Chapter Text
He wakes up because the TARDIS is tilting and the artificial gravity is wrong and he goes sliding across the floor into one of the consoles. The breath goes out of him as his back hits the metal and he's too stunned to figure out immediately what's happening. The ship shakes around him, screaming mechanical protest, and tips in another direction so he starts to fall again. He grabs at the edge of the console, holding on desperately as the TARDIS falls out of the sky.
Alarms and warning lights blare through the control room, disorientating. There's another judder, a creak, and he hears someone else make a startled sound as they suddenly tumble past the central column and go skidding across the upended floor. They flail a bit as the row of consoles come into reach, and then they're clinging on right next to him, both of them exchanging wide-eyed, panicked looks of incomprehension as they try to figure out what's happening, why they're here, and - belatedly - who exactly they are.
Oh. Well that's a disturbing revelation.
Before he can dwell, the TARDIS slams into something with a crash. Sparks fly from the central column and something explodes in a flash of broken glass and metal. The ship tilts again and he barely manages to hold on, scrambling with his feet at the metal grating of the now nearly vertical floor. The man holding on next to him isn't as quick to react, lets out a frightened sound as he looks down at the drop opening up below them, his grip starting to slip from the console.
Instinctively, he reaches out and grabs for him, clutches at his sleeve. It's a mistake. The other Time Lord immediately clings back, abandoning the console in favour of clawing at him instead, suddenly wrapped round his waist as he tries to keep himself from falling. The strain of the extra weight immediately starts to pull him down too and he grits his teeth against it, a growl building in his chest. His foot slips from where he's got it lodged in the grating and they both let out yelps of panic as they jolt downwards. His fingers are slipping, and he winces as he braces himself for the inevitable painful fall across the control room.
They drop - and the floor bucks up beneath them like a punch in the stomach as the TARDIS flips over yet again. He grunts, goes tumbling across the grating until he hits a railing, holds onto that instead. The ship shudders and rocks a final few times - and then mercifully goes still.
He doesn't trust it at first, stays where he's found himself curled round the metal barrier, waiting to see if it throws him again. Nothing moves, but the shriek of alarms and the snap and hiss of damaged machinery is deafening. Wary, he sits upright, narrowing his eyes against the sting of smoke. He has to leave, let the TARDIS repair itself before it kills him. He hopes vaguely that it's landed somewhere hospitable.
The other Time Lord is unconscious, he sees, lying unmoving on the metal grating a little distance away. Blurrily, he looks around at the damage, trying to get his bearings. He notices, of all things, the sonic screwdriver on the floor by the central column and crawls his way towards it, hastily shoving it into a pocket before he drags himself upright, horrified by the sick, dizzy feeling that promptly sends him tipping sideways. He manages to catch himself on the handrail, then clumsily points himself in the direction of the door, coughing in the rising smoke coming from the navigation panel. He means to step over the sprawled figure on the floor, but his foot catches on a shoulder and he goes toppling like a stack of bricks, hits the walkway without a single shred of dignity. It should probably hurt more than it does, but he realises the golden light of regeneration energy is still playing across his skin, burning off the bruises before they even start to form.
The other Time Lord stirs at the inadvertent kick, sits up in a panic. He immediately starts coughing in the toxic air as well, pressing his sleeve over his mouth and squinting round. "Go, go," he instructs, muffled and impatient as he gestures at the door.
They half crawl, half stagger their way off the ship, tumbling out into fresh, chill air. Immediately, the TARDIS door slams and locks behind them, cutting off the screech of alarms from inside.
He sits stunned in the relative quiet that follows, the ground damp under his hands, his head swimming. He feels nauseas. He feels like the world is still tilting. The regeneration sickness is worse than he can ever remember it being - possibly, he supposes wryly as he looks up at his unexpected company, because they each just got hit with two blasts of it in close proximity.
The other Time Lord catches him staring and warily straightens from where he'd been slumped against the TARDIS door. They both keep looking, wordless, studying each other in careful silence as they search for a sign of something familiar, some indication of who they are. He doesn't recognise the face looking back at him - but that's to be expected, it's new. What strikes him as impossible is that he's not immediately clear on the identity behind it.
"Are you...?" The other Time Lord pauses, evidently struggling to articulate the question they both want to ask. "Do you know...? I mean, can you remember what... which one..." He stops again, obviously frustrated, and then squares his shoulders. "Which one of us are you?"
Brushing himself off as he clambers to his feet, he opens his mouth to offer a sharp response, but it dies in his throat as it hits home again that he really doesn't know the answer. 'They' as an entity are the Doctor and the Master. He knows that much. He remembers the titles and the history, he knows who those people are, that they were together when they regenerated, he just... doesn't know which one he is, exactly.
The thought is mystifying, incomprehensible. How can he not know? He runs a quick scan through what memories he can summon up, but the recollection is patchy at best, and everything he finds feels distant and muted, like he's watching a film full of other people. He can't connect to any of it, can't feel the emotions he knows should be attached. Thinking about what he knows of the Master's history feels exactly as clinical as thinking about what he knows of the Doctor's, and he can't pick out anything in the mess that would identify him as one or the other. It's astonishing to realise how twisted up their histories are, that in their state of disorientation they're indistinguishable.
"Not sure," he says shortly, glaring at the tarmac ground.
The other Time Lord drags a hand down over his mouth, wincing slightly. "Ah. Okay. Well that's a problem."
They'd been fighting, he remembers vaguely. Actually grappling in the TARDIS, one of them trying to flee and the other clinging for dear life trying to stop him. He thinks for a second he's made progress, because the Doctor's always the one that's running, so that must be him. But he can't quite reconcile the Master with 'clinging' so that doesn't make sense either, and he frowns as he swiftly arrives back at square one.
He thinks they might have killed each other. Finally managed it, in perfect sync. Or maybe one killed the other and got caught by the regeneration blast that followed, he's not clear on the details. Only that they've both woken up with unfamiliar faces, memories in disarray, and without the anchor of someone else's certainty to build themselves around. It's like running headlong into a wall, and he finds himself scrabbling for the edges of the mental block, trying to get round it, get past it, to where he knows the details of himself are hidden.
The other Time Lord steps past him, looking round at where they are. He turns to look as well. It's night, raining faintly, and they're in the middle of nowhere. Well. An empty car park, actually, of all places. Earth, twenty first century, from the familiar smell of the atmosphere. (He's been here enough to recognise it easily, then. A sign he's the Doctor?)
"Earth," the other man says at the exact same moment, ruining that hunch. "Do you remember why we were here?"
"No."
They both turn back to regard the TARDIS morosely. There's white smoke seeping out from around the edges of the door now, the smell of burning circuitry, and a warning light slowly flashes atop the blue police box.
Beside him, the other Time Lord folds his arms. "I assume it's going to be a while repairing?"
He glances over, slightly taken aback. Is he supposed to know? Is it... his TARDIS? Affecting confidence, he shrugs. "Probably. We wrecked it with two regenerations in there."
"So... We just wait around here until it's done?"
His face screws up, faintly incredulous. "You do realise we most likely just murdered each other, right? And you want to... what, hang out?"
"We didn't 'murder each other'," the man snaps sceptically, rolling his eyes. He's quiet for a second, then his voice drops to a sarcastic undertone. "...One of us probably killed the other, yeah, and we both know who that was."
"No we don't!" he bites back, infuriated. "That's the problem!"
The other shows his teeth in annoyance, reaching up to tug at his hair. "This is ridiculous! How can we not know?! Don't you - I don't know - feel more like one than the other?"
He sneers. "Am I feeling recklessly homicidal or the burning need to save puppies and kittens with heroic flare? No. Are you?!"
"...No."
He does, however, feel suddenly sick to his stomach as another wave of vertigo comes over him. He staggers slightly, bending at the waist and bracing his hands on his knees, convinced he's about to throw up. From his spot a few feet away, the other Time Lord watches without comment, unimpressed and standoffish.
"No, I'm fine, really," he forces out through gritted teeth. "Don't trouble yourself."
"I might not know which of us is which, but either way you just killed me. Sorry if I'm not rushing to help."
"That's petty. You're petty now."
"Doesn't narrow it down much."
He blows out a breath as he straightens, trying to shake it off. As he does, he suddenly remembers his discovery and extracts the sonic screwdriver from his pocket, frowning as he turns it over in his hands.
The other man looks across at him sharply, points as though in accusation. "The Doctor."
"...Not necessarily," he admits. "Found it on the way out."
The other reaches for it curiously - and he automatically snatches it out of reach.
"Get off. Finders keepers."
An annoyed sigh, and the other Time Lord relinquishes the attempt with yet another roll of his eyes, instead casting a searching glance out over the dimly lit car park. "We should get inside somewhere while we wait."
Maybe it's the weakness brought on by regeneration sickness, but he is cold actually, and the damp settling into his clothing isn't helping. After a moment's tense hesitation, he nods, tucking the sonic back into a pocket.
They start walking towards the light of nearby streets, moving with the odd, halting gait of two people trying to learn new bodies. It's made even stranger by the surreal, distinctly temporary nature of the truce between them, held in place purely by the fact that they don't remember who is supposed to hate who, and for what reasons.
It occurs to him that one of them is in far more danger here than the other. After all, one of them's a pacifist, and the other is the Master. He glances over surreptitiously, catching the other man scanning the area as they walk, eyes sharp and quick and restless. It suddenly feels like something of a gamble. There's a hidden springtrap in one of them, and they're currently in no condition to figure out which. He tries to decide if he feels much like a pacifist.
"Which way?"
He shrugs as they approach the edge of the car park, too lost in his own musings to have strong feelings one way or another about where they go, so he follows without comment when the other man picks a direction and sets off. They edge round the outside perimeter of the carpark and then across to a street lined with small shops. For the most part they're all closed, and he realises they're in the early hours of the morning. So they trail along the street somewhat aimlessly, hands in pockets, peering into windows with idle interest as they pass.
He's the first to see the people standing in the middle of the road, his eyes drawn to their silhouettes against the orange glow of streetlamps. He puts a hand out, touches the other man's arm with the back of his knuckles to get his attention. Three figures stand shoulder to shoulder just ahead of them. They're not moving, and both Time Lords stop walking as they realise they're being watched intently. He squints, noting the metallic masks, the odd militant stance, and most importantly the weapons at their sides. Not human.
"Company," he observes dryly.
"Think they're here for us, or we were here for them?" the other Time Lord muses curiously, glancing at him with raised eyebrow.
"Does it matter, they're -"
In unison, the three masked aliens raise guns. It's so quick and perfect a motion is seems almost mechanical, and he knows straight away that they're not going to hesitate. The other man is still looking at him, not paying enough attention, and he wants to yell at him to get out of the way but it's too fast and - stupid. Without thinking, he shoves into him, throws his shoulder against his side to send them both crashing sideways. They go tumbling down behind a parked car as the beams of energy weapons fly by overhead. The other Time Lord grunts discomfort as his weight lands clumsily on top of him, breath gusting past his ear. There's a blast, a rush of air as fire catches, and a car alarm starts screeching somewhere past them.
They scramble tighter against the shelter of the car they've found themselves behind, backs pressed to the tires. He swears under his breath, looking around as he tries to find an escape route, a way of defending himself, anything. There's nothing he can see, and if they decide to come closer they're completely vulnerable here. It was careless, being caught short like this, he should have known to expect something. Neither one of them can ever set foot on this bloody planet without someone wanting to kill one or both of them.
He remembers the sonic again and snatches it from his pocket. It's the only thing of any use they've got on them, insufficient as it seems right now. He exchanges a quick glance with the other Time Lord, who nods encouragement, eyebrows up expectantly. He hisses a breath, tension rising as every instinct in him demands self-preservation over heroics, but unfortunately he's the one holding the screwdriver. Another round of energy blasts sear past overhead, one of them skimming off the bonnet of the car with a high-pitched whine, making him duck lower. He grits his teeth, bracing himself, and then surges up enough to take a decent shot with the sonic.
They're nowhere to be seen.
He goes still, furiously scanning the length of the quiet street, squinting suspiciously into the pools of shadow between lamplights. Nothing moves. Next to him, the other Time Lord slowly leans down to peer under the car towards where the aliens had been standing.
"Gone," he comments, glancing up at him.
He lets out a heavy breath, dropping back into a sitting position on the ground and tipping his head back against the metal. As the short surge of adrenaline starts to fade, the disorientation of regeneration sickness takes him again and he has to put both hands on the wet tarmac like he's clinging to the planet.
"...Thanks."
He rolls his head to look over. It's the second time since they woke up that he's made the attempt to save the other man, and he feels them both realise it in the same moment. Realise the implications of it.
"You are the Doctor, then," the other Time Lord says quietly, dark eyes moving over his face.
"Looks like," he mutters in agreement, wary of the revelation. He'd been half-expecting some lightning strike of inspiration and purpose and identity, upon determining who he was again. But nothing feels very different, really. It doesn't unlock any secret cache of memories, doesn't make him feel anymore grounded. He supposes, at the very least, he knows what to expect from both of them now.
Unbidden, he thinks again about which one of them is in more danger from the other, aware of a vague sinking sensation in his stomach. Damn.
"Did you recognise them?" he asks as he gets up, hoping to distract the other Time Lord from the same thought process.
The Master rises as well, moving to peer over the top of the car at where the three aliens had been standing. He frowns thoughtfully. "Looked like Sycorax, maybe?"
The Doctor shrugs. Most of the Ishta System species look one and the same to him, really. "Alright, well why are they here? Tracking one of us?"
"Looked like scouts. Pilot fish. Probably smelled the regeneration coming off us and came looking. Think about it, they could run their batteries on us for centuries with the energy we're putting out at the moment."
He scowls. "Energy hunters. Means there'll be more after them, doesn't it?" And if they come after them here, it means they've inadvertently just brought down yet another predatory, warfaring species on Earth. "We should... do something about that, right?"
"Like what?" the other Time Lord asks, resting his arms on top of the car and propping his chin there. He wrinkles his nose slightly. "Sensible thing would be to just leave, I'd have thought."
They stare at each other dubiously. It still feels somewhat like they're both following a script. He knows what he's supposed to say, but there's none of the customary emotion or moral urgency he thinks should be attached to the argument. So he raises his eyebrows, and goes pragmatic instead. "Can't leave until the TARDIS is done repairing. We’re stuck here, and if your pilot fish liked what they saw there'll be more of them coming for us."
The Master tilts his head in concession. "Point. Alright, what exactly do you want to do?"
The Doctor hesitates. He wasn't actually expecting such immediate agreement, and he's got no follow-up suggestions ready. "Well."
The other man loses interest while he's still trying to think of his next point, standing straight and turning to regard the damage done by the Sycorax weapons. One of the cars that got struck by a shot has caught fire inside, flames licking up the fabric seats and smoke starting to billow from the cracked windows, alarm blaring. There'll be humans coming to investigate the damage within minutes, and if they don't want to be caught by some awkward questions then they really need to make themselves scarce while he decides what to do next.
"Come on."
Glancing around the street one last time to make sure there's no other nasty surprises, he resumes walking the way they'd been going, trying to remember if he knows the area or not. It takes him a few paces to realise the Master still hasn't moved himself.
"Hey! We need to go."
But the other Time Lord remains transfixed, stalled beside the burning car. He's drifted a bit closer and seems caught staring at it, unmoving, dark eyes wide and reflecting the bright, wavering light of flames. Impatient, the Doctor flicks his gaze skyward as he doubles back, reaching to grab at him. They don't have time for this, they need to move. But as he gets near, he sees the expression the other man is wearing and hesitates.
"What's wrong?"
The Master still doesn't move, can't seem to look away from the fire starting to curl round the frame of the car. His profile is illuminated gold as he blinks slowly, swallowing. "No, nothing. I just... I remember something."
The Doctor stops as well, then. He studies the man's profile, curious despite himself. The sound of the city fades as his attention narrows, and he finds himself edging closer, tilting his head as he tries to determine what it is he's watching here. "Remember what?"
The other Time Lord opens his mouth, but for a few seconds no words come out. He clears his throat, frowns slightly, looking almost baffled as he speaks. "The whole planet was burning. Gallifrey. At the end of the War, I was there."
The Doctor tries to remember if he was as well, but there's nothing there when he reaches for the information. His gaze drifts towards the flames, trying to see what it is the Master is seeing, the memories of destruction, but nothing triggers. He's almost jealous. "What was it like?"
"Chaos. Hell."
The Doctor nods, desperately trying to picture it. His hearts are speeding unaccountably in his chest, and he can't decide if it's from remembered fear or exhilaration. "What did you do?"
The Master turns to face him. For just a second he still looks lost, bewildered by the recollection. Then he blinks, and his expression suddenly goes hard at the edges, guarded. He tilts his head back so he's peering defiantly down his nose. "I ended it."
He doesn't follow, at first. "Gallifrey -"
"Is gone. They're all gone. You and me are the last."
They stare at each other in silence. The Doctor blinks, trying to process the information. He can't comprehend it properly yet, can't immediately fit it into his understanding of the universe.
"...What do you mean it's 'gone'? How can it be gone?"
The Master considers him for a moment, and then steps closer. His height means he's looking down through lowered lashes, gaze heavy and cold. "I mean it's gone. Destroyed. Daleks and Time Lords, all of them dead."
The Doctor draws a slow breath past his teeth, tasting smoke and ash in the air. He can't look away, fascinated and appalled, feeling heat flush through him in reaction. "You survived," he says slowly, like he's testing out the information.
The Master dips his chin down towards his chest, lip curling with something like anger. "No. I won."
The correction steals his breath for a second. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say, can't parse the adrenaline-shot of emotion that punches through him at the words.
He must fail to give the appropriate reaction, though, because the Master shakes his head once and steps past him without another word, heading off in the direction they'd been going. The Doctor turns to watch. He can feel his pulses thrumming in his wrists and throat, can't stop tapping out a nervous beat of four against the side of his leg.
He supposes, as revelations go, that at least it puts an end to any lingering uncertainty about which of them is which.
For lack of any better ideas, they duck into an all-night coffee shop they come across, sitting at a table by the window so they can keep watch on the street outside.
"So go on," the Master says expectantly, as soon as they're settled. He’s breezed past any previous mention of Gallifrey, refuses to be drawn on the subject again, and is back to amiable practicality. "You're the one with all the friends on this planet, put them to use. They must have some defences, surely."
The Doctor frowns down at his coffee, vague memories of UNIT drifting through his head. But that was decades before this time period on Earth, and try as he might he can't locate information about how to reach them now, or whether he's even still in contact with the organisation. He doesn't remember the humans he knows he travelled with either, or where they might be right now.
He shakes his head, slumping back in momentary defeat. "If I do, I don't know who they are."
The Master plants his elbows on the table, roughly rubbing his eyes in frustration. "Agh, how long is this going to last?! We're useless like this. Have you ever had regeneration sickness this bad before?"
He aims a withering glare across the table, holds out his arms incredulously. "How the fuck would I know?"
The other man snorts involuntary laughter, sliding his hands down over his mouth like he can conceal a smile, eyes crinkling up pleasantly at the corners. The Doctor looks quickly away, not liking the flutter of attraction that goes through him without warning.
"I'm starving," the Master announces, apropos of nothing, as he drums his palms against the tabletop. "Do you think they do chips here?"
They both scan round the empty cafe, chairs up on half the tables, and the waitress sitting tiredly behind the counter who's glaring at them in response to the overheard question.
"I'm thinking no."
"Assume I still like chips, anyway," he continues musing absently. "Always a toss up, isn't it? New body, new taste buds. Not sure what kind of man I am yet."
"I think we know the basics," he comments scathingly, arching a pointed eyebrow.
The other Time Lord settles back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. "See, you always have to get hostile. We were getting on fine for a minute, there."
He shifts uncomfortably, aware that it's true, but that it probably shouldn't be. He tries to summon up that cold, righteous disapproval he knows he usually feels for the Master, but he's - tired. Sick and disorientated. Not himself yet, and it's all too easy to buy in to the performative charm and creeping sense of familiarity the other man gives off. It's a fine, hazardous line they're walking in their current incomplete states, he suspects.
"I'm not hostile," he admits carefully, at length, realising he's being sincere only as he says it. Likely he'll feel different the moment he gets his memories back, but for now all he feels is... cautious.
"No?" The Master sits forward again with interest, mouth curling up at one corner. He looks far too slyly pleased by the knowledge, teeth showing as he grins with his tongue pressed against the point of one. "Finally going soft on me, Doctor?"
"Give it time," he warns blandly, averting his attention as he again feels the near physical pull of temptation. Honestly. He's old enough to know better by now, there's no excuse. He's supposed to be the sensible one.
"So what kind of man are you, this time?" the Master murmurs, voice gone low and curious, watching him intently. "By-the-book, again? The shining moral standard?"
He opens his mouth to offer a quip, but finds himself abruptly caught under the scrutiny, unable to look away. The words stall, unspoken. He closes his hands round his cooling coffee cup, swallows once. "Not likely. Was never that."
"Well, we agree on one thing, then." It lacks the bite he's expecting, sounding more like resignation.
Finally managing to break eye contact, he takes a drink - and immediately winces, putting it back down. "That's vile. Apparently I'm a man who doesn't like coffee anymore."
The Master gives a small smile, fleetingly entertained. "Sweet tooth," he guesses idly, returning his attention to the view from the window. "What do you want to do about our Sycorax friends, then?"
He's at least had a chance to think about it, this time. "Depending how far away their main ship is, scouts might not have had a chance to report back yet. We intercept them, no one finds out we're here, and we go on our merry way as soon as the TARDIS is done repairing."
"There's a lot of 'ifs' in that. Starting with the fact that, even if they haven't called home yet, we have no idea where they just blinked off to."
He reaches into his pocket, puts the sonic on the table in front of him. "Can't be too hard to find them, if they're close."
The other man regards him narrowly, unimpressed. "You really want me to go Sycorax-hunting with you. That's a thing we do now, is it?"
He lifts a shoulder. "Could be."
The Master drinks leisurely from his coffee, then settles back with one arm braced against the back of his chair. He frowns for a few long moments in thought, before it eventually morphs into a look of distaste. "No."
Annoyance flashes through him, though he's not sure why he's surprised. He snatches the sonic back from the table, already moving to stand - but the other Time Lord stops him.
"I say we force them to come to us."
The Doctor pauses, trying to determine if he's being mocked or humoured. "...Seriously?"
"Yeah, why not." His voice pitches up with casual amusement.
"We don't have a plan," he points out, feeling obligated. "Or weapons, defences, transport, anything."
"You don't even like weapons," the Master shoots back, grinning. "And since when have we ever had a plan?"
"You love plans," he again feels the need to insist, then immediately wonders why he's arguing against this. "Alright, how do you propose we get them to come to us?"
"They're tracking regeneration energy, right?" The other man makes a show of glancing around to check they’re not being watched, and then brings a fist up to cover his mouth. He coughs sharply, blows out, and they both watch the glimmer of golden light emerge on the breath. The Master smirks and nudges him beneath the table with his foot. "We're still regenerating."
"So?"
"So, let's give them something they can't resist."
He can't pretend something in him isn't intrigued, even though logically he knows it's the height of stupidity to be considering. He's not going to ask. He knows full well he shouldn't ask. Of the two of them, he's meant to be the voice of reason.
"...How?"
The Master looks unbearably pleased by the question, both of them aware the curiosity means he's already won. "Got an idea."
"Oh? Going to share it?"
"I'll show you, if you're ready to go."
That brings them to something of a more mundane concern, as they both look down at the coffees they're holding, across at the bored waitress, then exchange blank stares with each other.
"No money," the Doctor admits quietly.
"Me neither."
"Think she's going to cause a scene about it?" He suddenly can't stand the thought of the girl twittering at him, he's still got a headache. So he spins the sonic screwdriver on the table and takes aim. A quick burst - and the espresso machine behind the counter abruptly goes haywire. It hisses gouts of steam, spurts coffee, and the timer alarm starts screeching continuously. The waitress gives a startled yelp, spinning towards it and dithering as she tries to figure out what to do to contain the mess.
They stand smoothly from the table while she's distracted, heading for the door. The Master bumps up against him as they go. "Thief," he accuses happily.
They step out into the chill air and make themselves scarce, walking briskly further down the street. He's starting to feel the slightest bit better, conscious of his surroundings at last, more in control of his own movements. He's also overly aware of the man walking too close at his side, like this is normal for them. The Master is finally taller than him in this regeneration, he realises; an unprecedented and unwelcome development. He scowls up at him when he's sure the other isn't looking, studying the new sharp features, the youth of him, trying to find something he recognises of the cold, sharp-tongued Time Lord he can see in his fractured memories.
It occurs to him that he doesn't even know what he looks like himself, glancing down at his hand to see smooth, white skin. He touches briefly at his face, but it doesn't tell him much so he stops to peer into one of the shop windows they pass, squinting critically at his reflection. He's regenerated young and strong as well, apparently, at odds with the aged finery he's still wearing from his previous body, all embroidered waistcoat and voluminous sleeves. Dark hair; dark eyes; a bit of stubble; shorter than he'd like. But overall not bad.
The Master sidles up next to him, hands in the pockets of his oversized leather jacket. His attention fixes on their reflections as well, and he spends a few moments messing with the wayward fall of his hair, swiping it up into messy tufts. Then his mouth slowly curls in a self-satisfied smile. "We look good."
The Doctor snorts, shooting a sidelong glance across at him. "Still vain, then."
"What? We do." He grins outright, cheeky and boyish, as though to demonstrate his very point. "Been a long time since we've looked anything like this." He actually winks, dark eyes glittering with amusement.
The Doctor shakes his head, fighting not to respond to the infectious good humour. He's not supposed to be flirting. He's definitely not supposed to be entertained or in any way charmed by the performance. This is the man who just got him killed (probably); the man with a list of atrocities to his name longer than either of them can accurately recall anymore - only the most recent of which what he's supposedly done to Gallifrey. The Doctor knows he's supposed to feel disgust, hatred, righteous anger. It's in him somewhere, he knows the script. But it must be locked behind the same mental block as the details of his recent memory, because he can't quite get to it right now.
He sets it aside for the moment, returning to the matter at hand as he regards the Master coolly. "What's this idea then?"
"Oh, that." And he's immediately radiating that slightly manic energy again, stepping in too close, and the Doctor frowns curiously as he looks down and sees he's holding a fork he must have taken from the cafe.
"What -"
The other Time Lord moves too quick for him to react properly, grabbing at his waistcoat to hold him in place. Light glances off the metal in his hand as he brings it upwards - and the Doctor shouts as the tines of the fork drive hard into his shoulder, below his collarbone. He staggers backwards under the force of it and his own shock, mildly horrified to see the utensil still protruding from him, blood seeping out across the white of his sleeve.
The Master promptly holds his hands up in a show of harmlessness - like the damage isn't already done - and hisses a sympathetic sound as he squints at the fork.
Stunned, the Doctor stares at it wordlessly for a few seconds. He reaches up, hesitates, then pulls it from his shoulder with a grunt. Tossing it carelessly across the pavement, he clamps a hand over the small wound and shoots a betrayed look at the other Time Lord. "-Fuck me, what the fuck?!"
The Master steps forward again, having to follow him out into the middle of the street as he backs away. "They'll be looking for regeneration energy," he says, like it's obvious.
"So you stabbed me?!" He shoves at him clumsily with his good arm, getting blood on the leather jacket.
The Master catches hold of his wrist at the contact, uses it to drag them closer together and get an arm round his back. "Trust me, it's a really good idea." He doesn't hesitate in dipping his hand into the Doctor's waistcoat pocket and taking out the sonic screwdriver.
Still reeling with astonishment and the first dull throb of pain, the Doctor's too distracted looking down at himself to pay attention to the Master changing the settings of the device with easy familiarity. Golden energy is already starting to flicker over his skin, warm and tingling.
"Ready?"
He looks up, taken aback to find how close they are. The Master's eyes are bright and intent, darting between his own. He's pressed near enough that the Doctor can feel fast, exhilarated breath against his cheek, count the faint scatter of freckles the man's recently acquired. Adrenaline and endorphins and shock are rushing through him - and he blames the volatile chemical mix when he feels his gaze drop automatically to the other's mouth.
It doesn't escape notice, unfortunately. The Master tilts his head with a bite of his lip, brows knitting together wistfully. "Oh, just... hold that thought. Really." Then, without waiting for further response, he jabs the tip of the sonic into the wound in his shoulder and activates it.
Unstable regeneration energy immediately flares out around them both, amplified and agitated. He's not expecting it, the sudden dramatic drain of it, and he lets out a wavering sound he's not proud of as the power ruptures out of him. He feels himself go weak and staggers in surprise, but the Master's arm round him forces him to stay upright as he presses the screwdriver harder into his shoulder. It hurts.
"What - what the hell are you doing?"
"Making you irresistible." His dark eyes shine gold in the reflected light, hair fluttering wildly as heat from the spilling energy stirs the air around them. The Doctor wonders faintly if this is what he looked like in the last moments of Gallifrey.
Whatever setting he's using to amplify the regeneration ratchets up a notch, bright energy pouring out of him to lick across the pavement, the metal frames of cars, to arc and loop up higher into the air. It's costing him, he can feel that. He grits his teeth as he goes lightheaded, fists a hand in the Master's t-shirt as he braces to shove him away in self-defence.
But the Master curls soft fingers round the back of his neck and looks utterly earnest, of all things, as he says, "You can do this."
It's an all too obvious ploy at manipulation - but maybe because of that, it works. He bares his teeth in defiance, jaw clenched against the strain of restorative energy bleeding out of him. The fact is he can take this, and more if needed. He certainly doesn't need to be patronised by the other Time Lord to know as much.
So he sets his stance and hangs grimly to the Master's collar to keep himself steady, holds furious eye contact as he purposely lets him inflict the damage. There's something hard and cold and determined in him that rises to meet the ruthlessness, as it always does, and together they lift their attention to watch his very lifeforce illuminate the night sky around them.
"Come on!" the Master shouts in invitation, wildly exuberant. "All the energy you could want, come and get it!"
He wants to snap that it most certainly is not an unlimited supply, actually, but it's currently all he can do just to stop himself snarling pain. He's aware that the other man is supporting at least half his weight now, and his vision is starting to dim round the edges. It's never once occurred to him to wonder if it's possible to die from prolonged regeneration, but of course the Master would find a way to pose the question. He's reaching the outer limits of his endurance, knows he's going to have to push the other Time Lord off him to save himself - when, at last, something happens.
It is not the reappearance of the pilot fish.
Instead, his eyes go wide as he feels the strange, artificial jolt somewhere behind his navel of gravity losing its hold on him, the unmistakable sensation of being caught in a transmat beam. The last thing he sees before the view of Earth disappears around him is the Master's equal look of shock - and then they're both gone, the London street falling dark and still and silent in their wake.