Of all the Masters, this face is the most openly physically demonstrative, and that’s what compels him to hum fondly at the trust his lost beloved shows him, and to reach out, slowly, to pet his face.
“We’re best friends. You will always be safe with me.”
My love, oh my love, when your memory returns, and it shall, know that I didn’t lie, for all the pain’s squarely, firm as concrete, stored in the inaccessible past. Inaccessible even to time travelers, for we are changed people, no matter where or when your TARDIS takes us.
He laughs a broad cackle when his beloved suggests that he is worthier of the snobby moniker.
“You use the term less to connote a literal physician, luv. More as a bit of sanctimonious twaddle about patching oop the universe. You’re a bit of a prig, but your hearts are truly enormously loving, so after long agonies of feuding, you and I decided to simply be the old married couple that we are… . yes. I said that, yes.”
He quirks his lip at his beloved idiot.
“Don’t you dare flirt with me. Even like this! You cad. I love you.”
He turns a console monitor toward the Doctor on his way to studying the proverbial crime scene.
“You’re MY wiry thin blooshin’ maiden.”
He pinches his cheek, hard, and snaps his teeth “threateningly’ at the tip of his nose.
“And don’t you ever forget that.”
He, the ’Doctor’ apparently though he’s still not entirely convinced that should be a title one gives to one’s self but rather something one earns as time passes, leans into that given touch at his face with a gentle, affectionate hum of his own. His eyes flutter closed and briefly, though not for the first time since this beautiful stranger wandered into the room, he loses himself in ponderings of the dual feeling of thrumming beneath his chest, the scent of the other man, the way it seems as if he isn’t alone even within his own mind.
There’s a presence, just there, lingering in the background, beyond the reach of his thoughts and though he attempts to grasp it he seems unable, which doesn’t surprise him- how does one grasp something entirely intangible, as incorporeal as a specter.
He knows he has a name, a proper name, but he doesn’t ask for it. Instead he’s content to bask in the other’s hand as it travels along his freckled skin, in the other’s words as they soothe and reconfirm. This seems natural to him, this near devout interaction between himself and Koschei, and he can’t help but want it to continue. His eyes flutter open once more, unable to keep them off of the other for long.
The corner of his own mouth tilts upward in a crooked grin.
“Must be a prig if I’ve given the title to myself without having earned it first. Managed to land a bloke like you anyway, but still. Seriously, who- who calls themselves a Doctor simply because they fancy themselves one? It’s- It’s-”
The words stop, sputter off and his breath stills as Koschei continues, as he says the words ’I love you’.
He feels… special, beneath the attention of Koschei. Worthy, somehow, as though by being the object of it was in some way linked to validation. Yes, he is loved but it only matters because Koschei loves him. His mouth falls open silently and he lets out something akin to a soft grunt as he is claimed, as Koschei lays Ownership to him, as he’s ’threatened’ by those snapping teeth so close to his face which is, again, burning crimson.
Only this time, it’s not just embarrassment that’s done it, which he’s thankful isn’t evident due to the way he’s sitting. It’s still rather uncomfortable, though, and he shifts slightly to alleviate the pressure below his waist.
“I’m… I’m yours.”
He repeats this and it’s genuine, memories be damned. He knows it’s true. He can feel it down to the marrow, deeper still beneath, to his very core. It takes him several long seconds to compose himself, but when he does his smile is impish and his umber eyes sparkle with mischief.
“I love you, too, and I’ll flirt with you if I wish. You’re my husband, after all, aren’t you? That gives me exclusive flirting rights. It also means I get to do this.”
Then, against his better judgement and without getting up from the grating, he rolls onto his side, reaches out a hand, and promptly slaps Koschei right on the arse on his way past.
That slap couldn’t be more comforting; the Master barks a laugh.
“You b a s t a r d, got amnesia and still having the time of your bloody LIFE. That is SO you, Thete.”
The Master bares his teeth again at his husband, letting slip the truncation of the Doctor’s school nickname. He smacks down his palms square on each of the Doctor’s thighs and leans in closer still.
“Floppy, pretty, sentimental dandy, you don’t know how happy it makes me that ninety percent of you is still intact.”
And surprisingly, he returns lewdness with chastity, pecking his beloved on the forehead. He saw the lump in his trousers. He knows. Concealing it is a moot point. Yet he allows his friend his dignity, this once, under extenuating circumstances.
“Right. No more monkey business.”
This time he well and properly disentangles himself, stalking over to the smoking circuitry. He straps on a toolbelt. He pulls a pair of goggles from an overhead cubbyhole and wheels himself under the console. The sound of tightening screws and turning gears is plentiful for several moments.
Then,
“Oh, ZOUNDS. Oh, I got it. Oh golly, I’m clever.”
He wheels out, engine oil on his cheeks and button nose, hair a mess, with an expression of mad enthusiasm.
Icarus 