The Master swallowed, looking down at their linked hands, his own clenching around the Doctor's long, thin fingers. The drums had picked up again, not loud, but there, as he felt everything shift again, reminded once more that this was not his Doctor. This was a Doctor whose version of him was better than he was - a version who hadn't run from the Daleks, hadn't fled to the furthest point he possibly could, hadn't debased himself by hiding as a human, living amongst other stinking, freezing, starving humans in the dark at the end of the universe.
He felt bile rise in his throat, bitter and acrid, and swallowed again, hard, and couldn't think of anything whatsoever to say.