Archive of Our Own

The TARDIS had gone quiet.

Not broken. Not sulking. Just… asleep.

The kind of deep, humming stasis only a sentient ship with feelings could manage, as if she’d drawn in a long sigh and let herself rest between the stars. No console beeping, no time rotor groaning, no dramatic whoosh of dimensional brakes. Just quiet.

And for once, they weren’t being chased, or saving a planet, or arguing in the middle of a war zone.

So naturally, the Doctor was tinkering. And the Master was talking. Loudly. Endlessly. With zero signs of stopping.

“—I’m just saying, you let her sleep too often and one day she’ll refuse to wake up. That’s how you get sentient ships growing moss. It always starts with one little nap, and next thing you know, there’s ivy crawling through the databanks and she’s renamed herself something ridiculous like Mabel. ”

The Doctor, crouched under the console, goggles pushed halfway up, didn’t look up.
“I think she likes the quiet, once in a while.”

“Of course she likes the quiet. She has to deal with us. One of us plays spoons at three in the morning and the other one thinks ‘foreboding laughter’ is an appropriate soundtrack to breakfast.”

The Doctor poked a wire, and the console sparked lazily — a soft, sleepy blink of light.     

“Oh, now that was rude. She liked the spoons.”

“She tolerated the spoons,” the Master said, crossing the room with a mug in hand. He set it down beside the Doctor’s tools. “You, however, seem entirely unable to tolerate me, despite inviting me to stay.”

The Doctor peeked out from beneath the console, peering up with an infuriating grin.

 “I tolerate you so well that I haven’t thrown you into a supernova yet.”

“High praise,” the Master drawled, and dropped into the chair beside the controls, legs slung over the arm, cup in hand and a smug expression on his face.

The Doctor adjusted a dial and sparks fizzled again, harmless and warm.

The TARDIS hummed. Just a little. Like she was dreaming. Or listening. Or both.

“She’s going to wake up and decide we’re furniture,” the Master said, pacing in slow loops around the console like a lion in a very tastefully decorated cage. “I’m telling you — one more day of this and she’ll start redecorating without asking. She’s already moved my jacket. Again. ”

The Doctor, sprawled beneath the console with one shoe kicked off and his goggles skewed, didn’t respond. He was humming something — tuneless, faintly off-key, but content.

“I had a system ,” the Master continued, as if the silence were encouragement. “Chaos, yes, but mine. And she keeps… tidying. That’s emotional manipulation.”

Still no answer.

The Master crouched beside the Doctor’s scattered tools and reached for a wire that was twitching like a lazy snake.

“Don’t touch that,” the Doctor warned from under the console. “It bites.”

“You say that like i don’t bite.”

There was a zzzzt and a spark. The Master yelped, pulling his hand away, and the Doctor laughed — one of those annoying, open-mouthed ones that filled the room and the Master’s ribcage in equal measure.

He crouched lower, eyes crinkling, and gently pulled the Master’s hand into his own.

“You never learn, do you?” the Doctor said, examining the tiny scorch mark on his fingertips. “That wire is basically a cat with abandonment issues.”

The Master tilted his head. “That’s… disturbingly specific.”

“Bit like you.”

The Master smirked. “And yet you still keep me around.”

The Doctor didn’t let go of his hand.

Instead, he pressed his thumb to the singed skin, then carefully brought the fingers to his lips and kissed the knuckle. Light, brief. More ritual than remedy.

The Master went still.

Not frozen, not startled —just watching him, eyes narrowing with something he’d never admit aloud. The Doctor didn’t look up. Just turned the hand over once more, made sure there was no real damage, then let it drop like it had never happened at all.

“You’re infuriating,” the Master said, voice quieter now.

“You’re here,” the Doctor replied.

The TARDIS gave a slow, low, sleepy hum.

“She likes you here,” the Doctor murmured, not looking up this time.

The Master blinked. “She likes me? ”

Then, with a grin that couldn’t hide its curl of vulnerability—“She has terrible taste. Must’ve caught it from you.”

The Doctor chuckled. “Mm. Must’ve.”

Silence settled again. A good one. Companionable. Like tea steam on a cold day.

The Master sipped from his mug. The Doctor reached blindly for a spanner, found it offered to him, the Master handing it over without looking, like muscle memory.
They didn’t speak again for a full five minutes.

Then the Master leaned against the side of the console, close enough for their shoulders to touch, just barely, when the Doctor shifted.

“I might make lunch later,” the Master said, like it was a warning.
“Don’t get your hopes up. It’s going to be terrible. ”

The Doctor grinned without looking up.

“I’ll eat it anyway.”

“You’re a masochist.”

“You’re making me food.”

“…Yes, well. I suppose even I have lapses in judgment.”

The Doctor lasted a full twelve minutes after that.

Twelve glorious, peaceful, infuriating minutes of pretending he actually wanted to be beneath the console, pretending the silence wasn’t creeping under his coat and curling behind his ribs.

He dropped the spanner with a dull clunk .

The Master looked up from where he was reclined on the jump seat, flipping through a tattered graphic novel he'd found in a pocket universe and declared "shockingly mediocre."

“Abandoning your post?” he said lazily.

“I’m bored,” the Doctor replied too quickly, too brightly, wriggling out from under the console. He yanked off his goggles, then stood and looked around the room like it had wronged him. “And you’re not helping.”

“I never help,” the Master said, not looking up.

“Well maybe you should start,” the Doctor muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

The TARDIS gave a faint creak — still dreaming. Still far, far away. And it was wrong.
She always filled the room. Breathing in blue light and old warmth, a heartbeat like a living song. Without her voice, the emptiness swelled.

The Doctor paced. Once. Twice. Stopped. Started again.

The Master watched over the edge of the book. Not interfering. Not mocking. Not yet.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he said after a beat.

“What thing.”

“The pacing thing. You only pace when your thoughts are louder than the room. And this room is very, very quiet.”

The Doctor stopped in front of the railing. Gripped it with both hands. Stared at some distant star.

“I hate when shes this quiet.”

The Master didn’t answer. Just closed the book and set it aside — careful, slow, like he might startle the moment if he moved too fast.

“You used to say silence was sacred,” he said gently. “Said you needed it to think .”

“That’s the problem,” the Doctor replied, voice just a breath above the hum of the engines. “When it’s too quiet, I start thinking about the things I try not to.”

He turned, finally, and his eyes were tired in that deep, universe-worn way — the kind of tired even a Time Lord can’t regenerate out of.

The Master stood.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t tease. Just crossed the floor in a few soft steps and wrapped his arms around the Doctor from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder, fingers threading together just over his chest.

“There. Now it’s not silent anymore,” he murmured. “You’ve got me being disgustingly affectionate. That should drown out something .”

The Doctor exhaled. Some tension left his shoulders. Not all of it, but enough to breathe.

“Your voice is like tinnitus and jazz had a child,” he said.

“And yet you still press your face into my jumpers when you think I’m not looking.”

The Doctor’s lips twitched. “I think I might not want to fix anything today,” he admitted.

“Brilliant. Let’s ruin something instead.”

“I think I might want to just…” The Doctor faltered. Then leaned back slightly, enough that his head bumped into the Master’s collarbone. “...sit. With you.”

The Master rested his cheek against the Doctor’s hair.

“I’ve been trying to convince you of that for years. ”

The Doctor’s hands found the Master’s arms, holding them in place, like if he let go, the silence might swallow everything again.

No alarms. No chases. No apocalypse.

Just warmth, and the faint scent of ozone and tea leaves in the Doctor’s hair.

The Doctor tilted his head, nudging closer, and tucked his face gently into the crook of the Master’s neck. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just breathed.

The Master blinked. Then—well, then he smiled. One of those rare ones, the real ones, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the sharp curve of his mouth.

“...You’re cuddling me.”

The Doctor made a vague noise. Something between "hmm" and "shut up."

“Properly cuddling. Tucked in. Nose in my jumper. Smelling me. Are you scenting me, Doctor?”

“I’m not scenting you,” the Doctor said, muffled and mortified.

“You absolutely are,” the Master purred. “Little subconscious nuzzle. Classic Time Lord comfort-seeking. Do you want me to purr back? I could. Would you like that?”

“I will push you into the time rotor.”

“Wouldn’t dare,” the Master murmured, brushing his lips lightly against the Doctor’s temple. “You love me.”

The Doctor muttered something like “unfortunately” , but it was very difficult to sound convincingly annoyed when buried in someone’s jumper.

The Master tilted his head slightly, nose brushing through soft curls. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

“You smell like storm clouds and old books,” he said quietly, voice gone oddly reverent. “Like tea and something sharp. Starlight. You always have. You smelled like that when we were children. It’s ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re being sentimental,” the Doctor mumbled.

“Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”

They stood like that for a long moment, bodies fitting together like a puzzle well-worn with use. The Doctor’s grip around the Master’s arms had loosened, just slightly, but he didn’t let go.

“You're warm,” the Doctor said softly.

“I run warmer than you,” the Master replied, smug. “It’s basic thermoregulation. You’ve always been a bit rubbish at it. I should make you a list of everything about our species you’ve spent centuries pretending not to know.”

“Only if it’s written in crayon and insultingly patronizing.”

“I wouldn’t dream of anything else.”

A quiet hum came from somewhere deep in the walls. The TARDIS, still asleep. But not gone. Dreaming lighter now. Maybe soothed by the way her thief had stopped running, just for a moment.

The Doctor exhaled again— less burden this time. Not weightless, never weightless, but lighter. He tilted his head just slightly to press the tip of his nose into the Master’s collarbone, a silent thank-you.

“What?” the Master said, feigning innocence. “You like how I smell, too, don’t you?”

The Doctor didn't answer. Instead, he reached up, slow and tentative, and rested a hand on the side of the Master’s neck, thumb idly tracing the warm pulse beneath.

“Smell like…” He hesitated. Then said, quietly, “Like gunpowder and soap and tobacco. Like fire and something sweet underneath.”

“Oh no. You’re going to make me blush.”

“You already are,” the Doctor said, smiling into his jumper.

The Master kissed the crown of his head, once, quick and precise, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“We are absolutely revolting.”

The Doctor hummed. “Good.”

They stay like that for a while, just holding each other comfortingly, sharing the quiet, until, naturally, the Master speaks up.

“Hate to ruin the moment,” the Master murmured into the Doctor’s hair, “but I’m absolutely starving. ”

The Doctor gave a long, beleaguered sigh directly into his clavicle.

“You ruin every moment.”

“And yet you keep throwing yourself into my arms,” the Master grinned. “Come on. Lunchtime. I’m wilting.”

He disentangled himself with the dramatics of a Victorian widow, casting the Doctor a look that suggested he’d just survived unspeakable hardship. The Doctor, predictably, rolled his eyes and followed him down the corridor like a very judgmental duckling.

“ I could cook,” the Doctor offered, only half-seriously, once they reached the kitchen.

The Master spun on the spot, finger raised like a weapon.

“Ah-ah-ah! I said I’m making lunch.”

“You also said that about repairing the starboard stabilisers, and we almost got folded into seventeen dimensions.”

“Details.”

“Or that time you said you were ‘probably fine’ to drive the hover-skiff.”

“I was probably fine.”

“We fell into a volcano.”

“The volcano was hardly my fault.”

“Anyway, what are you even making?”

“You’ll see.” The Master flounced to the fridge with the kind of swagger usually reserved for duels and opera stages. “Sit. Stay. Be good.”

The Doctor perched on the edge of the counter with the quiet suspicion of a man waiting for the other shoe to drop—or in this case— the kitchen to catch fire.

But the Master moved with practiced ease: sleeves rolled up, ingredients conjured from nowhere, pan already heating. He chopped something green with alarming speed and insulted the onion before dicing it. Occasionally, he hummed—some half-remembered Gallifreyan melody, ancient and a little out of tune.

“…You’re actually good at this,” the Doctor muttered, watching from the corner.

“I will deny it under torture.”

“Why pretend to be bad?”

The Master tossed him a glance over his shoulder, smile quick and private.

“Because if you knew I could cook, you’d make me do it all the time. And I’d hate that. Obviously. Obviously I hate doing things for you.”

The Doctor tilted his head, gaze softening. “You like taking care of me.”

“Lies and slander,” the Master replied, slicing a tomato with entirely too much flourish. “Don’t read into things. I am a vicious tyrant and you are my… inconvenient emotional attachment.”

The Doctor hopped down from the counter and padded over, toeing into the Master’s space like he wasn’t one of the most dangerous beings in the cosmos. He bumped their shoulders together, gently.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“So you keep telling me.”

They stood side by side for a while, quiet again. The Master stirred the pan with something approaching reverence, and the Doctor watched the line of his jaw like it was a sunrise he hadn’t seen in centuries.

“Smells good,” the Doctor said.

“Of course it does,” the Master replied. “I’m starving. You're letting me starve, by the way. This is abuse.”

“You’re cooking. ”

“ Suffering. ”

The Doctor laughed, leaning into him a little. Just enough to press their arms together again. Just enough to steal a little warmth.

The Master insisted— insisted —on carrying the food himself. Wouldn't let the Doctor touch a thing.

"You'll drop it. Or explode it. Or lick it weirdly. Stay back, beast."

The Doctor trailed behind with a martyred expression. “You’re such a control freak.”

“And you find that deeply attractive.”

“Tragically.”

The Master smirked over his shoulder, chin tilted like a prince with a secret. They padded into the console room together, everything humming low and soft, lights dimmed like the TARDIS was still half-asleep. Which, knowing her, she was. She liked eavesdropping on their conversations, the nosy girl, and when there wasn’t much to listen to, she took naps. Floating mid-space with the handbrake on, like a giant cosmic cat in a sunbeam.

They sat side by side on the edge of the platform, legs dangling over the metal grating. The Doctor leaned into the Master’s shoulder without asking, and the Master didn’t bother pretending to mind.

“I hope you like it,” he said, popping open the little covered dish. “I made it spitefully. With a hint of loathing.”

The Doctor peered inside. “Is that… actual food?”

“I can poison it, if you’re uncomfortable.”

“No, no, I’m just… surprised. It looks edible.”

“ Rude. ”

The Master speared a bit of whatever it was—some kind of roasted thing with sauce, the name lost to time and ego—and held it out on the fork. Directly. In front of the Doctor’s mouth.

The Doctor blinked. “Are you… feeding me?”

“Obviously.”

“I have hands.”

“So do I.”

He wiggled the fork. The Doctor sighed, deeply, like the universe had personally wronged him—and opened his mouth.

“Good boy,” the Master purred smugly.

The Doctor flushed.

“You’re insufferable,” he mumbled around the bite. “You know that?”

“And yet, here you are. Curled into my side. Eating my cooking. Completely under my thumb.”

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve conquered me. With potatoes.”

“I am very powerful.”

Another bite. Another laugh. The Doctor let his head drop to the Master’s shoulder, nose nudging the line of his neck. He breathed in, slow and quiet.

The Master shifted just slightly, nudging back, content.

The Doctor huffed, cheeks faintly pink as he chewed. He tried to glare, but it was difficult to hold any grudge while being lovingly fed roasted vegetables by a former despot who called him good boy like it was sacred liturgy.

“You’re flushed,” the Master murmured, clearly delighted. “Are you overheating? Emotional? Or is your primary node just recalibrating after praise?”

The Doctor groaned. “Don’t start.”

“Oh no, no no no. I will start. And I’ll finish , too.”

With agonising slowness, the Master plucked another bite from the dish and raised it toward the Doctor’s lips again.

“Open.”

“Not a dog,” the Doctor muttered.

“No. Dogs listen better.”

But he opened his mouth anyway.

The Master rewarded him with the bite, then reached up, unbidden, to lightly trace the Doctor’s temple with one cool finger, dragging the tip in a gentle arc toward the lobe of his ear. The Doctor froze.

Just for a beat.

Then let out a breath. Shaky, shallow.

“You're impossible,” the Doctor murmured.

“Yes,” the Master said softly, “but I make you purr.”

And he did. A quiet hum buzzed in the Doctor’s throat, almost involuntary.

The Master just beamed.

“You want another bite, Theta? ”

The name was a whisper. Half a weapon, half a memory.

The Doctor lifted his head just enough to blink at him.

“Only if you call me that again.”

“Good boy,” the Master purred.

And this time, he fed him with his fingers.

The leftover dish had been left somewhere it probably shouldn’t be—balanced precariously on the railing like it was waiting for a mavity-defying applause. But neither of them moved to clean it up. The TARDIS hadn’t complained. She was still hibernating, quiet and humming low.

The Doctor was lying flat on his back now, arms flopped dramatically wide across the grated floor. One leg was kicked up over the arm of the jumpseat where the Master sat, picking at his fingernails. The Doctor was chewing on a bit of wire he’d pulled from somewhere in the console, and the 

“You’re going to swallow that,” the Master said without looking up. “And I’m not rewiring your gullet if you choke.”

“You rewired my lung sac once,” the Doctor replied, voice muffled. “You could do the gullet.”

“And I still haven’t been thanked properly.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes and let the wire fall from his lips.

“Thank you,” he said blandly, reaching up to poke the Master’s ankle with his foot. “For not letting me die, oh magnificent one.”

“Better,” the Master smirked.

A beat passed. The Doctor’s foot didn’t leave the Master’s ankle. In fact, it migrated —slowly, in full violation of personal space—until it was resting across the Master’s knee.

The Master didn’t comment. Just glanced down, raised one sharp brow, and then—without ceremony—rested a hand on the Doctor’s shin like it belonged there. His thumb moved in absent circles, not affectionate, not deliberate, but possessive.

“Are we bored?” he asked at last.

“Painfully.”

“You could always entertain me.”

“I am! My continued existence is a comedic performance of cosmic scale.”

“Mm, true. But I was thinking more along the lines of…” He leaned forward, expression suddenly intense. “…mind-melding, skin-sharing, ventricle-matching entertainment. ”

The Doctor made a noise somewhere between a snort and a hiccup.

“We’re not syncing hearts again. Not after last time.”

“I liked last time,” the Master protested.

“You went tachycardic from excitement and we gave the TARDIS palpitations.”

“She’s dramatic. Takes after you.”

They fell quiet again, though it was the comfortable quiet now, not the dreadful one from earlier. The Master, after a moment, slid down from the seat and sprawled beside the Doctor, pressing their shoulders together on the floor. They stared up at the ceiling—the dirty brass above them glowing dim and gold.

“I like this,” the Doctor said quietly.

“What, being horizontal?”

“No, you… being here. Not exploding anything.”

“Give it time.”

The Doctor turned his head and looked at him, their noses nearly brushing.

“You’re warm,” he said.

“You always say that like it surprises you.”

“Because I am very not warm, and it’s rude how warm you are. Like standing next to a fireplace that also wants to stab me.”

The Master grinned and shifted onto his side. His hand landed, palm-down, over the Doctor’s chest—just above the twin heartbeats. The Doctor tensed for half a second, then relaxed.

“Still thudding,” the Master whispered. 

The Doctor reached up and tapped two fingers against the Master’s hand, just once, just there, like a pulse check. It wasn’t a Gallifreyan salute. Wasn’t anything you'd find in a human romance. But it made the Master smile, small and real.

“I could stay like this,” the Doctor said.

“Of course you could,” the Master replied. “I’m irresistible. ”

The Master twirled a bit of the Doctor’s curls between two fingers, idly. Thoughtlessly. Sinfully.

“Do you ever brush this?” he asked, voice feather-soft and far too close.

“Rude,” the Doctor mumbled, nose scrunching as he tilted his head to escape the tug. “I have more important things to do than brush my—”

“Hair, yes. Like disassembling things that were perfectly fine to begin with. Or emotionally repressing for fun.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

The Doctor flailed a hand in vague protest and then dropped it again, sighing. His cheek now rested on the Master’s arm. He could feel his hearts slow, fall into rhythm with the warm pulse beneath the skin.

The Master shifted his hand again, tracing the line of the Doctor’s jaw with the back of his knuckles.

“You always do this,” he said, more gently now. “Act like your body is this inconvenient thing you’re renting. A tool. A machine. But it’s… its nice, you know.”

The Doctor’s ears pinked, ever so slightly. He didn’t respond. Just stared up at the ceiling, stiff-lipped and blinking more than necessary.

“No one’s ever told you that, have they?” the Master pressed. “Not like I mean it.”

“I’m not—I mean, I’m not ugly, ” the Doctor muttered. “I’ve had… people. Companions. I’ve heard things. Occasionally. Accidentally.”

The Master turned fully onto his side now, face hovering above the Doctor’s like a stormcloud with excellent cheekbones.

“But have they ever told you how you taste?” he said, voice dropping, smug and wicked and predatory in the nicest possible way. “Like cinnamon bark. Like stars collapsing in slow motion. Like a library that’s just caught fire.”

The Doctor’s blush spread, bright and fierce, curling down his neck like spilled ink. He squawked a little.

“That’s not a normal thing to say!”

“It is if you have ten million receptors and a biting habit,” the Master purred.

He leaned closer, deliberately slow, and nosed against the Doctor’s hair, dragging in a breath like he was cataloging every molecule. The Doctor’s spine arched just slightly in place.

“There it is again,” the Master whispered. “That trembling ozone right at the crown of your head. You know, in Gallifreyan courtship, that’s considered—”

“ Don’t you dare finish that sentence, ” the Doctor hissed, eyes wide.

“—a highly sensitive—”

“ Master! ”

“—bondsite,” the Master finished, smug as sin, practically glowing.

The Doctor groaned and dragged his sleeve over his own face like he could hide from the sheer embarrassment flooding his entire skeletal structure.

“Why are you like this.”

“Because it works, ” the Master replied, tucking a strand of hair behind the Doctor’s ear with sickening tenderness. “And because I like watching you go all coral-pink and squirmy.”

The Doctor made a sort of whining wheeze and kicked his foot limply against the Master’s calf.

“I hate you.”

“You adore me.”

The Doctor cleared his throat, tugging his collar like it had committed a personal betrayal. The blush was beginning to recede, though it lingered around his ears like it had taken up residence.

“You’re the worst,” he muttered, voice rough with too much emotion stuffed into too small a space.

The Master, leaned back on one hand, smirking.

The Doctor huffed but did not, notably, move away. Instead, he shifted just slightly—just enough to rest his head fully against the Master’s shoulder, letting one hand settle on the fabric over his knee, fingers curling idly.

“Shut up.”

“I didnt say anything.”

The Doctor let out a small, unintentional laugh, quick and breathy.

“I was trying to be introspective, you know,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “Sitting here. Letting my mind drift. But it got a bit too… drifty.”

The Master turned his head, a rare softness creeping into his expression.

“You do that,” he said. “Wander too far in your own head. I’ve seen the architecture. There are too many doors with ‘Do Not Open’ scrawled across them.”

“They creak,” the Doctor murmured. “Even when I’m not touching them.”

A beat. The Master didn’t push.

Instead, he reached out with one hand and gently tilted the Doctor’s chin—not a demand, not even a request, just a reminder that he was here. That the room was here . That the now was still now, and not some memory bleeding at the corners.

“I’m annoying, but I’m not leaving,” he said, all mockery gone. “So if you get lost in there again, I’ll just come drag you back. Deal?”

The Doctor smiled, soft and a little sad.

“You’re very good at dragging.”

“Oh, I know. ”

The Master’s smirk lingered like a fingerprint on glass—smug, warm, and so irritating. The Doctor huffed a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a protest, flopping dramatically sideways across the platform until his head landed in the Master’s lap with a theatrical thud.

“Careful,” the Master warned, arching an eyebrow. “You’ll give me bruises with that hard head of yours.”

“Good,” the Doctor muttered, face buried in the soft folds of the Master’s robe. “You deserve it.”

“Mmm. You’re lucky I’m fond of your abuse.”

A beat of silence passed between them—comfortable, like a shared blanket. The Master toyed absentmindedly with the curls at the nape of the Doctor’s neck, twisting one around his finger like he was trying to wind it into memory.

Then, quite suddenly:

“Your hair’s a mess,” the Master said, entirely too casual.

“What? No, it’s not! ” the Doctor sat up, affronted, pushing a hand through his curls.

“Oh please,” the Master said, already reaching into the side drawer of the console—because of course he kept a hairbrush there, why wouldn’t he? “You look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a wormhole and kissed by static. Which, come to think of it, may be true.”

“You like the way I look!”

“I like chaos. That doesn’t mean I can’t do some light damage control.”

He patted the space in front of him, legs crossed, brush in hand like some deranged salon owner.

“Sit. Time Lords used to do this, you know. Family units. Grooming rituals. Bond maintenance. All that dusty, touchy-feely nonsense.”

The Doctor stared at him.

“You want to brush my hair.”

“I want to tame your hair,” the Master corrected. “It’s offending me.”

Another long pause. The Doctor hesitated. Then sighed. Then, sheepishly, scooted forward and sat between the Master’s legs.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

“You’re ridiculous.”

The brush met curls with practiced care. Not rushed, not perfunctory. Just steady strokes, slow and rhythmic, like the ticking of an old clock.

“You’re enjoying this,” the Doctor said suspiciously, closing his eyes despite himself.

“Of course I am. I get to put my hands in your hair and assert dominance? Darling, it’s Christmas.”

The Doctor chuckled, soft and low.

“Feels nice.”

“It’s supposed to. Biologically, it’s soothing. Calms the neural fields. Reduces entropy in your personal timeline.”

“You made that up.”

A moment passed. The brush moved through his curls again, careful around the tangled bits. The Master hummed some half-forgotten Gallifreyan lullaby under his breath—off-key, but oddly sweet.

“You’re being gentle,” the Doctor murmured.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

The brushing continued for a while longer, slow and sweet. The Doctor, positively vibrating with the tension of being taken care of without needing to fix or tinker, eventually slid sideways again, curling a bit into the Master’s knee pretending not to beg for attention.

But something in him fizzed. Twitched. He needed—he needed —to reciprocate. Not because he felt indebted (though maybe he did, in that same way he always did), but because there was something so tender in the Master’s ridiculous brushing that it begged to be echoed.

“Sit still,” he said suddenly, springing to his feet with far too much energy. “My turn.”

The Master blinked up at him. “What are you on about?”

The Doctor fished under the grating near the console (where he kept his “absolutely-no-logical-place-for-these” bits) and emerged triumphant with a small shimmery blackish-redish- bottle.

“I am doing your nails.”

“You’re—what?”

“You brushed my hair. It’s only fair.”

The Master looked down at his nails with a sigh. “They are a bit chipped I suppose…”

And before the Master could protest properly, the Doctor had grabbed his hands— both of them—and was sitting cross-legged across from him, his tongue between his teeth in immense concentration .

He uncapped the bottle. The smell filled the room.

“This color’s illegal on seventeen planets,” the Doctor said brightly, already applying the first coat. “Something about it triggering 'inappropriate urges.'”

“Oh well then obviously I’m on board.”

The Master watched, bemused, as the Doctor worked. His hands were warm. His expression—absurdly serious, tongue still poking from one corner of his mouth as he painted each nail with careful precision, dotting little Gallifreyan runes on the thumbnails just because he could .

The Master huffed a laugh, low and genuine. And when the Doctor gently blew across the wet polish to dry it faster, the Master just watched him. Like he'd seen a star burn backwards. Like he'd seen something rare and lovely and terrifying.

“Good boy,” he murmured.

The Doctor nearly dropped the bottle.

The lights brightened by degrees—cool starlight shifting into that particular golden-white that only the TARDIS could conjure, like the inside of a tea kettle at dawn. The engines purred low and slow, finally starting to wake up.

The Doctor practically jumped to his feet.

“She’s awake!”

The Master didn’t move from where he lounged on the grating, now fanning his still-shimmering nails.

“So I gathered.”

“That means we can go somewhere! Somewhere ridiculous , I think—like that planet where it rains fish that quote poetry—oh! Or the Library of Unspeakable Tomes. You have to scream every word or the books won’t let you leave—”

“Doctor.”

“Or there’s that nebula that smells like bananas and—”

“Doctor.”

The Doctor stopped, vibrating faintly, like a kettle just before the whistle.

“What?”

The Master stood now, slowly, arms folded.

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Sleep’s for the domestically inclined,” the Doctor said with a too-wide smile. “I’m a Time Lord, not a spaniel.”

“You haven’t slept, have you?”

The Doctor shifted his weight. “Define ‘sleep.’”

The Master stepped forward, hands on hips.

“You’ve been yawning every five minutes. You nearly painted my entire finger instead of the nail. You forgot the name of your own screwdriver earlier and called it ‘the pokey thing.’ And now you’re rambling like a Mechanoid.”

“That could mean anything.”

“It means,” the Master said, lowering his voice with an infuriating sweetness, “that if you don’t lie down in the next five minutes, I will cry .”

The Doctor blinked.

“What.”

“Big tears. Tragic ones. Possibly even sniffles. I’ll look so sad the TARDIS will kick you out.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’ll bring out the eyes , Doctor.”

The Master’s expression shifted into something so falsely pitiful it was almost operatic—chin tucked, lower lip pushed forward, eyes wide and dewy.

“You cannot weaponize your stupid face—”

“Oh, but I am ,” the Master said with a wicked grin. “And I’m throwing in guilt about how you never let me take care of you. I brushed your hair. I cooked and fed you . All I’m asking is that you lie down, close your ridiculous eyes, and let your overclocked brain defragment for three hours.”

“Three?!”

The Doctor narrowed his eyes, the gears turning—and slowing . Sleep tugged at him from the edges of his mind like mavity finally noticed him standing on the edge.

“...fine. One hour.”

“Two.”

“One and a half .” 

“Two and ill hum lullabies at you in Old High Gallifreyan.”

The Doctor sighed with surrender and fondness and the deep, sweet exhaustion of someone who always forgets he's mortal, even when he's not 

“You are the most manipulative, emotionally conniving—”

“Nicest pillow you’ll ever have.”

The room looked… almost startled to be entered.

The door creaked open with the polite slowness of a place not used to being disturbed. Inside, it was dim, lit with warm little wall lamps shaped like suns and moons, and cluttered with relics of half-finished lives. A pile of unread books in all different languages, a coat slung over a chair that had never been worn. A mug with a galaxy swirling in it, long since gone cold.

The Doctor stood in the doorway like a trespasser.

The Master peeked in behind him and blinked.

“You… live like this?”

“I don’t live in here. It’s more of a—symbolic space.”

“Ah yes. The ol’ emotionally repressed spare room trick.”

The Doctor turned, arms folded tightly around himself now, like maybe he regretted coming here. “We don’t have to. I can sleep in the console room or—”

“Don’t you dare ,” the Master said, grabbing his hand and towing him in.

The Doctor stumbled a bit, grumbling all the way as the Master all but shoved him onto the bed, which was predictably too big, too soft, and smelled faintly of stardust and something faintly lemony. The Master, ever smug, plopped down beside him, wriggling into place until he was more or less wrapped around the Doctor like the snake he is.

The Doctor tilted his head, one eyebrow arching in that irritatingly seductive way he’d picked up somewhere around his eighth face, and said in a tone low enough to melt steel beams:

“You know, there are better things to do in a bed than sleep.”

The Master didn't even flinch.

“Oh, are there now?” he drawled, not pulling away, but giving the Doctor just enough rope to hang himself with.

The Doctor leaned in closer, a teasing smile playing at his lips, and let his fingers trail slowly—deliberately—along the hem of the Master’s shirt.

“Mmhmm. We could conduct... experiments. Very important ones. On, say, biological entanglement. Temporal… friction.”

The Master blinked, then let out a slow breath like he was physically restraining the urge to laugh . Or pounce. Possibly both.

“Doctor.”

“Yes?” He said, all bright-eyed innocence with a dangerous undercurrent of something else.

“As much as that thoroughly appeals to my baser instincts,” the Master said, untangling one of the Doctor’s fingers from his waistband with excruciating care, “I know what you're doing.”

“Do you?” the Doctor purred.

“Of course I do. This is the oldest trick in your dusty old book of emotionally avoidant coping mechanisms.”

The Doctor huffed. “It is not —”

“Seduce your way out of feelings? Out of discomfort? Out of rest, even?” The Master clucked his tongue. “You really do treat sleep like it’s a confession.”

“It is a confession! A surrender of control, a vulnerability of the mind—”

“A necessary biological function ,” the Master interrupted, rolling his eyes. “You are not transcending sleep out of sheer willpower. You're just cranky and bad at old.”

The Doctor opened his mouth to argue again, but the Master cut him off with a finger to his lips.

“Nope. Don't want to hear it. Your flirting privileges are revoked until you sleep at least four hours, drink two glasses of water, and admit you like it when I brush your ridiculous hair behind your ears.”

The Doctor stared at him. Glared, really. But it had no bite to it.

“You’re mean.”

“And you're exhausted.”

There was a pause, the kind of hush only a TARDIS could hold—a space between seconds.

And then, slowly, the Doctor curled in, letting his head tuck against the Master’s chest.

“I can hear your heartbeats,” he mumbled, voice blurred at the edges now.

“Of course you can. You're lying directly on top of them, you loon.”

“It’s loud. Steady. Like a song I used to know.”

“You’re such a sap when you’re half-asleep.”

A beat.

“...Sing the lullaby?”

The Master blinked, eyes wide. “You actually want—?”

“You said you would. You brought out the guilt. Use it.”

“I was bluffing.”

“Bluff harder.”

And so, with a theatrical sigh that barely masked the fondness tucked beneath it, the Master began to hum.

It was rough at first—he hadn’t sung in High Gallifreyan in so long—but the language came back like blood memory. All sharp syllables and aching vowels, old as the stars and heavier than gravity. A lullaby sung once to a child destined for madness, for loneliness, for legend.

He felt the Doctor relax against him fully—finally.

His breathing slowed. The tension drained. And there, in the forgotten room, under the watching eyes of moons carved into the ceiling, the Doctor slept.

For a while, the Master said nothing. He didn’t even shift—just stayed wrapped around the Doctor, one arm draped with practiced ease across his waist, the other idly tracing circles against his arm. The TARDIS crooned low in her bones, a lullaby echoing the one he’d just sung.

The Doctor’s breath puffed lightly against his chest, steady now, calm. His curls tickled the Master’s chin, and for once, he didn’t mind the tickle. It felt... earned. Soft.

Then the Doctor mumbled something. A slurred syllable, half-buried in sleep.

The Master tilted his head. “Hm?”

Another breath. Then, clearer, almost like it surprised even the Doctor:

“Missed you…”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate. It was simple. Utterly guileless. The kind of thing that only slipped out when the walls were down, when the body stopped guarding the heart, when the brain had finally let the soul speak.

The Master blinked. His first instinct was to smirk—because of course he had—but the response got stuck somewhere in his throat, tangled in a knot of old hurts and new softness.

The Doctor didn’t answer, not really. Just snuggled in deeper, like he could hide in the space between the Master’s ribs. His hand twitched in his sleep, fingers curling gently into the Master’s shirt.

And then came the words—calmer now, laced with that strange, stupid sincerity the Doctor could never quite bury, no matter how many centuries he wore his loneliness like a badge:

“Love you…”

And this time, the Master didn’t freeze.

He just smiled. Not the smirk, not the grin of a creature who always had a trick up his sleeve, but something smaller. Sadder. Infinitely more real.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’ve said.”

He brushed a hand through the Doctor’s curls, slow and gentle. The lullaby still echoed faintly in the air, like the last breath of an old song. And wrapped up in warmth and softness and stupid, stubborn love, he let his own eyes flutter shut.

“I love you too”

The Doctor didn’t stir, just let out a tiny, happy huff. Content. Entirely unaware of the way he was currently melting centuries of ironclad denial into something fragile and terrifying.

The Master sighed and leaned back a little, staring up at the moons on the ceiling. Beautiful things, full of craters and carved script—just like home, if home had been gentle.

“You really did miss me, didn’t you?” he whispered. 

And then, softer still:

“I missed you too.”

The sun didn’t rise; not in the TARDIS. But time, that mischievous beast, spun itself around them and tangled its threads until hours stretched wide and slow. The Doctor slept like he hadn’t in centuries, the exhaustion he never admitted to finally catching up with him like a tidal wave.

The Master, snug beside him, had dozed too. His breathing steady, fingers still tracing lazy patterns on the Doctor’s arm in a language only they understood.

When the Doctor’s eyes finally fluttered open, it was to the softest brush of warmth against his skin, the faint scent of something indescribably home. He blinked, disoriented at first, like waking up from a dream that felt more real than reality itself.

“How long...?” his voice was gravelly, unfamiliar even to him.

The Master’s lips curved with that familiar, devilish grin, one that could be infuriating and utterly comforting all at once.

“Long enough for you to finally admit that even a Time Lord needs a nap,” he teased, voice low and amused.

The Doctor groaned, stretching, hair tousled like a storm had passed through. He blinked, eyes half-lidded with that delicious blend of sleep and stubbornness, the kind only a Time Lord could wear without shame.

Without a word, he shifted—slow, deliberate—a soft sigh escaping him as he curled closer, seeking the warmth he’d been missing. His head found its way to the Master’s shoulder, pressing into the curve with a sigh that said finally, home.

The Master, ever smug but secretly delighted, didn’t move away. Instead, he wrapped an arm tighter around the Doctor, fingers threading through curls like they were strands of precious starlight.

“You’re awfully clingy when you think you’re not tired,” the Master murmured, voice low and amused.

The Doctor’s smile was lazy but genuine. “Maybe I just like you being here.”

There was a pause. The hum of the TARDIS faded to a gentle lull, a comforting heartbeat beneath their skin.

Then, impossibly soft—like a secret meant for no one else—the Master’s lips brushed the Doctor’s temple. A whisper of a kiss, warm and slow.

“Not so bad,” the Master whispered against his skin, “having you like this.”

The Doctor’s fingers curled over the Master’s wrist, clutching just enough to say, don’t let go. His breath hitched.

The Doctor’s head nestled deeper against the Master’s shoulder, breaths mingling in the warm, dim light of the room. The TARDIS sighed around them, her ancient heart beating slow and steady.

The Master’s hand stilled in the Doctor’s hair, fingers threading gently through the soft chaos, thumb tracing a tender line along his temple. Then, with all the patience of centuries and the mischievousness of a cosmic trickster, he leaned in.

Their lips met—not with the fire of a supernova, but the quiet grace of starlight threading through twilight. Soft, lingering, a slow dance of familiarity and longing.

The Doctor’s eyes fluttered closed, melting into the kiss like it was the only place he’d ever wanted to be. The Master’s hold tightened just a fraction, grounding them both in the warmth of the moment.

When they pulled back—barely—a breath apart, the Doctor murmured, “Don’t think this means I’m admitting defeat.”

The Master’s grin was sly, eyes twinkling with quiet victory. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The Doctor made a face. “You’re dreaming it right now.”

“Of course I am,” the Master said, matter-of-fact, and kissed him again before the Doctor could mount any kind of protest.

This kiss was deeper. More sure. It curled like smoke into the edges of the Doctor’s mind, warm and coaxing and dangerously good. The Doctor sighed into it, one hand lazily winding around the Master’s neck, fingers ghosting over the back of his collarbone like he was trying to map him by touch alone.

And then the Master bit him. Not hard. Just a soft, playful press of teeth against the Doctor’s bottom lip. Enough to make the Doctor startle and let out a half-laugh, half-gasp.

“Oi,” the Doctor whispered, pulling back just a breath, lips curved in scandalized amusement. “What was that for?”

“Instinct,” the Master said, entirely unapologetic. “You looked smug. I had to even the playing field.”

“You bit me.”

“I nipped you,” the Master corrected primly, but he was already leaning in again. “If I’d bitten you, you’d know.”

Another kiss, and this one had that unmistakable glint of mischief. The Master's hands slid up under the Doctor’s shirt, just resting on the bare skin of his waist, nothing more, but it sent a warm hum through the Doctor’s spine. He was so thoroughly, achingly alive here, wrapped up in a man who once tried to burn the stars out of the sky, now kissing like the world might end without it.

And there, in the hush of post-sleep and pre-daylight, the Doctor murmured, “You’re insufferable.”

The Master kissed the corner of his mouth. “You love that about me.”

“I really, really do.”

He bit him again.