“ … Hearts, we. Need. To discuss your nightmares. And their source.”
“That really isn’t necessary. Discussing them won’t make them disappear. And why should their source matter?”
He’s lucky he’s been able to avoid this discussion for so long, really, given how well the Master can pick up on things that are bothering him. It’s purely by chance that his regular pattern of sudden waking after just an hour of sleep hasn’t coincided with a moment the Master has been watching over him, until now.
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.”
“Oooo. This reminds me of many a real ‘crisis’ scenario. What a delightful question. I would bring my laser, water, and a TARDIS coral. I suppose you wonder about food. Well, darling, that’s what the laser’s for.”
Send “Sleep already!” for a starter where my muse is very clearly sleep-deprived, but refuses to sleep.
“I REFUSE to be the cause of hurt, or injury, or death, for you even ONCE more!” the Master roars, his youthful round face contorted into an impossible snarl.
Their reunion in the wake of Tsuranga has been tumultuous: ironically, not because of quarreling, so much as the fact that the Doctor’s TARDIS wandered into an asteroid belt while her spleen continued to unevenly settle. She has been in excruciating pain in her left side, leaving him in charge of piloting the vessel and her three minty-fresh companions in a perpetual state of panic.
Well, not exactly true, he muses, through the simultaneous cotton and electricity of his sleepless, overstimulated brain. The police woman reflects dogged urgency, but is cool and self-controlled; he likes her. It’s more the men who are frantic: the young Dyspraxian (the Master has never heard of that province, but the lad is remarkably defensive, so he’s let it be) is grouchy and the old bloke continually whines. Still, he’s loathe to admit, he likes even them, and the Doctor has already taken them under her wing.
But the latest minefield on the asteroid belt has materialized. And so the Master aims all his vitriol at dodging the rocks. So far very few have struck the TARDIS.
“And you called me a rubbish pilot,” he mutters. “Oi! You. I won’t say it twice: stay lying down. I still have to examine your spleen. I don’t like you in pain!”
Believe it or not.
LOL I posted this like over a year ago, and I can’t find it in my art tag, so I’m reposting it. A succinct summary of this muse.
Icarus 