Chapter Text
The Brigadier came to him on a Wednesday evening. The Doctor was watching the sunset on the television screen in his room, because vampires didn’t get rooms with windows for the obvious reasons—both that UNIT’s monster containment facility was several miles underground and that vampires tended not to react well to sunlight—and only turned slightly at the noise.
The Brigadier lingered in the doorway before speaking. “Doctor,” he said. “Good evening.”
“Hello, Alistair,” the Doctor returned. “I don’t suppose you’ve brought dinner.” He hadn’t, of course. The Doctor would’ve been able to smell the blood, even when packaged.
The agreement the Doctor had with UNIT was as such: he would remain in his suite of rooms, which would be locked securely, but all the locks would disable themselves in case of fire; if the fire was started within his suite, the surrounding corridor would be locked down and all the sprinklers activated to prevent him from starting a fire himself in order to escape. (This turned out to be a reasonable decision, because the Doctor had bartered for a lab to prevent himself from getting so bored he’d stake himself.) The Doctor would be fed two bags of blood a week—one on Wednesday evening, one on Sunday—and would have three additional meals of nutrient slurry meant to supplement it. The Doctor, in turn, would assist UNIT when asked.
It worked out quite well for both of them.
“You know I haven’t,” said the Brigadier. This was true: the people that brought blood were always cautious to remain out of the room and well-armed when providing it. As if the Doctor were susceptible to common bloodlust. “I’ve come to ask you for your help.”
“What is it this time? Silurians? Sea devils? Oh, let me guess, someone else invented Cybermen again.”
The Brigadier’s brow furrowed. “If only it were that, Doctor. It’s something much worse.”
“Well, then you ought to tell me, hm? I shan’t read your mind.”
There was that small twitch to the Brigadier’s lip when the Doctor reminded him vampires were capable of reading minds. It required skin contact, which the Doctor didn’t have, but most humans were afraid of vampires. “We have evidence that Gallifrey Inc. have restarted human trials.”
The Doctor stilled. He turned to look at the Brigadier properly. “They wouldn’t.”
“You know they would. You know Gallifrey better than anyone else did.”
“The High Council—”
“Would do anything to engineer immortality for themselves.”
“Rassilon was dying,” he snapped. “Omega hasn’t been seen since Nyssa, Tegan, and I caught him in Amsterdam—”
“Omega fell to pieces,” the Brigadier corrected. “His body was failing him before you shot him, Doctor. That indicates they’d not stopped their testing. We’ve been on the lookout since then.”
“Omega was always reckless! That doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“But we found someone.” The Brigadier reached out as if to touch the Doctor, but thought better of it. “We found another vampire, Doctor. And we know who he used to be before Gallifrey got a hold of him.”
“What?” the Doctor said, over the pounding in his ears. Another one. The Monk was dead. The Corsair was dead. The Rani had fled and there had been no sight of her since. The War Chief had been brought back to Gallifrey and kept close under the fold. The Brigadier would’ve told him if it had been any of those four.
There were three vampires that had been brought back into their pods.
If human trials had started again—
“The fellow calls himself the Master,” the Brigadier continued. “We believe, from the remarkable physical similarity and the name, that this may be Tremas—Nyssa’s missing father, if you’ll recall. He was declared a missing person around the time that we believe the initial human trials would’ve taken place. The Master looks almost exactly like him, if younger. His hair is shorter and darker and his beard a little smoother—”
“Don’t do to him what you did to the Rani and the Monk,” the Doctor said, grasping the Brigadier’s wrist. The Brigadier had gone tense, although there were several layers of clothing between the Doctor and his bare skin. “Alistair, you have to listen to me. The Master could have valuable information. If you drive him mad like you did those two, if you file down his fangs—”
“Doctor,” the Brigadier said, with the kind of intonation that suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d said his name. “While we have initiated standard vampire security procedures to hold him for now, we wanted you to speak to him. It could be useful to have two vampires on our side. Besides,” he added, with a small smile in the Doctor’s direction, “You’ve made your thoughts on fang filing clear enough to us.”
“It’s barbaric,” he muttered, but released the Brigadier anyway. “I’d like to see him, if I can.”
“That’s why I came. Do you know him?”
“Every vampire from Gallifrey knows each other.”
“Doctor.”
“We were close,” he admitted. “It’s been a long time, and the Master was never very stable.”
“I must confess I find your kind difficult to grasp,” the Brigadier said, gesturing for the Doctor to walk before him. “Could this Master be convinced to work with us?”
“I doubt it. What did you want him for? He can’t offer you anything more than I can.”
“He might have more up-to-date news on the workings of Gallifrey.”
The Doctor exhaled—more a motion practised than a motion remembered. “I’ll see if I can get the information from him.”
“You’re really sure he won’t work with us?”
“Not unless his life were under serious threat,” he said, then amended: “Under serious threat from someone else.”
“Shame,” the Brigadier said. “I thought perhaps the two of you could be sent out to assess the danger together. It would be safer for there to be two of you, and someone that isn’t a vampire can’t infiltrate Gallifrey, after all.”
The Doctor’s head snapped round. “You would allow me out?” he said, cursing himself when his voice came out excited, like a dog hearing the word walk. “Even after what happened with Adric and Turlough?”
“It has been five years,” the Brigadier pointed out. “You have been consistently reliable, if snappish. It has also been suggested that keeping you here is—inhumane.”
“But I’m not human, am I?” he said. “That was the point of keeping me as a consultant. There are no established work hours for a monster like I.”
“Yes, well,” the Brigadier said, then gestured at the double doors before them. “This way, if you will.”
“Doctor!” came a voice—a familiar one. His heart panged as he turned. “Please,” Nyssa Traken said, slowing as she reached them. “I only wanted a moment with the Doctor, if possible. Alone.”
The Brigadier raised his eyebrows. “There’s an empty conference room three doors down,” he said. “Please do call out if you need help.”
The last part was directed to Nyssa, of course.
“I will. Thank you,” she said with a smile. She held her arm out. “Doctor?”
He took it, if only because it had been a long time since anyone had offered to touch him of their own free will. Turlough had always wanted to. Peri had only been afraid after the Brigadier had given her a dressing down for her carefree attitude towards him. Even still: five years was a long time, even for someone with eternal youth.
Five years was a long time. On the bagged blood he’d been having for the better part of a decade, he had grown fragile. It wasn’t ageing in the traditional sense, but he was certainly wearing thin. Nyssa had been studying tissue samples from him and had been modifying the nutritional slurry as she could. He’d seen her via video call at least once a week for years. He just hadn’t seen her in person.
In his head, she was still just barely eighteen, fresh-faced and devastated and determined. She was ruthless when she had to be, but devastatingly kind.
She had grown. She had grown into a fine young woman, and her determination fit her face better now.
“Doctor,” she said, that same smile on her face. He smiled back, because he was good at smiling. “It’s good to see you properly.”
“You too. How have things been in the labs?”
“Oh, they’ve been good. Are you aware that you have blood?”
The Doctor blinked. “Yes?” Then: “Should I not be?”
Nyssa waved a hand. “Common consensus would suggest that vampires don’t have blood, and that’s why they drink it.”
“That’s perfectly ridiculous,” he said. “What’s the point of having two hearts if I don’t have blood?”
“It’s strange, though. It acts strangely. Your hearts don’t pump the blood as a human heart would; they seem to be battering it down so it can continue moving by itself. It’s really quite odd.”
“I see,” he said. “That can’t possibly be what you wished to speak to me about so desperately.”
It had been five years since he had last seen her in person. She had been working on bioengineering for UNIT the entire time, often on him. They had spoken frequently enough that she could have held that conversation when they took his first blood sample—again, years ago now. She was avoiding the topic she wanted to talk about.
She hesitated, one hand smoothing down her sleeve. “Not exactly,” she hedged. “Doctor—”
“It’s about your father,” he guessed, and she nodded, her face crumpling.
“You knew him, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “You know this, Nyssa. My memories from the beginning are few and far between. I don’t remember who came before the Doctor. I don’t remember Tremas.”
“But you said you and—the Master—were friends,” she pressed. “Surely you can tell me something. Did he—”
“Remember you? No.” He reached out and cupped her hands in his, resisting the buzzing urge to press into her exposed mind. “I don’t remember anything, and the reconstructive work done on the Master was more extreme than mine. We were birthed there, even if the bodies were owned by someone else first.”
“Nothing?” she said, tremulous. “Nothing at all?”
“I’m afraid not. We grew up together, in a sense. If he had remembered a daughter, or a wife, I would’ve known. We’ve been in each other’s minds.”
Nyssa looked away, took a deep breath, and when she looked back, she had steeled herself. “I understand. Thank you, Doctor.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I could offer you something else.”
“Talk to the Master,” she said. “Or—may I ask another question?”
“Go ahead.”
“What did you mean when you said the Master had more reconstructive work done than you?” she asked. “We’ve scoured records from the last thirty years for anyone bearing a resemblance to you and found nothing. Meanwhile my father—the Master—looks almost the same as I remember him, only a little younger. Surely—”
“The Master was very badly burnt,” the Doctor said. It was back when breathing was still an instinct. He could remember the Master’s breaths on his skin, harsh and ragged; he could remember the way the Master had reached for him and he had cringed away. Skin contact had been strange and awful—their telepathy was untrained, and the Master did not shy away from his agony. The Doctor had been paralysed for over a day after they removed the Master from the premises. “Often when we spoke it was via the Matrix, rather than physically. What was left of him had to be put in stasis.”
“The Matrix,” she said, turning the word over on her tongue as though she were trying to recall it. “That’s the digital consciousness upload system, isn’t it? The Plan Z, as it were, for Rassilon.”
“Yes. They tested it on Borusa—remember him?”
“The disgraced MP?”
“The very same. He had been working for Gallifrey for twenty years or so by that point, I believe. He used to teach us. He had a coronet—”
He clamped his eyes shut as a fresh spike of pain cut through his head. It had been a beautiful thing, the Coronet of Rassilon. All that gold, with those red rubies. The cuts had been done scientifically. His head pounded. If only he could remember why the cuts mattered—Borusa’s face, the smile, the hand on his shoulder—his knees jarring against the floor—he smiled, and tried to think past the pain. Nyssa. He was talking to Nyssa.
“Doctor?” Nyssa’s hand touched the side of his face. Her mind sung to him. He kept that door firmly shut. “Are you alright?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he said, waving her away and keeping himself a safe difference from temptation. “Just a headache, that’s all. I’ll be alright. We shouldn’t keep the Brigadier waiting, now, should we?”
“You were saying something about a coronet?”
“Hm? Was I really?” He smiled, and the dull ache in his head persisted. “You know, would you believe that I really can’t quite remember?”
“Of course, Doctor,” Nyssa said, and her hand found his elbow again. “You ought to talk to the Master before that headache of yours gets worse. Come on.”
He let her lead him from the room, and was comforted that the less he thought about Borusa and his—about Borusa—the less he thought about it, the less his head hurt. It was easier to let it go. He had a job to do.
“Thank you,” Nyssa said, as they approached the double doors again. “For talking to me, I mean. I’ll be on the cameras if you need me.”
“Are you ready?” the Brigadier asked. “Reports on the Master have shown a propensity for violence.”
“UNIT doesn’t have the most vampire-friendly reputation,” the Doctor said. “The Corsair ran straight into the arms of House rather than parlay with you. The Rani’s escape—”
“Did a lot of PR damage, yes. Hopefully you can smooth that over.”
“I hope so,” he said. “And yes, I’m ready.”
“Your headache?” Nyssa asked.
“Completely gone, I’m pleased to say. Vampire physiology, no doubt.”
“Of course.”
“Behind me, this time, if you will, Doctor,” the Brigadier said as the doors were opened. The Doctor folded his arms behind his back. “Master,” he began.
And the Doctor caught his first glimpse of the Master in nearly eight years. His handsome appearance had been restored, although his hair and beard were shorter and neater. He’d started to gel it back. It suited him. He had suppression cuffs on both his wrists, connected to a short chain. He had a suppression collar on and despite the seven years between the Doctor and his own collar he could still feel the ghost of it about his neck.
He was, undeniably, the Master. Neater, yes, and with a wild look to his eye, but the Master. The Doctor swallowed.
“Brigadier,” the Master purred, in a voice not quite familiar but familiar enough. “What have you brought me today? Will you file my teeth down and try and fix me until I go mad? Tell me, am I to be the Rani or the Monk?”
“Nothing of the sort,” the Brigadier said. “I brought you a friend.”
“A friend?” the Master sneered. “Who here could possibly—”
“Master,” the Doctor said, stepping into view. He smiled. It seemed like the thing to do.
The Master’s presence seemed to fill the space. The Doctor didn’t recall it being so oppressive before—back when the Master had, apparently, looked like Nyssa’s father. He had to try not to think about that when he thought about the Master, because he could remember the feel of the Master’s hands and lips on him and it felt far too much like a perversion to consider that he had once been Nyssa’s father. Then again: perhaps it would be better to remind himself of Tremas, because the Master’s presence was familiar. It was like he was visiting him in the Matrix again, when the Master pressed in on him on all sides. When the Master—
“My dear Doctor,” the Master said, a broad smile on his face. “So good to see you again.”
“I wish I could say the same,” the Doctor returned. “I’d hoped your little stint had killed you for good.”
The Master laughed, low and in the back of his throat. “You know I wouldn’t let something like that stop me. Come now—I hadn’t expected to see you here at UNIT, Doctor, and certainly not uncuffed. I hadn’t thought any self-respecting vampire would consider this place an option after the Monk’s passing.”
“A terrible accident,” he said, aware as he said it that it was a lie—he himself had railed at UNIT staff members over their actions. “Master, if you’re capable of restraining yourself from violence, there is no need for fang filing. UNIT would like to request your help.”
“Not a prisoner, then,” the Master said, his eyes moving from the Doctor to the Brigadier to the soldiers about the sides of the room. “But I will be, if I don’t assist.”
“Precisely so,” the Brigadier cut in. “The Doctor has been a remarkably useful asset to us over the past seven years, and we aren’t in the business of turning away assets.”
“Doctor,” the Master said. “Come here.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why should I?”
“Don’t be a fool,” the Master said. “Seven years, of which you’ve not been seen for five. Show me your fangs, Doctor. And give me your hand.”
The Doctor’s eyes skittered across the room, to where all the soldiers’ positions had grown slightly more tense. He didn’t look at the Brigadier. So few had seen his fangs—he was careful to smile with closed lips, careful not to show so much as a hint of teeth. To these people he was docile—perhaps even a friend—but he was dangerous, and he always would be. That’s what the humans would decide.
Before he could persuade himself not to, the Doctor bared his fangs.
A shocked intake of breath came from someone—multiple someones—and the Doctor wished he could touch someone’s face, see what it looked like to a human. His fangs were long and deathly sharp, the pointed tip obscuring the hole through which is he drank. They finished higher in his gums than the rest of his teeth, where the blood passage lay.
“My, my,” the Master said. “Do you hide your fangs, Doctor? I thought your smile looked carefully arranged. You’re playing at being human.”
“I’m hardly playing,” he scoffed. “Everyone knows what I am.”
“In theory, perhaps, but not in practice. Give me your hand.”
“Why should I?”
“I wish to see how you’ve been treated.” The Master levelled his gaze at him. “Surely even you cannot begrudge me looking for proof of fair treatment.”
“You can find it the normal way,” the Doctor said, firmly. “I shan’t let you into my mind.”
“The human way, you mean,” the Master corrected. “Oh, Doctor. How the mighty have fallen. Let me make it clear: either you let me make assurances for my own safety, or I will not help you.”
“Then on your own head be it,” he said. “I am not letting you inside my head.”
He could still feel like Master’s presence in him, tacky like cooling sugar. He remembered those long weeks of having parts of his body regenerated, his body not feeling like his own; he remembered those hours he was given to be alone, where he’d wept quietly and then had to wash away the blood.
The Master’s eyes widened, however minutely, and the Doctor knew he was surprised. “Have you become that human, Doctor? Though I suppose you always were one to fold.” The ache of the headache was back, however slightly. “Or—no. Are you afraid?”
“That would be ridiculous,” he said, but it didn’t come out as convincingly as he’d hoped.
“You are, aren’t you?” the Master said, with no small amount of glee. “Can you still feel me inside you, is that it?”
“Shut up,” the Doctor said, low. He could feel the eyes of the soldiers on him.
“You can. My dear, you couldn’t have brought me a sweeter treat. Does it gall you, then, to know that—”
The Master didn’t get to finish the sentence, because the Doctor surprised the pair of them as his fist made contact with the Master’s face. The satisfaction of breaking his nose was almost enough to outweigh the feeling of the Master’s mind grasping his own.