The Master takes care to lean into the Doctor’s personal space.  Calculated gestures of self-invitation: he smells of cinnamon and sharply clean aftershave and, vaguely, from incessant mechanical tinkering, the tang of gasoline.  Black-lined maple-brown eyes sweep her features; they are bright; they simmer with yearning.  Regardless of the color, they always have.  He smiles.  

And then he pulls back. 

     “Oh yes, of course.  That’s self-evident.  I can’t imagine why I would ever wish to encroach upon your bubble, Doctor. It’s not as if you’re my lifelong North Star, and, currently, a breathtaking adorkable little blonde.  That I should very much like to ravish.  Right here, right now.”