The words come out in pitch much like the expression on his face- bitter and biting, tempered, and the syllables tremble just so at the ends. Enough to let even the most unfamiliar of strangers know that should they see any significance or worth to their lives, they won’t risk asking again. The normal rich chocolate hues of his eyes, dotted with umber and burnt sienna are now a more cafe’ noir lined with inky black. The storm is raging just beneath the surface, the result of three restless nights spent pacing the library in search of how to make the infernal nightmares- and, by consequence, the ever present noise of whispers and heartsbeats – cease.
If there is any being in all the universe whose stare can match a hopeless Doctor’s, in both blackness and intensity, it is the Master. He tilts his head to the right; it’s a form of measurement and a signal that he is game for this dark conduct.
“Then I’m sure you won’t mind me joining you. Indefinitely.”
For the challenge in his stare, his words are almost serenely cool.
You can’t pull this shit on me, Thete.
The challenge is met with narrowed eyes, until inky irises that all but match their respective pupils are but slits peeking through lids on the Doctor’s face. His own head tilts backward less than a centimeter, hardly noticeable to anyone without their keen senses. His own challenge rests in the gesture alongside a simple, stubborn message:
I can do whatever the fuck I like, Kos.
Outwardly, his words remain wooden and gelid- like the pier of a lake frozen over in winter, only creaking when stepped on too firmly and oh, oh how he creaks now.
“Indefinitely?Oohh, so now the Master’s stuck to my side like a barnacle to a sea vessel. At least I know nothing’s changed.” a flicker of his gaze from the Master’s head to his feet, then back again, “No matter. Just try and stay out of my way and for the love of Rassilon, stop asking if I’m alright. I swear, sometimes you behave just like a human.”
It’s clear he’s only trying to infuriate the other Time Lord enough to make him leave the room and leave the Doctor to his- fruitless -work. He doesn’t want to be alone. He isn’t alright. But he won’t ever, ever admit it.
“You know what, get your own act. ‘Selfish bastard’ is taken by me, and I’m way better at it. You get occasional attacks of morals.”
The Master is thrummingly aware of how much danger he’s in, to taunt the angry beast of his lifetime best friend when the Doctor is already past consolation. But he can’t stop; the truth is simple. The one thing more important to him than survival is being that impossibly stubborn “barnacle.”
He summons his lion courage and strides to a nearest bookshelf, pulls a title off and hands it to the Doctor.
Icarus 