in their relationship occurred, he would probably choose the moment when the Master changed his mind and allowed him to save his life when he was bleeding out in bed; or the moment when the Master looked for him and comforted him in the bathroom. He can think of many other moments that have occurred not only in the last few days, but during the days and weeks before that, and comes to the conclusion that the shift has actually happened gradually, as a combination and culmination of all the little moments they have shared over the time they have travelled together, and even before they had found each other again. Perhaps they were always destined for this, and recent events have only sped it up.

“Would that be okay? If it's a date?” the Doctor asks, hopeful but also worried that he somehow got it all wrong.

The Master's cheeky smirk softens into a fond smile. “Yes, it would be okay. And a picnic sounds good.”

And just like that, the Doctor's racing hearts calm down, and all doubts and worries leave his mind.

Closing the distance between them, the Master cups the Doctor's face in his hands and brings their mouths together in a tender kiss, then chuckles when he sees the Doctor's adorably stunned face afterwards. This regeneration of the Doctor feels and looks so young, but his eyes are old, and the little wrinkles that frame them are a reflection of thousands of smiles and laughs. The Master decides he wants to bring a few more happy lines to the Doctor's face.

They redress their wounds and finish dressing, the Master doing the Doctor's tie for him and the Doctor aiding the Master with his shoes. On their way to the TARDIS control room, the Doctor holds the Master's hand, and the Master takes the opportunity to press a kiss to his knuckles. He doesn't need help to walk anymore, but he allows the Doctor to help him sit on the jumpseat. Once he's settled, the Doctor begins his routine of running around the TARDIS control console, pressing buttons, turning cranks and even hitting some instruments with a hammer while the Master watches him in awe and slight embarrassment at his wild way of driving the TARDIS.

“Actually, I’ll let you choose this time,” the Doctor announces, coming into view by circling the console again. His fingers tingle with the anticipation of flying again, and he wants to share some of that excitement with the Master. “Where do you want to go?”

It's the first time the Doctor has ever asked him this question, and it's another indicative of how much their relationship has changed, and how much trust there is between them now. Not long ago, the Master would have a long list of places he wanted to visit, places he could use to his advantage. Now, he can only think of one answer.

“Wherever you want to take me.”

With a bright smile and the pull of a lever, the Doctor initiates the flight. He has everything he needs: his TARDIS, a whole universe to explore, and a person he loves to explore it with.