The Master had chosen you — built you, really — in the ashes of a fractured timeline where mercy died screaming. You were sharp where others softened. You learned quickly, obeyed quicker, and questioned nothing. Your purpose was singular: get close to the Doctor. Close enough to sabotage. Close enough to end him.

“He always takes strays,” the Master had whispered against your ear like a knife. “Wear the right kind of hurt and he’ll open the door.”

So you did.

You sabotaged the TARDIS wiring on your third night aboard. He fixed it before you could finish. Called it “quirky.” Thought you were just curious.

You planted a signal for the Master on week two. The Doctor found it and assumed it was an old distress beacon. He gave it back to you. “Might be important.”

You weren’t supposed to like him.

Not the way you'd fall asleep hidden somewhere in the TARDIS and wake up with a blanket covering you and a fresh cup of tea right by your foot. Not the way his eyes, impossibly old, looked at you like you were worth saving just because you existed. Not the way he said your name.. gentle, like it didn’t belong to a weapon.

You were supposed to ruin him.

But instead, you started watching him. The way he tapped the TARDIS console like it was alive. The way he danced around danger with that impossible grin, hearts bruised but still hopeful. The way he’d wait— actually wait —to see if you’d speak, like your voice mattered.

“You all right?” he asked once, after you flinched at the sound of static in the monitor. His tone was soft, unassuming. Kind. You lied.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

He nodded, but his eyes lingered. “Right. Well. I’ll put the kettle on, then.”

You began sleeping in corners. Not because you were hiding—though you were—but because he let you. Left pillows nearby. Left books where you could find them. Didn’t press. Didn’t pry.

And then something shifted.

You stopped reporting. Didn’t answer the Master’s call. You heard it, the communication device in your ear but you silenced it. You even hid it under the console, hoping it'd get destroyed.. but it always ended up in one of your pockets again.

On a nameless planet, surrounded by ghosts and wind, you saved the Doctor’s life. It should’ve been nothing. A reflex. A moment of hesitation in a larger plan. But he looked at you like it meant everything.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

You opened your mouth—but what was there to say? That you didn’t want him dead anymore? That you couldn’t stand the thought of that light going out? That every day he treated you like you weren’t a weapon made you want to become something else?

Instead, you said, “I didn’t want to be alone.”

And he understood.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just stepped a little closer, that soft, mad grin flickering across his face like a sunrise.

“You don’t have to be.”

You couldn’t look at him after that. Not for long. The guilt burned too deep.

But he still brought you tea. Still asked if you’d slept. Still smiled like maybe, just maybe, you were allowed to stay.

And one night—quiet, stars brushing past the TARDIS windows—he sat beside you in the dark.

“Why did he send you?” the Doctor asked. Not accusatory. Just curious. Tired.

You swallowed. “To hurt you.”

He nodded. “Thought so.”

A pause. And then—

“But you didn’t.”

Silence.

“You could’ve,” he added. “But you didn’t.”

Your throat tightened. “I tried.”

“I know.” He didn’t sound angry. He sounded... heartbroken. “But you stopped.”

You looked at him. Really looked. That ridiculous bow tie. Crooked, stupid.. red fez. That tired kindness. That forgiveness. It felt like cruelty.