There’s no need to argue anymore I gave all I could, but it left me so sore And the thing that makes me mad Is the one thing that I had
I knew, I knew I’d lose you
You’ll always be special to me Special to me, to me
And I remember all the things we once shared Watching T.V. movies on the living room armchair But they say it will work out fine Was it all a waste of time?
Cause I knew, I knew I’d lose you
You’ll always be special to me Special to me, to me
Will I forget in time, ah You said I was on your mind? There’s no need to argue No need to argue anymore There’s no need to argue anymore
As he always has, the Master summons the courage to look directly at the Doctor when the Doctor chooses to reprimand or avoid him.
“I believed that sort of thing for a very long time, but if you hadn’t convinced me otherwise, I would still be festering with rage and bitterness. And pain. And I would not be here to comfort you. I know you think you only want things, and never need them, but … . Doctor. Let me return you the favor.”
He sighs. “You’re making it really hard for me to get out of this one, aren’t you? Fine. We can…discuss. I suppose. You win.”
It’s the thought of the Master not being here that’s gotten to him. The anticipated conversation is one the Doctor isn’t looking forward to, and it will be painful and shameful and embarrassing, and any number of negative emotions that he doesn’t know how to deal with, but it is infinitely preferable to being alone.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, “That I didn’t try to tell you about it on my own. You deserve to know. You’ve been patient and loving to me, especially when I’ve needed it. And you deserve better than me trying to avoid conversations.”
“Good of you to notice.”
The way the Master looks at the Doctor, his black eyes are inscrutable, but on features marked with more lines, more silver hairs, than during their days of volatile youth–when the Doctor was a brown-haired pinstriped zealot and the Master his particularly manic breed of monster–there’s an undeniable gentleness. A willingness to stop and listen, where one did not exist before.
Fear of abandonment can be reciprocal: he is afraid of losing the Doctor, too.
“For once in your life, my love, in all seriousness: don’t begin a sentence with an apology.”
Now his smile is tinged with sadness.
“I’m not so ready to lampoon you as you may believe. I am more than my violence. Go on, Hearts. Just talk.”
The Master opens his arms to Ophelia, emphatically, decisively.
“Come. Sit. Sit right here. Are you open to hypnotist techniques, via touch-telepathy?”
It’s a testimony to what he’s learned in the Doctor’s company that he even offers this question before diving right in to his stepdaughter’s “treatment.”
Ophelia quickly goes to his arms, hugging him as she leans into him gently.
She sits down, looking up at him, her face weary with lack of sleep and worry.
“I’m open to anything at this point, honestly. I just don’t know what to do.”
The Master hums, taking quiet note of Ophelia’s desperation.
“If I may presume, I believe you’re out of synch with your own telepathic nodes, as they connect to your physiology. That’s mumbo-jumbo for, the way you use your telepathy and the way your body’s changing with the pregnancy aren’t lining up. And it’s causing you emotional distress.”
He presses competent, work-callused fingers to each of her temples, closes his eyes, and mentally pictures unlocking a box, and allowing exquisitely beautiful golden tendrils of energy out, and permeating her mind with them, like weaving ribbons into a fraught tapestry.
When he speaks, it’s in a mesmerizing baritone.
“Do as I do … picture your stress as something physical. Make a container. Firmly place it inside. Do it over and over, and think of nothing else save your breathing. In. Out. In. Out.”
The Master sits grandiosely slackened, legs crossed, arms behind his head, lounging defiantly in the personal space of the Doctor’s TARDIS, all a calculated maneuver of appearing independent and invincible.
All a facade, for a mind as permeable as soil to water. He could not stand apart from the only true friend he ever had if he tried.
But he will try, anyway, because the Master tilts at windmills.
“I robbed you of your latest human pet in the most violently cruel way possible, all to foil your plot to convert Missy into some diluted goody-goody version of herself, and you still come back for more? Doctor, I never knew you to be a masochist … persecution complex, maybe. Savior complex, definitely. But this? How d’you know I won’t exact excruciating vengeance upon you, eh?”
The Master opens his arms to Ophelia, emphatically, decisively.
“Come. Sit. Sit right here. Are you open to hypnotist techniques, via touch-telepathy?”
It’s a testimony to what he’s learned in the Doctor’s company that he even offers this question before diving right in to his stepdaughter’s “treatment.”
Icarus 