Work Text:
Was it all worth it?
To risk everything for him?
To save someone who neither loved you, nor valued you, nor even deigned to see you?
That was the question echoing inside the Master’s mind as the cold Gallifreyan air brushed against his face. The Citadel stood silent and spectral beneath the glass dome, its towers gleaming like spears of ivory under the artificial sunlight. Somewhere deep within those walls, the Time Lords had summoned him to perform a noble act.
He had not hesitated.
Let them sneer, let them whisper their venomous words about “the traitor,” “the corrupted child of Gallifrey.” He had learned long ago that contempt was simply the applause of fools. Their loathing was his crown.
They had promised him a new regeneration cycle a laughably empty bribe. As if he would need the promise of life when the mere mention of the Doctor’s name was enough to make his hearts beat again.
And not one, but five of them.
Five incarnations of that maddening, impossible man.
For the Master, it was paradise.
The moment he laid eyes on the First Doctor again, stole the breath from his lungs. It had been centuries since he’d last looked upon that familiar countenance: the stern eyes of a young old man, his former classmate, his first friend… his first and last love.
He could still see that boy in the dusty classrooms of the Academy — the flash of defiance in his eyes, the way his laughter carried through the red skies. The one who had held his hand during the initiation trials, who had shielded him from crueler students. His protector, his rival, his undoing.
The Master could still taste the memory of that first, stolen kiss in the shadows of the Panopticon gardens, their fingers trembling with the dangerous thrill of discovery. And yet, that same face had later turned away, leaving him to burn alone in the wreckage of their youth.
No, the Doctor had not recognised him at first sight. How could he? The Master had gone through thirteen regenerations since those innocent days, clawing his way back to existence each time. This face, this elegant, dark-haired visage was stolen, borrowed from death itself.
And perhaps that was better. He would rather be remembered as that bright boy with the fire in his eyes than pitied as the creature he had become.
Then came the second Doctor, the clownish one, with that cursed recorder and foolish curls. The Master’s lips curved into something between a smile and a snarl. So much pain had been born from that face — the black holes, the traps, the endless chases through time. And yet, he admired him still. There had been a music to that Doctor, a rhythm of chaos he almost envied.
Once, long ago, the Doctor had even taught him to play the recorder. A ridiculous pastime. The Master had always preferred drums. They were more honest more like his own hearts, beating in perfect, destructive time.
And there, always at his side, that insufferable Brigadier, meddlesome human insect! Forever standing between them, forever interrupting their dance. Oh, how he had fantasised about shrinking that man and placing him in a glass case, a silent witness to eternity. Or perhaps, if fortune allowed, turning him into a Cyberman. Yes… poetic justice indeed.
The third Doctor — dashing, vain, self-assured. That velvet arrogance, that cursed car, that smile.
They had shared so many battles, some fought against each other, some side by side. There had been moments fleeting, treacherous moments when their hatred blurred into something warmer, something neither dared to name.
He remembered one night, after a near-death escape, when he’d almost knelt before that Doctor, offering everything for just a flicker of affection. But the Doctor, ever noble, ever fearful, had recoiled from it. He had chosen friendship over passion. Coward.
The fourth Doctor — the wild one. That absurdly long scarf, the mad curls, the wide grin that hid storms. The Master clenched his gloved hands at the memory. That incarnation had ruined everything.
The plan to annihilate Gallifrey, the careful years of preparation, undone by that infuriating buffoon. The Master had wanted his body — literally — to wear his face, to be him. And still, the Doctor hate him.
And finally, the fifth Doctor. Young. Golden. Beautiful.
So painfully beautiful it hurt to look at him.
That incarnation haunted the Master’s dreams more than he cared to admit. The soft-spoken gentleness, the clear eyes they had all the cruelty of innocence. In his mind, he would sometimes replay entire fantasies of their encounters: the chase, the capture, the inevitable moment when kindness turned to fear.
Five faces. Five fragments of a single obsession.
And he was to save them all.
The Doctors had never understood his efforts, nor the goodness buried deep beneath his chaos. They had treated him with ingratitude, as they always did.
The Time Lords, too, had betrayed him. Despite his obedience despite saving their precious Doctors they had broken their word. There was no new regeneration cycle waiting for him at the end of his so-called heroism. Only chains. A cold cell in the bowels of Gallifrey.
Of course, the Master had escaped with ease. That was hardly the point.
The point was him — the Doctor. His blindness, his cowardice, his ungrateful heart.
How many times had the Master laid the universe at his feet? How many times had he tried to give him everything: power, eternity, devotion?
And every time, the Doctor had recoiled. Turned away. Pretended not to see.
The Master’s lips curved into a bitter smile at the memory. Coward. Fool. He had offered the stars, and the Doctor had refused, as if domination itself were something to be ashamed of.
And yet, despite it all, he saved the Doctor and not once did he regret it.
Because without the Doctor, what was the point?
What meaning did the stars hold without his light?
The universe was merely a cruel joke, existence an empty stage. The Master endured this decaying body, this pitiful masquerade of flesh and time, for him.
To see him again.
To fight him again.
To dance that endless, fatal waltz across eternity.
Yes, one day the Doctor would die. Everyone wounded by time did. But when that day came, it would be by his hand and it would be beautiful.
Until then, their dance would continue. Forever.
He asked himself again, was it worth it?
A smile curved across his lips, dark and triumphant.
His voice, rich and low, echoed through the empty corridors of the TARDIS.
“In the end,” he whispered, “it’s worthwhile.”