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The Doctor screams and screams, still without waking.
The Master doesn’t wake up either: he never fell asleep. It’s convenient being a robot - he’s finally got used to it - but the nights are long, especially when the Doctor sleeps.
When the Doctor has insomnia, the two of them spend the night retelling old stories; take turns changing the details to embellish their own role in events. When the Doctor gets the blues, the Master does most of the talking. Always thinking strategically, he uses this exercise to gauge the Doctor’s state of mind: if they correct his exaggerations, they’ve got their spirits back; if they start to snore, even better. But if they listen silently to the Master’s boasting, then he needs to worry.
Like any good telepath, the Master can catch some images from the nightmare, since dreams from an unshielded mind leak data left and right.
The Doctor sees again the faces of their friends disperse like sand, as the times they spent together are erased from reality. Their keepsake photos (sentimental, they’ve always kept slides, daguerreotypes, polaroids of their companions) go blurry as paradoxes resolve and one small decision taken who-knows-when by who-knows-whom deletes whole timelines. The Doctor can feel each rip in the web of time, even their neural connections overwhelmed by the simultaneous perspective of all the possible universes… One memory in particular of the Doctor’s own arm around the shoulders of a very special dear friend (the textures of her hair and her jumper), their arm meaning to protect her from all harm, their arm around a void when suddenly she has never been there. But the Doctor remembers. Turning history into fiction, TimeWars erase the events, but not their memory… and that’s what drives the Doctor mad.
The Master pivots his head and then his torso towards them, drapes one arm around the sleeper (curled in on themself, wailing, rocking). “Doctor. I’m here.” He leans into the nape of their neck and tries to get inside their dream, but the Doctor’s movement makes it hard to connect. The Master presses his forehead into the greying hair and pulls them close. He remembers (how could he have forgotten?) that his mechanical limbs are stronger than the Doctor’s biological body. It would be so easy to crush the chest or snap the neck of his… his what, precisely? Friend, enemy, lover, competitor, partner? His companion. Someone who, fragile as they are, has trusted him enough to fall fast asleep beside him. For the moment, this small actual improbability appeals to him even more than the potential for destruction. He holds them gently until the Doctor wakes.
The Doctor stops mid-shout, rubs their eyes, wriggles out of the Master’s embrace. Normally they would get up, take a walk down near-infinite TARDIS corridors to clear their head, get a drink of water… maybe something stronger. This time, the Doctor turns silently away and buries their face in the pillow. The Master waits. The Doctor’s shoulders shake but there’s still no sound. The Master waits a bit longer. Only when the Doctor begins sobbing does the Master reach out again. He smooths their hair, managing not to recoil at the sensation of cold sweat transmitted all too accurately through silicone fingertips. He puts his indestructible arms around the Doctor, meaning to protect them from all harm, from all sadness. They both know such a thing is impossible, but it’s enough to make it through to morning.
