Silencing the Drums

IN WHICH THE MASTER MAKES A MOVE, AND THE DOCTOR MAKES A RESOLUTION

The butcher at the 24-hour market – a startlingly large, maze-like bargain grocery called, appropriately, ‘Trade Fair’ – was not overly surprised at the late-night request for the forequarters of a lamb. Indeed, they were not the only shoppers in for strange midnight munchies. Compared to the man pushing a cartful of instant coffee packets and cat food down the narrow aisles, Jack and the Doctor were nearly normal. The butcher wrapped their purchase with nary a question and even tied little plastic handles to it, explaining with a genial smile that the front half of a lamb is a rather heavy thing. He advised them to cook it low and slow, and bid them a pleasant evening as they left.

“And you wonder why I hide things here,” Jack remarked as they left the market, hauling their purchase between them. “These people wouldn’t notice alien tech if it slapped them in the face.”

They reached the TARDIS without incident, and once inside with the doors locked the Doctor instructed Jack to once again remain behind in the control room. He explained that someone would need to man the controls, but Jack knew better. Whatever was about to happen to the half-a-lamb, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

The Doctor hauled the meat down towards the Master’s prison, and halfway there he picked up the sound of banging, loud, insistent, constant - no shouting, no splintering wood or breaking metal, just the heavy thump of a fist. He hurried his pace, the slaughtered animal bouncing wetly against his hip, its brown paper wrapping coming undone. Blood and grease made his burden slippery and hard to hold.

The pounding reverberated down the Master’s hallway, accompanied now by the faint rattle of the cabinet as it jostled against the shaking door. The Doctor dropped his package and thrust the cabinet aside, then thumped his fist against the door in return, and was relieved when the noise stopped for a moment.

“I’ve brought you your dinner,” he said, taking a cautious step back. “Just what you requested. I want you to stand back now, so I can open this door.”

He heard his captive take a few sliding, shuffling steps, accompanied by a low, inhuman growl. Unnerved, he picked the meat back up and unlocked the door.

Before he could touch the handle, the door flew open, knocking him backwards. The Master lunged, tearing the package of meat from him and hauling it back into his room, teeth bared like an animal’s. His eyes were wide, sharp and savage, and he snarled again, the sound and insanity of it sending a shock of instinctive terror through the Doctor’s hearts. He leaped to his feet and lurched forward to slam the door shut, but found himself transfixed, fascinated and horrified all at once.

The Master had dragged the carcass to an empty corner of the room and crouched over it, fingers buried in its ribcage, tearing chunks of raw flesh from bone. His face was already smeared with blood and gobbets of fat. He ate like a wild beast, sucking every morsel from the bones, thrusting his tongue inside to lap out the rich, red marrow. Though the Doctor stood in the open doorway, he hardly acknowledged him, save to crouch over his meal and growl as if warning a competitor off of his kill.

In ten minutes it was over. The Master licked his fingers and nipped a few last shreds of flesh from the long bones, the mania draining from him as he found his hunger satiated. Stomach full, bones picked clean, he turned a clear gaze on the Doctor and smiled.

“Just what I was in the mood for. Thank you, Doctor. Oh, but what a selfish pig I am – I haven’t left you a scrap.”

The Doctor’s hearts turned to ice. He’d just watched this man skeletonize half a sheep, and was now being drawn into what sounded like a perfectly sane, reasonable conversation. Everything about this was wrong – the Master’s very existence was wrong. The rapid cellular decay that had plagued him at his last resurrection seemed to have gone, but the madness remained, made infinitely worse by the perdition of Gallifrey’s burning.

“You might have saved some for later,” he said, struggling to stay calm. “That was expensive. I don’t really have the facilities to keep you stocked up with sheep carcasses, either.”

“You left me starving,” the Master replied, rising to his feet and slinking forward. Blood streaked his bare chest and thighs, dribbling slowly down towards his ankles. “Starving and naked, collared like a dog, and you’re complaining about the price of mutton. Seems you’re having trouble with your priorities.”

The Doctor took an involuntary step backwards, his hand on the doorframe. “Well, you’ll forgive me for seeming rude – I’m just having a little trouble with how you even came to be here. Most of my visitors come with their own clothing, anyway.”

The Master was quick, energized by his meal, and grabbed the Doctor by his shirt collar before he could duck out of the way. Using the Doctor’s own struggles to escape, he thrust him out into the hall and against the far wall, pressing his gore-smeared body up against him and pinning him there. Emaciated though he was, he had steel in him, and the Doctor found himself hard-pressed to escape him.

“This is not how you treat guests,” the Master said, his voice soft and soothing. “I know about your delightful little companions. You don’t lock them away. Why, I’m almost… insulted.” He straightened the Doctor’s bowtie and shirt collar, though he still held him wedged between the wall and his hips. “If this is going to work out, we must trust each other, don’t you agree? You’re going to help me with the drums, and I’m going to try very hard not to kill you.”

The Doctor couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so conflicted. Loathing mingled with traitorous shivers of longing, and he hated this new body for being unable to break the bond that lay between him and his life-long enemy.

“There will be ground rules,” he managed, squashing the slight tremor in his voice. “And we’re going to need to work on personal space. Boundaries. That sort of thing.”

“It’s always boundaries with you.” To his surprise, the Master let him go, sliding away from him and taking a step back towards the room. “I know about the Atraxian lead. You’d better go and get it. I need a shower and a change of clothes – and you still haven’t brought me that prison blanket.”

The Doctor cleared his throat and brushed his hands down his shirt, now ruffled and covered in filth. “Right. If you could just step back in the, ah… the, room. Yes, you’re room. I’ll come and get you shortly.”

The Master obliged, eyes fixed on the Doctor as he stepped back into his prison, a knowing smirk lingering on his blood-caked lips. “I’ll be waiting here with breathless anticipation.”

The Doctor locked him in, then fell back against the wall again with a shudder, pressing a hand to his hearts.

~*~

Jack didn’t bother asking about the bloodstains. He gave the Doctor a look that said exactly what he was thinking and a great deal more, to which the Doctor responded with a flustered cough and a distracted request for the lead. He was grateful for Jack’s silence, but shuddered to think of the conclusions he was probably leaping to. There was nothing else for it – even he wasn’t sure what’d just happened, and felt that trying to explain might make things worse.

He took a moment to clean himself up and throw on a fresh shirt, regarding himself for a moment in the full-length mirror in the wardrobe room. He’d never been one to worry over his regenerations, but for the first time in a long time he found himself wondering how others saw him. Was he a handsome man? He liked to think so, but he was never quite sure. It was not something that concerned him, generally. This body seemed a little more solid, more compact than his previous shell, and he pressed fingers to his chest and sides experimentally, feeling the muscles move beneath his skin. This was young flesh by human standards (and this was how he measured – his people had gone, so why shouldn’t he?), smooth and unblemished, marked only occasionally by fresh scars.

What would the Master see, if he were to look upon this new body?

The Doctor felt a flush of embarrassment and shame creep up his neck, and he threw his shirt on and turned away from the mirror. How could he even consider the Master after all he’d done? There was no logic in his continued obsession with him. And obsession it was, there was no escaping that – he’d felt such a rush at the smallest touch of his flesh, even as the Master held his life in his hands. It was the same every time, inexplicable and inescapable, and Jack was right in part – he had rescued the Master because of this. When he could have done away with him once and for all, he’d given him mercy.

But then again…

Was he not in control this time? The Master was his captive for once, and despite everything the Doctor felt confidant that he could overpower him if need be. He held him collared and, shortly, leashed. The thought sent a thrill of secret delight through him, and he felt a smile come unbidden to his lips. He felt giddy as a schoolboy as he realized that this time, for once in his life, the Master was under his power.

In that moment, inspired by a single moment of introspection, the Doctor resolved never again to find himself beneath the Master. He was clever, stronger, and the Lord of Dreams had reminded him that he could be cruel as well. The Master owed him his life, and the Doctor would not let him forget it.

Kindness still came before the lash. Feral dogs might be broken without a single harsh word or blow, and it was so with the Master as well. As the Doctor descended once more to the Master’s prison, he found himself whistling, almost jovial.

He found he was quite looking forward to taming the wild beast in his spare room.