He loves the finality of bodies hitting hard surfaces.
The Master loves to watch the final impotent exercise in futility, as a foe’s form wriggles and writhes like a worm on a hook and finally falls slack in blissful lifelessness. It’s nearly as grand as watching an enemy’s skin blister as he burns.
He loves these things without pretense, needy and ironically abject as an addict standing in the rain begging strangers for a lighter.
He loves them, and he indulges every whim to a new fix, the longer the epicenter of his life is skewed off course: the longer the Doctor is no more.
It’s rare that he feels that darkness existing palpably outside his own mind. But he feels the rage radiating from above his head, and it is raining on Mondas, raining on the corpses of the government agents that rose against him for his tyranny and died. Raining off the blood on his face and mouth and hands, raining a deluge so forceful that he nearly cannot see the blue box materializing on the muddy slippery hill overlooking the most populated platform of the ship.
The Master’s feet carry him upwards, until he’s waiting outside the TARDIS door for the man who steps out; without having ever seen this long thin face, he knows his oldest friend; the miasma of violent darkness radiating off of the Doctor, however, that is new, and it is intoxicating.
He is impenitently aroused.
“Oh, you … are … . beautiful,” he breathes, snatching out a hand, cupping the Doctor’s jaw harshly, appraising the old friend who has sunken into the quicksand beside him. “A Doctor without hope: you are a black hole. I feel that I am standing inches from death and I would nearly pitch myself over the ledge into oblivion just for the pleasure of the fall.”
That crafty little timeship.
Theta’s scowl immediately transforms into something between a satisfied smirk and astounded pleasure as his green eyes land on the visage just outside the doors. A visage so familiar that for a few seconds he deigns to give himself permission to believe it, because it simply can’t be true. Yet here he is, standing before him, older than he had been the last time they’d met and looking for all the cosmos as if he’d been having all the fun. He wants to ask a flurry of invasive questions, the first of which being how in Rassilon’s name the Master had escaped a timelocked planet in the throes of an epoch War, but he remains silent.
The scent of blood and rain, of dirt, of fire and burning flesh, it fills his nostrils and they flare as his pupils dilate. It’s liking to that of two predators meeting in the heated jungle during the depths of the twilight hours, eyes glowing and muscles both lax and tensed- always prepared to spring. Theta doesn’t move a centimeter as the Master’s hand lifts to grasp his jaw, studying, and he knows just what the other Time Lord is seeing. Instead of attempting to hide it, the satisfied smirk widens and those green eyes practically shine with malevolence, with pride, with lust.
He lets the Master speak, if only because he can feel the appreciation, the arousal, rolling from him in droves, the energy electric even in the wet of the rainfall. He doesn’t bother to attempt control over his biological systems- he lets his hearts speed up with excitement and anticipation, he allows his breath to shallow and escape with a shudder that lets the Master know he enjoys the words, enjoys the sharp grip he has on his jaw. As he speaks his tone is almost flirtatious.
“Well look who’s found his way off of Gallifrey. A true Master, if there ever were one and might I say… you look positively dashing covered in the blood of your enemies. It’s a shame the rain’s washed most of it away. I only wish I’d gotten here sooner so I could’ve joined in on the fun.”
He inhales again, deeply, and his green eyes darken.
“A few things before either of us get into questions, of which I’m sure we both have plenty. The first rather important thing is that I’m happy to see you. The second, nearly as important as the first, is that I don’t use that title anymore. I’m not the Doctor, I’m Theta. Just- Just Theta. The Doctor is gone, and good riddance. Now on to the third. The third and most important thing I’ve ever said, at least up ‘till now…”
Theta lifts his own hand then, fingertip tracing the outline of the Master’s face, trailing temple and cheek and finally jawline. He still speaks too much, it’s true, but at least now he says things that matter. He’s honest, blunt, and there is very little in the way of theatrics.
“You were absolutely right. I was a fool. I allowed myself to become perhaps even more despicable than the Council itself, and for that, I apologize. Hope is a frail and pointless venture, justice and peace futile mistresses and I’ve wasted enough centuries in the company of apes chasing after them. If I’m honest, your hand was the only one ever worth holding on to and…”
His fingertip trails lower, following the Master’s pulses-point all the way down to the sodden collar of his shirt, curling into it and pulling him closer.
“…-yes, you are standing inches from death and believe me when I say… the fall would be absolutely euphoric. Some may say it’s almost a religious experience, but I never put much stock in theological matters. Now, what d’you say you and I have a little chat, ay?”
The Master licks his lips, on which infinities of possible responses pose. Should he be grateful? Horrified? Stimulated? Angered? Threatened? Aroused?
All of the above?
The emotions crash, beat against each other like boiling waves, and manifest violently fast: his hand collides with the Doctor’s cheek. The sound that erupts is ballistic. The force of it echoes across the Mondasian landscape.
He’s on the Doctor then, scarcely hearing anything he’s said in the wake of a single phrase.
“Say that again. Say I was right.”
He’s backed him against the TARDIS door, face contorted with bewilderment and rage and lust.
“SAY it!”
Doctor, he’s no longer the Doctor?
If he isn’t the Doctor, then what is the Master?
The dichotomy must be upheld or their orbit will lose its gravitational pull and they will both collapse into oblivion.
This freefall suddenly terrifies. It is wrong, wrong as cold fire and hot snow, and the only consolation the Master has is to hear that the once-Doctor understands his years of quarreling with the sky.
Icarus 