Branches

 
In retrospect, perhaps poisoning Britain’s tea had not been a wise choice after all. The Master doesn’t trust the soldiers not to shoot him this time, and he doesn’t have regenerations to waste.

He needs to hide long enough to shake the Doctor from his immediate trail, formulate a way out of the city, find his stolen TARDIS from wherever the Doctor has stowed it, and then he can work out just how the Doctor managed to ruin his meticulous plans this time.

“He can’t be far…I think he ran this way.”

The Master’s hearts clench in his throat and he snaps his head up, eyes wide. He’s found me already? The Doctor’s voice had come from just around the corner.
 
The Master doesn’t even think. There’s no time to run and no place to run to, so instead he bolts into the shop directly behind him. It’s a clothing shop, so with any luck he’ll be able to find a temporary disguise, because without one it will be close to impossible to escape undetected from UNIT troops. A light tinkle of bells announces his presence. The Master stops just inside the door and stares in dismay.

Coats, trousers, dresses, blouses, and scarves of all shapes and sizes line the shelves and racks throughout the little store, all decorated with bubbly flower patterns and colourful designs that resemble what the Vortex might look like if one were under the influence of ten Fluorenian Kaleidoscope Mushrooms and at least one Pan Galactic Gargleblaster.

More significantly, however, the Master notes that all of the clothes are designed specifically for women.

“Sir?” A young lady emerges from behind one of the clothing racks and stares uncertainly at him. “Can I…help you?”

The Master glances back towards the door. Somewhere on the other side, the Doctor is searching for him, and soldiers will soon be following in his wake. He looks at the girl, about to ask her if there’s a back door exit, when he spots a garish, purple, fruit-adorned, broad-brimmed hat hanging from a stand in the clearance section.

Abruptly, he thinks of a rabbit.

And then he knows exactly what to do.


The Master fumes. He has long since tuned out the Doctor’s incessant babbling. It had taken all of his self-control not to reach up and throttle the man earlier. Unimaginative? A plodder? A mere nuisance? The part of the Master that hasn’t curled into a withered ball of misery inside is burning with fury over the Doctor’s casual dismissal. He tries not to think about how much more of him is in the former category than the latter, and instead begins plotting imaginative, vicious ways to punish the Doctor and teach him to never underestimate his Master ever again.

They pass through the UNIT blockade with ease, which had been the entire reason that the Master had decided to accept the Doctor’s assistance. Now, however, he begins to think that perhaps he can trick the Doctor and incapacitate him. That would be a suitable start to my revenge, he muses. I could hold him hostage for the return of my TARDIS.

But that would, he realizes, also require revealing his current disguise. The thought isn’t particularly appealing at the moment. If the Doctor isn’t taking him seriously now, the dress will not help matters. And, anyways, the streets are still too full of witnesses for him to pull off such a feat, even if he could manage to get the drop on the Doctor.

Still, the idea is tempting. He’s burning with a desire to reverse the situation, to have the Doctor at his mercy. He imagines what the Doctor’s face would look like if forced to watch his beloved humans die one by one, powerless to save them. He imagines the Doctor on his knees, defeated, and begging him, his Master, for mercy.

Abruptly, he becomes aware that the Doctor has been asking him a question. He blinks and places the fingers of his free hand to his temples, affecting light-headedness. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

The Doctor looks down at him, concerned. “Are we getting close to your home?” he asks again.

“Oh, ah, yes.” The Master thinks quickly, eyes scanning the street. “It’s that one there, actually. I can make it from here, thank you.”

“Oh, let me walk you to the door at least,” the Doctor insists. “It wouldn’t do for you to collapse in the street.”

The Master clenches his teeth in irritation and resists the urge to kick him hard in the shin. “Thank you.”

Once at the door, the Master removes his arm from the Doctor’s and clutches the buttoned collar of his coat. “I appreciate your help, sir,” he says, as politely as he can manage in the circumstances. “I’ll be quite all right from here.”

The Doctor smiles, infuriatingly cheerful, at him. “My dear young lady, it was the least I could do.” He turns a half step, as though to go, but then pauses. “Pardon me, but I never did ask your name. I’m the Doctor, how do you do?”

The Master is about to offer him a hastily made-up name in return when, quite out of nowhere, a very strong wind sweeps in.

The Master squints his eyes shut behind his sunglasses and hunches within his coat. Even through the four layers of clothing he has on (the coat, the dress, and his jacket and shirt beneath those), the wind slices through him like icy needles. He shivers.

When he straightens and opens his eyes again, the Doctor is staring at him with an expression of complete shock and dawning horror. The Master looks at him, alarmed, and wonders what’s wrong.

Then he realizes that his head feels much lighter than it did previously.

Oh, no. There, out in front of his buttoned coat, his scarf is unraveled and fluttering in the wind like a swarm of pink butterflies. His hat has blown away, leaving the Master with his face exposed. He turns pale and stares back at the Doctor, eyes widening with equal horror.

“You?!” the Doctor chokes.

The Master panics and does the first thing that comes to mind after having spent hours watching cartoons in which a certain rabbit has faced this exact dilemma. He lunges for the Doctor, grabs the back of his head and the collar of his ridiculous shirt, pulls him down, and kisses him hard.

The Doctor makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, but is too stunned to try and pull away. And while this would be the perfect time to push the Doctor off and make good his escape, the Master finds himself sinking deeper into the kiss and curling his fingers in the Doctor’s hair. His platform shoes, while awkward to walk in, are now giving him a delicious extra few inches in height that he is finding extremely convenient.

Then, the Doctor starts kissing him back. The cold, withered clump of misery that had tightened in the Master’s chest earlier now blooms with sudden warmth and unravels in fluttering tendrils throughout his chest. His lips part in a tiny, surprised gasp, which the Doctor takes advantage of by coaxing his mouth open and slipping in his tongue. Oh… The Master is dimly aware that the hand clutching the Doctor’s shirt has tightened into a white-knuckled fist around folds of velvety fabric.

It’s only when the Doctor creeps a hand about the small of his back, trying to pin him close, that the Master realizes his peril. He gathers his wits and surreptitiously slides one foot just behind the Doctor’s. He leans into the other Time Lord and, when he’s positioned just right, gently breaks the kiss.

Then he braces his leg and shoves, toppling the Doctor unceremoniously to the ground. The Master turns and bolts down the street as fast as possible in his ridiculous shoes without waiting to see the Doctor’s reaction.

The Master doesn’t, as it turns out, have to be concerned about pursuit. The Doctor props himself up on his elbows and watches his best enemy, clad in a yellow dress and bright pink scarf, flee ungracefully down the street.

The Doctor’s howling peals of laughter chase the Master the remainder of the way to safety.