Archive of Our Own ^beta

The TARDIS landed with a soft thrum against sandy ground. Sunlight streaked through the open doors, illuminating dust motes that danced like golden stars.

Donna stepped out first, shielding her eyes against the twin suns. “Blimey. Bit bright, isn’t it?”

The Doctor followed, coat flaring in the dry wind. He adjusted the controls behind him, then shut the doors with a gentle click. “Bright, yes. But peaceful. Or at least, it should be.”

The planet Varkia was meant to be a haven — a quiet desert world, tucked away between trade routes. But even from orbit, he’d seen the smoke.

Not fires from nature. Fires from conflict.

They walked toward the small settlement on the horizon. Donna frowned. “You sure about this? You’ve been acting weird all morning.”

The Doctor waved a hand. “I’m always weird. It’s part of my charm.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t even finish your toast. You love toast. With banana slices.”

“I’m just... distracted,” he muttered.

And he was. He hadn’t seen the Master in a while. Hadn’t even heard a whisper through the vortex. And while part of him was glad — it meant peace — another part had been aching, quietly, without his permission. He’d dreamed of warm hands, soft lullabies, and the way his name sounded when laced with affection and the word baby. He shoved the thoughts down.

They were not helpful today.

As they approached the settlement, it became clear: this planet was not at peace. The streets were cracked. Walls scorched. A few battered civilians hurried away as soon as they saw them.

Donna grabbed his arm. “Doctor. Look.”

A banner flapped from the central tower — black with silver claw marks, fluttering like a threat.

“Occupation,” the Doctor whispered. “Someone’s taken over.”

“Looks recent,” Donna muttered. “Who would even bother with a tiny planet like this?”

The Doctor didn’t answer.

Instead, he moved, coat swishing, scanning the air with his sonic. He frowned. “There’s interference on the long-range signal. Someone’s jamming communication.”

They heard the distant thrum of engines. Military-grade hovercrafts, flying low over the hills. Soldiers.

Donna ducked behind him. “I don’t like this.”

Neither did he.

But he’d seen this pattern before. Armies moving in, control spreading like rot. And he couldn’t — wouldn’t — walk away.

“We’re staying,” he said. “We’ll help them take it back.”

Donna groaned. “I knew you were gonna say that.”

---

They slipped into an underground network of tunnels beneath the town — a crude but effective resistance hideout. The people were scared, hungry, but resilient. Donna helped patch up wounds while the Doctor shared maps he pulled from the TARDIS database.

“Who’s behind the invasion?” he asked the local leader, a woman named D’Reya.

She frowned. “No one knows. They came from nowhere. Their weapons are alien. Too advanced for us. They wear helmets, always. But they speak in riddles. Like they're being watched.”

That was the first red flag.

The second came when the Doctor repaired one of their captured comms units — and heard a voice crackle through, faint but unmistakable.

A voice he hadn’t heard in far too long.

“Deploy Phase Three. Subjugation complete in Sector 7. Keep the prisoners separated. I want no interference.”

The Doctor went still.

Donna looked up. “What? What is it?”

He didn’t answer at first. His fingers tightened around the comms unit.

Then, softly, bitterly:

“It’s him.”

The comm unit crackled again, but the voice had already faded, leaving behind static and a hollow silence that pressed against the Doctor’s chest like a weight.

Donna stepped closer. “Doctor. That was—?”

He nodded once, tightly. “The Master.”

She sucked in a breath, fists clenched. “I thought he’d finally gotten bored of planetary takeovers.”

“He never gets bored,” the Doctor said, bitter. “He gets distracted. And then he remembers how good he is at being awful.”

He stared down at the transmitter, the light from its interface reflecting in his tired eyes.

Donna nudged him. “So. What now?”

He took a breath, slow and measured. “Now we stop him. Again.”

---

They made their way back to the surface after nightfall, cloaked in shadows, slipping between buildings now crawling with black-armored troops.

The streets were quiet, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of quiet that came from control. Fear. Submission.

The Doctor’s jaw clenched.

Donna whispered beside him, “We really doing this without backup?”

“We are the backup" he replied.

They scaled a half-collapsed wall for a better view. At the heart of the city, an enormous command center had been erected — sleek metal towers, sharp angles, glowing with power.

And flying above it, spinning slowly in the wind, was a flag.

Black. Silver claw marks.

And burned into its center, bold and unmistakable: 𝘔

The Doctor’s breath hitched.

Donna saw his hands twitch. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” he lied automatically.

Because he couldn’t tell her what it really felt like — that cold punch to the chest. That stupid, hopeful corner of his mind that still remembered being tucked under a velvet coat, safe, warm, rocked.

Dada.

No. Not now.

Not when that same man was out there, playing tyrant again.

---

They snuck inside the command structure during the shift change. It wasn’t easy — rows of guards, scan fields, automated drones. But the Doctor knew how to slip past unnoticed, and Donna followed like a shadow.

In one corridor, they passed an execution chamber. Donna shuddered.

The Doctor looked away.

The deeper they went, the more obvious it became: this wasn’t just a hostile takeover. It was a playground. The Master had designed this place like a theatre of control, each system fine-tuned to remind the citizens of who held the leash.

In the central surveillance room, they finally found what they needed: a complete map of the city and troop movements.

And something else.

A live audio feed.

They heard footsteps. Then a door creaked. And then—

“Tighten patrols on the outer rim. I don’t want any more leaks.”

That voice again.

The Doctor froze.

And this time, it wasn’t through static. It wasn’t a memory. It was real and close and chillingly calm.

Donna narrowed her eyes at the speakers. “Where is he?”

The Doctor scanned the system, heart hammering. “There. Main tower. Third level.”

She saw the look on his face and grabbed his arm. “You’re not going up there alone.”

“I’m not—” He stopped himself. “We go together. But we don’t confront him directly. Not yet. We need to know how deep this goes.”

---

They climbed to the third level, bypassing locked doors with the sonic and sticking to blind spots between cameras. Every footstep echoed, tension wound tight.

And then, without warning—

A door at the end of the hall slid open.

And there he was.

Leaning casually against a silver railing, dressed in black from collar to boot, laser screwdriver dangling from his fingers like a toy. He was smirking before he even turned.

“Doctor,” the Master said, sweet as poison. “You came.”

The Doctor stepped forward, carefully. “Let them go. This isn’t your planet.”

The Master tilted his head. “It is now.”

Donna looked ready to punch him.

The Master barely glanced her way. “Ah, Donna Noble. Still loud, still ginger, still a delight. You haven’t aged a day.”

She bristled. “And you haven’t grown up at all.”

“True,” he said, unconcerned. “But I have gotten richer. You should see my throne room.”

The Doctor’s voice was tight. “Call it off.”

“Oh, come now. You always skip the foreplay.” The Master clicked his tongue. “You’re here. I’m here. Isn’t this fun?”

“People are dying.”

“They’re inefficient,” the Master said with a shrug. “I’m helping evolution.”

“You’re destroying lives.”

“I’m building something. Control. Order. You wouldn’t understand.”

Donna stepped in front of the Doctor. “He understands more than you ever will. He’s not a monster.”

The Master’s smirk faltered. Just a flicker.

But then he smiled again, broader.

“Well, if you’re here to fight,” he said smoothly, raising a hand, “I do hope you’re ready to lose.”

And the moment he snapped his fingers, the guards closed in.

---

They fought.

Oh, they fought.

Donna decked two guards before they even reached the corridor. The Doctor managed to sonic a power relay, sending a blinding spark across the hallway and causing just enough confusion to bolt.

They didn’t get far.

The guards were fast, coordinated, trained.

The Doctor shoved Donna behind him as one lunged with a shock baton. “Run!”

“No!” she shouted, catching his sleeve. “Not without you—!”

But the Master’s men overwhelmed them. Donna was slammed to her knees, a guard restraining her roughly. The Doctor twisted in place, fighting with every ounce of his strength until a stun blast hit him in the back.

He went down hard.

The Master’s boots clicked against the metal as he stepped forward, clapping once like it was all a show.

“Bravo,” he said mockingly. “Truly. You’re getting better at these little rebellions. Almost made me sweat.”

Donna struggled. “You bloody psychopath—”

“Careful,” the Master warned, smiling thinly. “You’re only still breathing because I find you entertaining.”

He turned to the Doctor, who was slowly dragging himself upright, face twisted in pain.

“Take them to holding,” the Master said lightly. “Separate cells. I want them intact, but humbled.”

The Doctor looked up, hatred in his eyes. “Don’t do this—”

The Master leaned down, voice low and syrupy. “Oh, I am doing this. Because you came to stop me, and now you get to watch how little that means.”

He tapped the Doctor’s cheek once, mock-gentle.

“Nighty night.”

---

They hadn’t been in the cells long. Not long at all.

The Master hadn’t come back. No smug taunts. No threats. No gloating.

At first, that was a relief.

But then the guards came.

Donna’s cell was across a narrow corridor from the Doctor’s. She could see him — pale, hunched, a little bloody from the fight when they were captured, but still standing. Still trying to play the part of the indignant hero.

The first time the guards arrived, she thought maybe it was some routine check. Maybe they were just moving him.

But then they dragged him out of the cell and didn’t take him far. Just into the corridor. Right in front of her.

“Get off me!” the Doctor snapped, thrashing wildly. “What are you—? Let go!”

One of the goons — a brutish Vortallan with four clawed hands — backhanded him hard enough to send him reeling. The Doctor hit the ground, gasping.

“Stop!” Donna shouted, slamming her fists on the energy bars of her cell. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

The leader, a snarling humanoid with jagged armor and a cruel smile, turned to her.

“Just reminding your friend what happens to spies.”

“He’s not a spy!” she shouted. “He’s the Doctor! He’s trying to help this planet, you morons—”

“Oh, we know exactly who he is,” the brute said, kicking the Doctor in the side hard enough to make him cry out. “The Master’s plaything. His little project. But he’s not here right now, is he?”

The Doctor coughed, curling protectively around his middle. “Don’t touch her,” he rasped, voice thin. “Please. Don’t touch Donna.”

Donna’s face twisted. “Doctor, no—”

“We won’t,” the brute said, grinning. “Unless you ask us to stop.”

The Doctor’s head jerked up.

“If you beg us to stop, we’ll stop,” the brute repeated sweetly. “But then we’ll switch. And take it out on her instead.”

The Doctor’s whole body froze.

“No!” Donna shouted. “Don’t you dare, don’t you dare use me like that—Doctor, don’t listen to them—!”

The Doctor’s eyes locked on hers.

He shook his head, slowly.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” he whispered.

“Doctor—!”

But he was already turning back, pressing his forehead to the cold ground, fists clenched.

“I won’t ask you to stop.”

The pain started in earnest after that.

They didn’t use whips or machines. Nothing elegant. Nothing high-tech.

Just fists, boots, claws. Blunt and efficient.

He didn’t cry out at first. Just gritted his teeth and clenched his body against every blow. But when the first rib cracked, he screamed.

Donna sobbed from the other cell, voice hoarse and frantic. “You’re going to kill him! STOP IT! YOU’RE GOING TO KILL HIM!”

They didn’t stop.

They hauled him up by the arms and slammed him into the wall. His head cracked hard against the stone. Blood smeared down his temple.

He whimpered. He couldn't stop himself anymore.

Still, he didn’t say the words.

Not once.

Not with Donna watching.

After a while, his eyes stopped focusing. He swayed between two guards like a broken puppet. They shoved him to his knees.

“Ready to beg yet?” one growled.

The Doctor trembled.

He didn’t answer.

They punched him in the gut, and he retched bile onto the stone floor.

“Leave him alone!” Donna screamed. Her fists were bruised from pounding on the cell wall. “He’s not—he’s not—He’s just trying to help you, you bloody bastards!”

The leader just laughed.

And then, the Doctor started to shiver.

It was subtle at first. His body, shaking with the strain. Then his hands — twitching, curling into small fists, like they weren’t sure what shape to be.

His lip wobbled.

He blinked too fast.

His chest hitched in little hiccupping breaths.

“No,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “No, no, no. Not now, not now, please—”

Donna went still.

“Doctor?” she asked, voice cracking.

He clutched his arms around himself, cradling his ribs, and made a soft sound — not quite a sob. Not quite a word.

One of the guards grabbed him by the back of the coat.

The Doctor stiffened instantly — not with fear, but with effort. Control. He needed control.

He couldn’t afford to drop. Not here. Not now. Not when they were winning.

Not when Daddy wasn’t here.

So he braced himself, forced a breath into his lungs, and straightened his spine.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. “I’m not giving you anything. And you can tell your little mutiny club that too.”

It wasn’t convincing. His lip was bleeding. His hands shook.

But it was the act that mattered.

One of the guards sneered. “Still got fight in him.”

Another leaned closer. “He’s pretending. You see that twitch? His eyes? He’s breaking. He’s just hiding it.”

The leader’s gaze sharpened. “Let’s fix that.”

He pulled something from his belt — a gleaming alien device, narrow and jagged, glowing faintly blue at the tip.

Donna’s breath caught. “No. Don’t you dare—!”

The guard pressed it to the Doctor’s ribs and activated it.

The scream was instant.

The Doctor convulsed, body arching off the stone floor, the electric pulse burning through every nerve like fire. His boots scraped helplessly against the ground. His hands clawed at empty air.

When the shock ended, he crumpled. Gasping. Twitching.

But still conscious.

Still trying.

He lifted his head slowly and spat blood onto the floor.

“Try harder,” he rasped.

The guards exchanged glances.

Another jolt. This one to his spine.

The Doctor wailed, the sound raw and unfiltered, hands curling into fists that couldn’t close.

“STOP IT!” Donna shrieked, sobbing into the bars of her cell. “You’re going to kill him! STOP IT!”

They didn’t. Not yet.

The third hit came low — just above the hip — and it dropped him flat.

The Doctor was breathing in tiny, rapid gasps now. His limbs were jerking. He couldn’t get them to stop. His mouth was open, but no sound came out. Just little, broken whimpers.

He was slipping.

He could feel it.

Everything was too loud. Too bright. His body didn’t feel like his anymore. The pain was bad, but the fear — the fear was worse.

Not now. Please not now. Not in front of them. Not in front of her.

He tried to speak. To make a joke. Anything.

But what came out was a high, trembling noise.

One of the guards moved to grab him again, and that was the final straw.

The Doctor flinched violently and screamed.

A high, terrified wail — the kind of sound no one should ever hear from a grown man. Raw, primal, and tiny.

He scrambled backwards across the floor, eyes wide with panic. “DON’T! DON’T TOUCH ME—!”

“Doctor!” Donna cried. “It’s okay—look at me, sweetheart, it’s okay—!”

But he wasn’t hearing her.

He was in full-blown regression panic now, and she could see it. The way he rocked. The way his fingers grasped for something that wasn’t there.

The way his lip trembled.

“No—n-no—wanna go home, wanna go home, wanna D-D-Da—” He choked on the word and shoved his own hand into his mouth to muffle it.

He bit down hard. Too hard.

When he pulled his hand away, there was blood.

The guards paused, unnerved.

“What the hell’s wrong with him?” one muttered.

“I think he’s lost it,” another said, stepping back warily.

But the leader just curled his lip in disgust. “Then he’s useless.”

He raised the baton again. “Might as well finish—”

“NO!” Donna shrieked, slamming both fists into the energy field. “YOU BASTARDS—DON’T TOUCH HIM—”

But the Doctor didn’t respond.

He was sobbing now. Curled tight on the stone, shaking so hard he could barely hold himself up.

And mumbling. Soft, broken babble in a babyish cadence. A voice too young, too scared, too gone.

He was disappearing.

Not just retreating — shattering.

Slipping into a space he hadn’t meant to go.

And he didn’t know how to stop.

He couldn’t even think of the Master’s name without panicking.

Because what if he saw?

What if he thought this was fake? A ploy to make him surrender?

What if he didn’t come?

He bit his lip again, trembling.

He’d held on as long as he could.

He wasn’t big anymore.

He wasn’t anything anymore.

And Daddy wasn’t here.

---

The Doctor had stopped talking.

He was curled in on himself now — knees drawn up, blood crusted on his lip, chest heaving in short, shallow gasps. His eyes were open, but glassy. Staring at nothing.

One of the guards prodded him with the tip of the baton.

“No more clever words, Time Lord?” he sneered. “What happened to all that smug talk, huh?”

“Stop it!” Donna shouted, tears streaming down her face. “Please, stop—he’s not—he’s not okay, you’ve done enough!”

But her cries went unanswered.

Another pulse of energy cracked through the Doctor’s side — a sharp snap! that made his body twitch violently.

And still, no sound from him.

Only a faint whimper.

The leader crouched beside him, grabbing a fistful of hair. “Still not screaming? Let’s see what this one does.”

He activated the highest setting on the stun baton.

The jolt hit like lightning.

The Doctor screamed.

It ripped from his throat with the sound of something ancient breaking. It wasn’t human. Wasn’t Time Lord. It was pain, pure and raw and frightened — the kind of scream that didn’t come from the mouth but from the soul.

Donna choked on her own sob. “DOCTOR! SWEETHEART, STOP! YOU’RE KILLING HIM! PLEASE!”

And far above — through thick walls and winding corridors, high in the command tower of the fortress — a sound reached the Master.

He paused mid-step, head tilting.

There it was again.

A scream.

High. Familiar.

And wrong.

His smile faded.

No.

Not that voice.

Not his Doctor.

He turned.

Paused.

Listened.

Another scream.

Choked. Wrecked.

Time seemed to stop.

And then he ran.

Down the long corridor, cape whipping behind him. Through the spiral staircase. Past the guards who scattered like leaves in a storm.

The Master didn’t breathe.

He didn’t think.

He moved.

The dungeon loomed at the end of the hall. The closer he got, the worse the screams became — garbled, begging, nonsensical. But there was no mistaking that voice.

His Doctor.

His baby.

“Move,” the Master growled at the two guards at the door. When they hesitated, he flung out one hand and sent them crashing to the walls with a pulse of sonic energy.

He kicked the doors open—

And froze.

---

The Doctor was on the floor. Bleeding. Burnt. Shaking.

There were five guards in the corridor. One had a baton raised. Another was holding a collar and chain.

Donna was in the cell behind them, red-faced and hoarse from screaming, gripping the bars so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

“DON’T TOUCH HIM!” she bellowed again. “GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

But they didn’t.

Because they didn’t see the Master yet.

Not until he stepped through the door.

And then—

It was too late.

“What.” His voice was ice.

The guards turned, startled.

The leader frowned. “My Lord—?”

“What,” the Master repeated, voice deathly soft, “are you doing to him?”

“We—we thought—”

He didn’t finish.

The laser screwdriver was already in the Master’s hand.

A single pulse — and the first guard crumpled to the floor, lifeless.

The others barely had time to scream.

The Master roared in rage as he cut through them. One after another. Precise. Lethal. Merciless.

The final one tried to run — but the Master grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed him into the wall with a snarl.

“How dare you,” he hissed. “How DARE you lay a finger on what’s MINE.”

Another flick of his wrist — and the last man fell.

The body hit the floor with a wet thud.

Smoke still hung in the air from the charge of the laser screwdriver. Blood pooled across the stone like spilled ink. The dungeon was silent now, except for the soft, hitching sobs echoing from the corner of the room.

The Doctor.

The Master stared at him.

He barely looked like himself.

Curled on the cold stone, wrists raw from shackles, trembling like a leaf. There were burn marks across his ribs, deep bruises on his arms. His cheekbone was split open, bleeding sluggishly down his jaw. His eyes were too wide. His breaths were too fast.

He looked small.

Tiny.

Broken.

And he hadn’t even noticed the carnage around him.

“Doctor…” the Master breathed, stepping forward—

“Don’t.” Donna’s voice snapped out from the opposite cell.

She was already at the bars, white-knuckled, eyes shining with tears. Her voice trembled, but her fury was volcanic.

“Don’t you dare touch him before you let me out of here.”

The Master blinked, stunned for half a second, before immediately snapping the lock open. Donna didn’t wait for him to open the door all the way—she was out in an instant, running toward her Doctor, dropping to her knees beside him.

“Sweetheart?” she whispered, hands reaching gently. “Hey—hey, it’s me. I’m here now. You’re safe, yeah? You hear me, baby?”

The Doctor flinched.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at her.

Just curled tighter into himself.

Donna’s hands hovered. She wanted to hold him. Wrap him in her arms and never let go. But he was so bruised, so fragile. She touched only his hair, carding through the matted mess gently.

The Master stood back, frozen.

Something—cold, foreign—twisted in his chest.

He hadn’t seen it. Hadn’t known.

But that didn’t matter, did it?

It had happened. Under his command. In his fortress. His people had done this.

And the Doctor…

The Doctor wouldn’t even look at him.

He dropped into a slow crouch, not close enough to touch, but enough to be seen. His eyes didn’t leave the Doctor’s form.

“Starshine…” His voice was low. Raw. “It’s me.”

No response.

“I got here as fast as I could. I didn’t know what they were doing to you. I never would have allowed—”

The Doctor shook.

And shifted closer to Donna.

“Sweetheart?” she whispered, holding him now, gently guiding his head to her chest. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore. No one.”

But she glanced up at the Master, and the rage returned.

“You’re gonna fix this,” she growled. “Now.”

“I’m going to,” the Master said immediately, chest tight, voice clipped. “I will. I’ll burn every part of this operation to the ground. They’ll pay for this. I swear to you—”

“I don’t care about vengeance,” Donna spat. “I care about him.”

The Master’s gaze dropped again.

The Doctor had started to rock. Tiny murmurs tumbled from his lips, nonsensical syllables that barely formed words. He wasn’t even present enough to fake it. The shields were gone.

And his eyes, when they flicked toward the Master, just briefly—

There was fear in them.

Real, instinctive, animal fear.

The Master’s stomach plummeted.

He backed away a step, unsteady.

“He’s scared of me,” he whispered, stunned.

Donna’s expression softened—just for a moment.

“He’s tiny,” she said. “He’s hurt. And you—you just… You killed five men in front of him.”

“I had to—” The Master’s voice broke. “They touched him. They hurt him.”

“He doesn’t know that,” she snapped, not unkindly. “Not right now. He’s not here. He’s little and bleeding and scared out of his mind.”

“I would never hurt him.”

“I know.”

They both looked back at the Doctor.

Still trembling.

Still clinging to Donna.

Still not looking at him.

The Master slowly sat down against the far wall.

And said nothing.

For the first time in a very, very long time—

He didn’t know what to say.

---

The silence stretched.

Donna still knelt beside the Doctor, whispering soft things into his hair. He hadn’t spoken again. Just rocked — gently, rhythmically — clinging to the fabric of her jacket like it was a lifeline.

Across the cell, the Master sat motionless.

For once, he looked small, too.

Not in stature, but in presence. Like the air had been knocked out of him. Like something vital had cracked and all that was left was the sharp, echoing sting of failure.

His eyes hadn’t left the Doctor since the moment he’d crouched.

But he didn’t try to touch him again.

Didn’t even try to stand.

He knew.

He knew what that terrified look meant.

The Doctor was afraid of him.

Afraid of his dada.

And the Master didn’t know how to breathe through that.

“…I didn’t know,” he said at last.

His voice was low. Barely above a whisper. But the sound felt too loud in the cold stone chamber, like it might shatter the air.

“I didn’t know what they were doing to you. I didn’t even think to check. I thought…” He gave a soft, bitter laugh. “I thought I’d come down here and gloat. Tease you. Our usual game.”

He ran a hand through his hair, trembling.

“I thought it would be fun. You’d pout and make your little speeches and try to talk me out of taking over the planet, and I’d let you try, and we’d fight and snarl and maybe kiss a bit later when no one was looking.”

He swallowed.

“But then I heard you scream.”

His voice cracked.

“I’ve heard you scream before. You’re dramatic. You yell when someone ruins your tea. You yell when I move the TARDIS too close to a sun. You even yell when I poke at you too hard about wearing your little footie jammies.”

His breath shook.

“But that scream…”

He looked up, eyes burning.

“That wasn’t dramatic. That was real. And I ran. I ran faster than I ever have in my life. Because something in me—something—knew it wasn’t part of the game anymore.”

The Doctor didn’t speak.

But his rocking had slowed.

Just a little.

The Master noticed.

And he softened his voice even further.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I should’ve known. I always know. You’re my whole universe, and I didn’t see it.”

He lowered his gaze to the floor.

“They hurt you. Right in front of me. And you were all alone. You called for me, didn’t you? I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there.”

He sniffed — once, hard.

But still no tears.

Not yet.

“I’ve told you a hundred times — you don’t need to be big for me. You don’t need to pretend. If you need your blankie, your baba, your Dada’s lap—you ask. You tell me. I’ll come. I will always come.”

He looked up again, eyes shining.

“I didn’t know you were hurting. I didn’t know you were tiny. I didn’t know they were breaking you. And I will never—never—forgive myself for it.”

The Doctor made a soft sound. A hiccup. Barely audible.

Donna stilled, watching him carefully.

The Master leaned in, but didn’t rise.

“I would never hurt you, starlight,” he whispered. “Not even when we fight. Not even when we’re on opposite sides. I don’t care about this planet. I don’t care about my stupid army. I don’t care about any of it.”

He placed a hand against his chest, like swearing on his hearts.

“I care about you.”

The Doctor blinked.

His lips moved.

Donna leaned in. “What was that, sweetheart?”

“…hurts,” the Doctor whispered.

Her heart broke all over again.

“I know, love. I know.”

The Master sucked in a breath like it physically hurt to hear him speak.

He moved forward — slowly — on hands and knees.

Still keeping distance.

“Can I stay close, baby?” he asked, voice shaking now. “Just here. I won’t touch. Just let me be near. Please.”

The Doctor didn’t answer.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

The Master took it as permission.

He crawled the rest of the way, sat cross-legged about a foot from the two of them, and folded his hands in his lap like he was afraid they might do damage on their own.

“I’ve missed you, little star,” he murmured. “Even when I was being stupid. I missed you. I missed your laugh. Your wobbly little run. The way you cling when you’re sleepy. I missed you. My baby.”

The Doctor let out a soft whimper.

Then his lips moved again.

This time, just one word.

“…Dada?”

The Master gasped.

Eyes wide.

Then he broke.

He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath until that tiny voice — soft as a feather, broken as glass — whispered the word he needed most.

He let out a sound — half-sob, half-laugh — and his whole body folded.

His palms slammed to the floor. He doubled over, forehead against stone.

And he wept.

Not pretty tears. Not dignified ones.

Ugly, gasping, ripping sobs that sounded like they were being dragged out of his very soul.

“Stars above—baby—I’m so sorry—” he choked, fingers curling into fists. “I didn’t know. I didn’t see. I should’ve—should’ve—"

His voice collapsed into silence, just breath and brokenness.

Donna froze where she knelt. Her eyes widened as she looked at him — the Master, the Master — sobbing like a child, absolutely destroyed.

“…Blimey,” she murmured, stunned.

She turned to the Doctor, still curled tightly against her.

He was watching, wide-eyed.

He hadn’t moved. But he wasn’t flinching anymore.

Just staring.

Donna touched his cheek gently. “Sweetheart… he’s crying for you.”

The Doctor blinked, slow and owlish.

“D-Dada?” he repeated, this time more uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it.

The Master choked on a sob again. His hand reached out, hovering just above the floor between them.

“I’m here,” he rasped. “I’m right here, Starlight. Dada’s here. Dada’s always here—”

The Doctor whimpered.

His tiny hand slipped away from Donna’s jacket and trembled toward the Master — only a few inches, but it was everything.

The Master looked up.

His face was wrecked. Eyes red-rimmed, cheeks flushed, lips trembling.

And when he saw that hand reaching, he just collapsed again. Forward this time.

But not to touch.

To press his forehead to the floor.

To show he wouldn’t move without permission.

That he’d kneel in penance for as long as it took.

“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I love you so much. And I didn’t protect you. I let them hurt you. You were calling for me, and I didn’t come. What kind of Dada am I?”

The Doctor blinked again.

Something in him cracked.

He reached further. Still shaking, but with determination now. His fingertips brushed the Master’s.

And the Master broke all over again.

He gathered that tiny hand in both of his and kissed it, over and over, desperate and whispering, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

The Doctor hiccuped softly.

His whole frame trembled.

And then, at last, he leaned.

Just a little.

Toward him.

The Master moved so carefully — like he was holding a star that might shatter in his hands. He slipped his arms around the Doctor’s back, pulled him ever so gently from Donna’s grasp, and gathered him into his lap.

And the Doctor clung.

He clutched at the lapels of the Master’s coat, burying his face in his chest, letting out a high, pitiful sob.

“Hurts,” he whispered. “It hurts…”

“I know, baby,” the Master breathed, rocking him. “I know. I’m so sorry. Dada’s here now. It’s over. It’s over.”

The Doctor whimpered.

The Master rocked him, whispered nonsense, kissed his hair.

Donna watched in silence, eyes misting.

She didn’t interrupt. Not this time.

She just sat back against the wall, arms folded around herself, watching the Master cradle the Doctor like the most precious thing in the universe.

And for once, feeling bad for him.

Because she could see it, clear as day.

This man loved the Doctor so much it hurt.

And this?

This wasn’t part of a game.

This was a man losing his mind over the smallest Time Lord in the universe.

“I’m not letting go,” the Master whispered. “Not for a second. You’re safe, my love. Safe with Dada.”

The Doctor whimpered, still so small, still so scared. His fingers clutched weakly at the lapel of the Master’s coat. He didn’t quite curl into him yet — but he wasn’t pulling away.

That was enough.

The Master cradled him close, arms secure, chin tucked over messy brown hair, rocking ever so slightly where he sat on the cold stone floor.

And for a moment, he thought he could hold it together.

But the Doctor let out a tiny noise — a hiccup, a whimper, barely a breath — and something inside the Master snapped.

“Oh, stars—” he choked, voice already shaking. “I should’ve been here.”

His grip tightened by a fraction, protective, not restraining.

“I should’ve known,” he gasped, blinking fast. “I should’ve felt it, Theta—I always feel it when you need me—why didn’t I feel it?”

The Doctor stirred faintly in his arms but didn’t speak.

The Master looked down, eyes wide and filling fast.

“You were calling for me,” he whispered. “You were screaming for me and I didn’t come—I didn’t hear you—I was upstairs like a bloody idiot doing nothing while they—”

His throat closed.

His eyes brimmed.

He shook.

“I let them touch you,” he said, and now the tears were coming, fast and hot. “I let them hurt you, and I didn’t stop it.”

The Doctor twitched in his arms and nestled just a bit closer.

That was what undid him.

“I love you,” the Master sobbed. “Oh, my baby—my precious, perfect boy—I love you so much it kills me.”

He rocked them gently, like he was holding a newborn.

“My Thete. My little star. My heart,” he whispered, forehead pressing to soft, trembling hair. “You’re everything. Everything. I’d burn the universe for you. I’d kill the universe for you. I have. And I’d do it all again.”

A sharp sob cracked through him. He kissed the Doctor’s hair again, again, again.

“I failed you,” he cried. “I left you. I didn’t protect you. I broke every promise I ever made—”

A soft sound.

The Master froze.

Then:

“…Koschei?”

His heart stuttered in his chest.

He looked down.

The Doctor’s eyes were bleary, pink-rimmed, still swimming with fear.

But he was looking at him.

He knew him.

He whispered it again, a little stronger. “Koschei…”

“Oh, my starshine,” the Master breathed, voice cracking into something unrecognizable. “Yes. Yes, baby. I’m here. Dada’s here.”

The Doctor whimpered and tucked his face into the Master’s chest, small fingers curling into his shirt.

The Master curled protectively around him like a shield.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, still crying. “Dada’s got you. And I’m never letting go again.”

---

The Doctor didn’t speak.

Didn’t lift his head. Didn’t whimper anymore.

He simply clung to the Master’s coat, knotted little fists at the collar, tucked in as close as he could manage. His breaths were ragged, but soft. Fading.

The Master stood slowly from the dungeon floor, one arm curled protectively under his baby’s knees, the other wrapped tight around his back. He didn’t even flinch when the Doctor whimpered and shifted, still trembling in his arms.

He just held him closer.

His eyes were twin storms.

“Donna,” he said without looking up, voice so quiet it was lethal, “where’s the TARDIS?”

Donna blinked hard, wiping her face. She still hadn’t let go of the iron bar she’d been ready to beat a man to death with.

“Two levels up,” she croaked. “Storage bay six. Key’s hidden under the vent in the back wall.”

He nodded once.

“Thank you.”

He turned toward the exit, a man possessed.

But he paused in the doorway.

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

“I’ll be back for what’s left of them.”

---

Blood on his coat. A trembling Doctor in his arms.

And fire in his veins.

No one stopped him at first — stunned silence following his trail like the wake of a crashing meteor.

Until they reached the command deck.

A soldier, too green to know better, stepped in front of him.

“State your intent,” the man said, gun raised. “That prisoner in your arms is classified enemy. He was part of the resistance. He’s not supposed to—”

The Master didn’t speak.

Not at first.

He adjusted his hold on the Doctor — who let out a tired whimper and clung tighter — and stared straight through the soldier’s skull.

Then, softly:

“You touched my baby.”

The soldier blinked.

“…Sir?”

“Your dogs tortured my little one,” the Master hissed, venom dripping with every word. “They laid hands on what belongs to me.”

He stepped forward.

The air crackled with rage.

“You think I care about your empire? About your pathetic claim to this rock? You think I need your armies, your flags, your chains?”

The soldier started to raise his blaster.

Wrong move.

With a snap of his fingers, the Master’s laser screwdriver flew into his hand. In a blink, he fired.

The man didn’t even scream.

There was only ash.

And then silence.

The Doctor shuddered in his arms — but didn’t cry out. Just hid his face again.

The Master exhaled, long and slow.

“Anyone else?” he asked calmly, eyes scanning the room.

Dozens of officers stood frozen. Pale. Shaking.

He nodded.

“Good.”

---

He didn’t negotiate.

He dismantled.

Orders were issued like divine decrees.

Dismantle the command center. Withdraw every remaining troop. Release all prisoners. Burn the archives. Scatter the ships. Evacuate within the hour.

One officer dared to ask, “And if we don’t?”

The Master smiled, baring his teeth like a wolf.

“Then I wipe this planet from existence.”

He shifted the Doctor higher against his hip.

The tiny Time Lord gave a faint hiccup and mumbled something into his chest, too quiet to hear.

The Master softened for a breath, brushing his knuckles against a tear-streaked cheek.

Then turned back to the trembling command room.

“And I’ll make you watch.”

---

They scattered.

Every last one of them.

By the time he reached the docking bay, no one remained to challenge him.

He stepped through the final corridor like a god of vengeance — bloodied, glorious, and burning.

The Doctor didn’t make a sound.

Just clung.

His little fists were still clenched tight in the Master’s lapel.

The Master’s voice cracked as he reached the final door.

“We’re going home now, baby,” he whispered. “Dada’s got you.”

The TARDIS sat waiting.

The Master didn’t pause.

He walked straight in.

And the doors closed behind him.

---

The TARDIS doors sealed behind them with a soft click.

The moment they did, the Master inhaled — deep, controlled, ragged at the edges — and whispered to her, “Anywhere. Just… float. Middle of the vortex. Out of time.”

A hum of understanding answered.

And then the world around them shifted, starlight spinning into mist as the TARDIS slipped into the folds between realities.

They were safe.

Finally, finally safe.

The Master exhaled. Then looked down at the bundle in his arms.

The Doctor was trembling.

His head still buried against the Master’s chest, tiny hands knotted into his coat, face puffy with tears and exhaustion. He hadn’t said a word since they left the base. Just held on, like the world might swallow him if he let go.

The Master kissed his hair softly.

“You’re okay now, starshine,” he whispered. “Dada’s got you. Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

The Doctor made a faint noise. Barely a whimper.

But he didn’t resist.

---

The nursery door opened with a soft hiss.

The Master stepped in slowly, murmuring soothing nonsense with every breath.

“There we are, home again… Soft blankies and warm light, all just for my baby boy…”

The Doctor made a soft, confused hum — too little to register the space around him.

But when the Master turned and pushed open the attached bathroom door, a flicker of awareness sparked in those sleepy, tear-worn eyes.

Warm mist billowed around them as the tub filled — not too hot, never too hot — soft bubbles blooming across the surface like stars. The Master lowered him down slowly, handling him like he might break.

“There we go, sweetheart,” he cooed, rolling up his sleeves. “Time for a nice warm bathie. Dada’s gonna take care of you.”

The Doctor whimpered softly, arms trembling as they tried to cling — but he was too tired.

The Master cupped his cheeks gently.

“I’m right here,” he whispered. “Not going anywhere.”

He helped him out of his torn clothes, careful not to catch on the bruises or cuts. The Doctor hissed at a few spots, but didn’t fight.

“Poor thing,” the Master murmured, brushing back his damp fringe. “They hurt my little prince, didn’t they? Oh, love, they’re gone now. Dada took care of it.”

He settled him into the water with a sigh of relief.

The Doctor let out a shaky breath — and a tiny hiccup.

Then another.

The Master’s heart clenched.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, dropping to his knees beside the tub. “We’ll make it all better.”

He washed him gently, talking the whole time — soft praises, gentle babble.

“So brave for Dada. My strong little Time Tot… Look at you, getting so squeaky clean…”

The Doctor blinked slowly, lips parted around a paci that had materialized in his mouth without him even noticing. He didn’t suck yet. Just held it, like a tether.

The Master wiped him clean with the softest cloth in the universe. Then, lifting him from the water, wrapped him in a fluffy pink towel and carried him, dripping and shivering, to the medbay across the hall.

He laid the Doctor down gently.

“Just a quick patch-up, my love,” he said, kissing his forehead. “Then we’re off to snuggles.”

The Doctor nodded faintly.

Eyes dazed. Body limp.

The Master worked quickly — sonic sealing the bruises, applying warm healing gel to the burns, whispering soft things the entire time.

“Dada’s so proud of you. You’re being so good. My brave little soldier…”

Finally, finally, he scooped him up again and headed back to the nursery.

He laid the Doctor down on the changing mat — pink and cloud-patterned, just as always — and smiled.

“Now, let’s get you all dressed, yeah? Comfiest nappy, softest onesie… Dada knows what his baby likes.”

He reached for the fluffy printed nappy and powder.

“This one’s got moons and stars,” he murmured. “Just like you, baby.”

The Doctor whined faintly, still clutching his paci — too small to fight, too small to help.

“Let’s get that tushie powdered,” the Master cooed, dusting gently. “Such a perfect little bottom. Can’t have it getting sore.”

He kissed his belly with exaggerated flair.

The Doctor let out a tiny squeaky giggle. Just a sound.

But it was something.

The Master beamed like he’d won a war.

The nappy was fastened. Crinkly and snug.

Then came the pale blue onesie — snap-crotched and soft as a cloud. Little socks. A satin-edged pink blankie. And finally…

“Here’s Mr. Meow-Meow,” the Master said gently, tucking the well-worn stuffed cat into his arms. “He missed you.”

The Doctor let out a noise — half-gasp, half-sob — and curled around the toy like it was life itself.

The Master lifted him, cradled him close.

Carried him to the rocking chair.

“Let’s get some baba in you, sweetheart,” he whispered, settling in. “You’ve had such a day.”

The bottle was already warm.

He offered it slowly.

“C’mon, baby,” the Master cooed. “Drink up for Dada. Make those little sips…”

The Doctor latched with a soft whine. His fingers curled around the Master’s shirt.

The first few swallows were hiccupy and broken. But the Master just rocked him. Coaxed him. Spoke every soothing word he knew.

“You’re safe. You’re mine. I’ve got you, Thete. My beautiful, brave little star.”

The Doctor’s eyes fluttered closed.

Still nursing.

Still clinging.

Still safe.

And when the last drop was gone, the Master just held him.

Rocked. Whispered.

Cradled his world in his arms.

Until the Doctor drifted off at last, peaceful and warm, wrapped in soft things and love, Mr. Meow-Meow tucked beneath his chin.

The Master didn’t move.

Didn’t sleep.

Just held him.

And watched the stars drift past.

---

The nursery was quiet.

Not silent — the TARDIS hummed gently in the background, and the soft mechanical whirr of the mobile above the crib spun lazily overhead, casting starlight patterns over the walls — but it was the kind of hush that wrapped around a moment and held it still.

The Master hadn’t moved from the rocking chair.

The Doctor was fast asleep in his arms, snuggled under his pink blankie, dressed head to toe in soft cotton and wrapped around Mr. Meow-Meow like he was the last tether holding him to the universe.

His face, for the first time in hours, was peaceful.

But the Master’s was anything but.

His hand moved slowly over the Doctor’s back, fingertips feather-light. Every inch of him trembled with restraint.

Because he had to hold it together.

He had to stay strong for him.

But it was getting harder by the second.

The little one let out a sleepy sigh in his arms, soft and hiccupy.

And that was it.

The final crack in the dam.

The Master’s mouth twisted, and he pressed a desperate kiss to the top of that messy, beloved hair.

“Oh, baby,” he whispered. His voice was already starting to crack. “My little star. My precious, precious Thete…”

He clutched the Doctor just a little tighter. Not too tight. Never too tight. But he needed him close.

He needed to feel him.

The tears came before he could stop them.

Hot. Relentless.

Silent at first, streaking down his face as he rocked the tiny Time Lord in his arms.

“I didn’t know,” he choked, pressing his face into the Doctor’s hair. “I should have known. I should’ve felt it. My baby was hurting, and I—I let them touch you…”

His shoulders shook.

The Doctor whimpered softly in his sleep, pressing closer.

The Master froze, instantly back in control, one hand smoothing over the Doctor’s side.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep, my love. Dada’s here. I’m not going anywhere.”

But even as the little one drifted deeper again, the Master’s heart twisted in his chest.

“I saw your face, Theta,” he whispered, voice hollow. “You were scared of me.”

That hurt worse than anything.

Worse than the betrayal. Worse than the blood. Worse than watching the Doctor be tortured right under his nose.

Because in that moment — that single, shattering moment in the dungeon — the Doctor hadn’t looked at him like a hero or a villain or a god.

He’d looked at him like a monster.

And the Master didn’t think he’d ever forgive himself for that.

He clutched the baby closer, burying his face in the Doctor’s shoulder.

“I would never hurt you,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Not in any universe. Not in any timeline. I’m your Dada, Thete. Yours. You’re everything.”

He kissed the Doctor’s temple, over and over again.

“My starlight. My little one. I’d burn galaxies for you. I have. And I’ll do it again.”

More tears fell. He didn’t stop them now.

Didn’t try.

He let himself feel.

Let himself break.

Because the Doctor had broken, too.

They were both cracked wide open now — raw and vulnerable and aching. But they were here. Together.

And somehow… that made it bearable.

The Master rocked him slowly, forehead pressed to his baby’s.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Even when you’re scared of me. Even when I don’t deserve it. I’ll hold you. I’ll love you. Until you remember who we are.”

He cradled him tighter.

“You’re mine, Theta Sigma. My little moonbeam. My heart.”

The tears slowed eventually. Left his face blotchy and wet, his nose stuffed and miserable.

But the Doctor never stirred.

He just slept, safe in the arms of the one person who would never let go again.

And the Master rocked on.

Whispering his love into the quiet, starlit room.

---

The Doctor woke slowly.

No jolt. No panic. Just the warm drag of awareness returning — bit by bit — like light creeping over a battlefield still smoldering.

His body ached.

Inside and out.

But he was dry. Clean. Warm. Wrapped in soft sheets that smelled of talcum powder and something that had to be called Soothing Infant Lavender No. 3 in the Master’s ridiculous inventory.

He shifted slightly.

The crinkle of his nappy was unmistakable.

So was the fuzzy stretch of a onesie around his chest.

Normally, that would’ve sent him into a stammering fit of self-conscious protest.

But not this time.

Not yet.

Not when he could still remember being held.

The Master was there beside him before he could even sit up fully. Watching. Waiting. Always too tuned in.

“Hey,” the Master said softly. “There’s my big boy.”

The Doctor flushed. “M’big now.”

“I know, sweetheart. Doesn’t mean we stop talking.”

The Doctor nodded. “I want to. Talk, I mean.”

The Master settled beside him, close but not crowding. The room was quiet, but not still. It held something. That charged sort of hush that always comes before something soft or something sharp.

The quiet stretched.

Then—

The Doctor hesitated. Then: “I’m sorry.”

The Master blinked. “...what?”

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor repeated. “For falling into it. For letting myself regress. You were winning, and I— it wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop.”

The Master’s voice was sharper than expected. Not angry — just full of something that trembled like fury but sounded a lot more like heartbreak.

He turned fully to face him.

“You don’t ever apologize for being little,” he said, fierce and unwavering. “Do you hear me, Theta Sigma?”

The Doctor flinched slightly at the full name.

The Master softened. Just a bit.

“You think I only love the big you?” he asked gently. “The clever one in the suit with the speeches and the plans?”

The Doctor didn’t answer.

The Master leaned in.

“I do love that one,” he said. “But I also love the baby who sucks his thumb and calls for Dada when he’s scared. I love the one who hides under blankets and asks for his baba in a whisper. I love every single inch of you, starshine — big and small.”

The Doctor’s throat bobbed.

“But I’m supposed to be able to—”

“You’re supposed to be safe,” the Master interrupted. “You don’t owe the universe your pain. You don’t owe me your self-control. If you’re tiny, then you’re tiny. And I’ll be right there — every single time.”

He paused.

Then leaned in, pressing their foreheads together.

“I’m your Dada, remember? Not just when it’s convenient. Not just when it’s bedtime. Always.”

The Doctor let out a shaky breath. His lashes fluttered.

“Even when we’re fighting?”

The Master’s voice was fierce and hoarse. “Especially then.”

Silence.

The Doctor exhaled, a full-body sort of sigh, and nodded.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

The Doctor smiled, watery and crooked.

“Okay, Dada.”

The Master’s breath caught.

There was a moment of silence.

“I didn’t know,” the Master said, voice low but steady. “I swear to you, Theta — I didn’t know what was happening to you down there.”

The Doctor looked at him, wide-eyed.

The Master continued, eyes locked on his. “If I’d had even the faintest idea that my men were laying a hand on you, I’d have burned the entire dungeon to the ground.”

“You did,” the Doctor said, quietly.

The Master gave a soft huff. “Not soon enough.”

A beat.

Then a flicker of a smile touched the Doctor’s mouth. “Okay.”

The Master beamed. “Okay, Dada?”

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “Don’t push your luck.”

The Master grinned.

“Here we go,” the Doctor muttered.

“Oh, come on,” he cooed, lounging against the pillows like he hadn’t been emotionally gutted twenty-four hours ago. “You were so teeny, love. Thumb in your mouth the whole time I was threatening planetary collapse. Honestly impressive multitasking.”

The Doctor made a face. “I wasn’t that little.”

“You had your arms up for me the moment I walked into the cellblock.”

“I was confused!”

“You squeaked when I put you in the tub!”

“You used cold water!”

“It was warm! You just didn't like being without your ducky.”

“Ducky is judgmental.”

The Master snorted. “You were clinging to me like a sleepy koala, sucking your baba and whispering ‘no go, Dada.’”

The Doctor groaned, dragging a pillow over his head.

“And don’t even get me started on when I said it was powder time,” the Master continued gleefully. “You squealed! Legs up like a good little starfish—”

“Dada.”

The Master waggled his eyebrows.

“Yes, poppet?”

The Doctor lowered the pillow just enough to smirk. “You’re one to talk.”

That gave the Master pause. “Excuse me?”

“You’re going on about me, but let’s rewind, shall we? Let’s talk about the part where you held me in the rocking chair, sniffling like a lovesick nanny.”

The Master’s smile froze.

“I was not—”

“Oh, you were. I might’ve been small, but I remember. You were blubbering into my blanket. ‘My baby, my baby, I’ve got you now’— sound familiar?”

The Master blanched.

“I… I was overwhelmed.”

“You’ve got a real soft spot, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” the Master hissed, bolting upright.

The Doctor leaned closer.

“You were crying,” he said, grinning like the devil. “Clutching my pink blankie and whispering, ‘My baby, my baby, please know Dada loves you.’”

The Master opened his mouth — then closed it again.

Speechless.

Pink.

The Doctor leaned in with a devilish grin.

The Master went rigid.

“And that wasn’t even the first time, was it?” the Doctor cooed. “Oh no. You cried in the dungeon, Koschei. Actual tears.”

“I—” The Master’s voice wobbled. “That was different—!”

“You saw red, killed a dozen guards, and then sobbed over my tiny form like a tragic widow in a space opera.”

The Master was pink.

No — red.

“You—you remembered that?”

“Every last second.”

The Doctor was radiant now. Smug. Glowing with satisfaction.

“And you didn’t even know I was still that little yet, did you?” he went on mercilessly. “You were holding me, whispering all your big, scary, tender feelings, while I was tucked against your chest like a snoozy jellybean.”

“Doctor—”

“Dada.”

“Stop—”

“Dada cried. Don’t cry again, Dada!”

“I’m leaving!”

The Master marched toward the door, nearly tripping on the blanket in his haste.

The Doctor howled with laughter. “Aw, Dada! Come back! Want your hanky?”

The Master did not answer.

He was already halfway down the hall.

The Doctor slumped back onto the bed, giggling so hard he couldn’t breathe.

Then he sighed. Eyes drifting shut.

Warmth still curled around his chest.

They were ridiculous.

Embarrassing.

Messy.

But safe.

And safe together.

And that — for all their nonsense — was more than enough.