“You are the Doctor, comprised of morning sunlight and babies’ laughter, and yes, despite this, I know that you could knee me in the nuts, drop me hard, and snap my neck if you still had the inclination. It is a fact, and I impenitently confess that i find it desperately sexy.”
There was something about the way he was speaking to her. The mere look on his face. Something about that told her that he was being serious and that her own words had surprised him. However, the fact remained that this wasn’t what she was accustomed to. Something had changed about him.
“Well I don’t mind, really, you’ve just managed to catch me off guard.” The Doctor said before chuckling a little, “Something seems different about you? What is it?”
The Doctor moved closer to him, at first reading his face. Maybe Missy had rubbed off on him? The malice wasn’t there, at least not to the extent it always before. Instead it look like he cared. The look of the friend she had always cared for, maybe even more than that..
Yes, Missy’s rubbed off on him, but in an unanticipated way.
To be so undesired that even your own descendant self would hasten your regeneration … it jettisoned him into a place of dark melancholy, and self-loathing. And it sent him–ever the dogged survivor–on a frantic quest to find a Doctor, any Doctor, who had not yet given up hope, and consigned him to a place firmly in the past.
Koschei hopes to have found her, but her tepid reception, her skepticism, give him pause. His cheeks flare red, with sudden mortification.
“Maybe this was always a part of me, Thete. But I needed some time at your side, without the conditions of feigned imprisonment, to learn another … . venue, another way … . to govern myself.”
He swallows, audibly.
“I thought I might give that a go now, with you. Was this a mistake?”
The Doctor is buried in his work, a pile of cables and wires at his feet. For that reason, he doesn’t even address the Master when he arrives. Not until, that is, he steps in front of him and disrupts his work.
“Somethin’ I can help you with?” he asks a bit stiffly. He hadn’t felt much like sleeping lately. There wasn’t much point when the other side of the bed was so often empty.
“Oh, dar-ling.”
The Master sighs indulgently, and apologetically, awakening more fully, now, from his slumber.
He steps out of the path of the Doctor’s labors, stands on his tiptoes and pecks the side of his neck. He knows: he knows all the potential ways that timelines can unfurl from any given moment, and he knows that his husband can do the same, and he knows that the Doctor has seen other futures, in which they are not together, and the Master has found an earlier or later Doctor with which to nest. He could, at this moment, tell his Theta that he has seen the same disturbing things transpire, and not always even with other versions of Koschei. But that will not ease the gloom and irritability that have descended on his best and oldest friend.
“Here. Let me bring you the reason why I’ve been away so mooch.”
He pads back out of the Console Room.
He returns less than five minutes later, aided by a TARDIS that wishes to see Her thief in better spirits. What he holds is a very young coral from another TARDIS entirely, and it’s mounted onto a strange chrome-like piece of unmistakably Gallifreyan tech. Any child of the Great Houses would recognize that material: a piece of the Untempered Schism.
“Alright, Oscar the bloody Grouch: yes I’ve seen Sesame Street, you think I’d only watch Teletubbies? Bad for the brand to admit it, but there you go. Now listen here: I’ve been to Gallifrey behind your back, which was exceedingly hard to do when you were always on board with me, and don’t ask how, but I’ve stolen two things: a piece of the place where you married me, and a baby TARDIS to mark our new lives together. Because we’ve got a kid under our wing now, albeit an adult, and she’s having a kid, and well, maybe one of these days you an’ me’ll have a kid too, you never know. Or maybe it’ll have nothing to do with children. But it’s gonna grow oop and maybe it’ll merge with your Old Girl, or maybe it’ll carry a member of our budding family to someplace else entirely. But it’s an investment I’ve made in us. Us as we are now, two children of war who are healing from its scars, you big-earedidiot.”
The Doctor only grunts in response as the Master leaves, halfway not expecting him to come back. He’s irritable and irrational for reasons that have very little to do with his husband, but as often he does, he takes his misguided emotions out on the person nearest to him. He goes back to his work for a few minutes more, almost grateful for the quiet until Koschei returns with something in his arms.
Even the TARDIS gives him a less-than-subtle mental nudge and forces him to look up. What he sees makes him take pause. He knows what it is immediately, and he’s awed into silence.
“You…”
He stammers and sets his work down on the console, turning properly to face his best friend.
“You stole this? Right from under their noses?”
The Doctor looks amused, and he approaches the Master with wide blue eyes, drinking in the sight of the infant Time Ship. It is beautiful, really, and made even more so by the thought behind it.
His lips quirk into a half smile and he reaches out to touch the thing, his work roughened fingertips gentle.
“You did this for us?”
Theta’s expression falters a bit, but then he wraps his arms around both Koschei and their growing TARDIS, embracing them both and nuzzling into the Master’s neck.
“You bloody old fool,” he chuckles. “You sentimental, beautiful old madman. I love you. I’ve MISSED you. But I love you. Thank you for this. It’s beautiful. You are beautiful… My Koschei. My beloved.”
No, dummy, I did it for the Easter Bunny. Of COURSE for us.
“M-hmmm,” Koschei hums aloud, practically incandescent with smugness. “So the next time you decide to get all mopey and bitter about my absence, coom looking for your, what was it?”
He places the infant corals gently aside, steps up onto the Doctor’s feet with brazen entitlement, and kisses his lips between each word: “Sentimental. Beautiful. Old. Madman.”
(continued from ask) drapetxmaniia: (10th) the doctor wraps his arms around the masters waist, hoping to surprise him as he pushed his cold nose into his neck, a grin on his lips, before he kissed it.
Koschei’s entire form tenses, the way a cat arches its back; his features contort into an expression of shock that quickly evolves into haughty outrage.
“COLD,” he protests explosively.
He wriggles like a mongoose with the intent to turn, when instead far warmer lips suckle on his neck. His deeply sensitive, long, handsome neck.
And instead he’s writhing with a host of entirely other urges.
“M-mmmm,” he groans, and flashes a lazy smile.
–//–
The Doctor Laughed softly in amusement, and takes pity on him, (If you can call it pity, or just plain teasing) before pulling away so that he can kiss his cheek.
“I seem to have captured some kind of beautiful cat-like creature,” He grinned, laughter still in his voice. “I think ill keep him all for myself~” he comments jokingly, before returning to why he suddenly decided to capture him in a hug.
“You’re not cold are you? I think The ol’ Girl’s suddenly turned the heating down, but everything is fine on screen, but i keep getting the shivers.” and as if to prove a point another uncomfortable cold spell flashed though his body, making him grimace and hug Koschei a little tighter.
“Beautiful? You flatter me.”
You could be beautiful, that face with the cockatoo hair and the pinstripes had pontificated, that long-ago Christmas.
You are beautiful, that same face states now, imparting a hope long forgotten.
“But I don’t believe you’re being a drop insincere. What a miracle.”
Deep within the Master’s telepathic channels, there’s a steady thrumming, very like purring indeed.
“I’m hardly ever cold, Hearts,” he drawls. “Which I gather is why you’re using me as a space heater.”
At first the Doctor’s fussy concern pleasantly flusters him, and the Master is very nearly bashful.
But then he chuckles, and it’s rich and genuinely amused, without a touch of the habitual snideness. He reaches down and pinches the Doctor’s sides, even as they’re still touching foreheads, even as his beloved gazes furtively, ashamedly, into his eyes. It’s a tacit reminder that their lives need not be marked by grave ceremony all the time; they know each other way too well for that.
“You really are a silly sausage. I would do anything for you, genius. Willingly. But it seems we’re at an impasse, as you’re wired to do the same for me.”
He kisses first the Doctor’s chin and then his lips.
“You should know I will be there every time you awaken. Again, my vow to you. And you should further know that the shame you’re feeling, that I can practically taste between our minds, is misplaced, my love. Take it from someone who’s always suffered self-imposed claims of invincibility, just to cope with what was done to me by the same bastard that shoved you in that Confession Dial.”
His surprise registers both physically and mentally at the Master’s playful touch. He jumps visibly, and there’s a quick flash of a grin on his face, before he replaces it with a glare and something that might resemble a pout, if he’d admit to such a thing. The telepathically transmitted shock, however, is much more difficult to mask. It’s exactly the same kind of surprise he always projects when he’s given unexpected affection, and he has no ability to suppress it.
The forced glare disappears after a moment. He doesn’t mind really, even if he does expect his reaction to be the source of a new wave of amusement from Koschei.
“Yes, well, it might take me a while to get used to that. To you, being there. Knowing. I’ve been very good at pretending it’s not a problem for a long time, so — be patient.” Be patient, the way I’m not patient with myself.
The Doctor releases the Master’s shoulders, and wraps his arms slowly around his waist instead. His movements are carefully measured and thought out.
“You’re being far too nice to me, given how stupid I’ve been about this.”
“Oh, do shut up. Never call me ‘too nice’ again. Remember the hell I’ve given you over the millennia. I don’t want to hear that I’ve gone soft in the will as well as the tummy.”
The Master pinches the Doctor’s arm suddenly, without ceremony.
“I’ll acclimate you to my magnificence faster if I continue to do naughty, mean things like that, on a mundane everyday basis,” he cheerily explains. “Anyway!” He sinks back into the embrace that his beloved has so carefully executed. “You know … given what you’ve survived, my love, I’m proud.”
He chuckles straight from the gut, and rubs circles in the Doctor’s spindly back.
“And if you’re asking me to be patient–me–then you’ve forgotten that patience has been the one virtue I’ve always exhibited in spades. Don’t worry.”
The Doctor is immediately silenced as her eyes find the Master, and oh how she blushes besides. Not at being caught out having a row with an appliance, no, but rather because of the easy way he winks at her, the casual manner in which he strolls in and presumes to know more of the infernal device than she.
The sonic lowers just a bit but she keeps it well in hand, fingers twitching against the home-made exterior shell with her thumb poised to switch it on at a moment’s notice just in case the toaster decides to do combat with the love of her lives. One can’t be too careful with dodgy kitchen appliances.
She blinks once, twice, three times- a blink for every hard slap of Koschei’s hand against the toasty [pun very much intended] and rebellious metal -before eyebrows raise and the hand holding the sonic falls to her side. She lets out a huff of air, a combination of disbelief and appreciation. The toast isn’t even burned! Now more than ever she believes the toaster to have a personal vendetta against her, all because she chose to take it apart and put it back together again once-upon-a-pinstriped-time.
“Wha-… How did-… Oh tha’s joost not fair. I tried everythin’! Bangin’ on it, zappin’ it, tossin’ it down a fli’a stairs, givin’ it a good kick, even the sonic wasn’t workin’. Then ‘ere you coom, three slaps an’ it gives in?”
She narrows her eyes at the toaster, then turns her gaze toward her husband.
“You couldn’t’ve done tha’ two regenerationsago? Been cravin’ toast for centuries, me.”
She’s amused and impressed by his ability to intimidate the infernal appliance. Theta’s smile falters, however, the moment she steps over to the toaster to grab the perfectly toasted bread. Hand poised to grasp her long-awaited snack, fingers clasp only air as the toast vanishes down into the toaster once more, out of reach. Mouth open, Theta scoffs and looks back at Koschei with wide eyes, pointing her finger toward the menacing metal machine in an accusatory manner.
“There! Ri’ there, SEE?! Tha’s jus’ not normal!”
Koschei clicks his tongue; he’s a touch disappointed that Theta didn’t just swoon over his comedic problem-solving, but then, if she were a swooner, and not a meddlesome adventurous little gremlin, she wouldn’t be Theta.
“Well, I mean. It might joost be that after ALL YOU DID, it only needed one more bit of forceful persuading to obey,” he placates. “Anyway, I was saving the trick to have an ace oop my sleeve, keep spice in the relationship.”
He grins diabolically and it’s clear he’s trolling her.
The grin vanishes immediately as the toast retreats into the mechanism.
“OI!” he shouts, betraying every ounce the Mancunian dialect concealed behind his attempts to sound like a posh Londoner. “OI, I’ll av ya, you … . saucy piece of … of … economy-grade TIN!”
He produces his laser screwdriver, entirely too hastily.
“Oh? Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but eating people’s body parts won’t make you grow any taller. Must be true, what they say about short people being the angriest.”
He inches closer, daring, and quickly kisses the end of the Master’s nose. The speed of his movement is a tell; he wouldn’t move so fast unless he knew he was playing with fire. This isn’t the same, though. He almost wants to be caught. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
This feisty verbal bandying is a new development of their maturing, strengthening reconciliation. It invigorates Koschei, and he grows louder and more boisterous by the minute.
“Oh, very well, you pedantic bastard! See if I let you spoon me again for the next fortnight! No, no, don’t coom a drop closer, you can’t seduce me into compliance again!”
The Doctor is only just awake, but conscious enough to register the movement. Before, there were no arms around him, and he was cold, but now he’s being held. It’s a huge improvement, according to his tired mind.
His hands move blindly to rest over Koschei’s, but he gets distracted from his intention to just leave them there and relax. He ends up tracing the shape of his hands, touching every finger as though he’ll never be able to see them again, and must commit the shape to memory. He measures his own hand against Koschei’s, testing out whether he’s able to cover the whole hand with his own. He can, as it turns out, if he positions his hand just right.
He’s already been lying here, in this half-awake state, for quite some time. But it’s suddenly become much more interesting, now that Koschei has moved so close to him. He considers their position, and what he likes most about it. He very much likes their closeness, and the fact that he’s being cuddled but not restricted. He can move if he wants to, which from time to time is something that’s absolutely necessary for him to be comfortable. He’s okay now, though. He wouldn’t mind more touching.
When he’s been lying in silence for the amount of time it takes him to go through each and every thing he likes about this, he begins fidgeting. Not a lot, but enough to give himself something else to think about. If he moves his left foot three inches backwards, he’ll reach the Master’s foot. He calculates the approximate number of degrees he can tilt his head backwards before his hair will brush the Master’s, then converts it to radians, then loses concentration and thinks about something else entirely.
He needs to move. He doesn’t want to wake the Master, though. Or does he? He wants attention, that’s for sure, but Koschei is sleeping… No, he needs to let him sleep.
He carefully turns himself over, so that he’s facing him instead. That’s much better; now he can study his face. That’ll give him something to think about for ages. He smiles for a moment, adoring. If he wasn’t so concerned about waking him, he might have kissed him. On the cheeks, on the nose, on the lips. Everywhere.
I love you, he thinks. He doesn’t even realise he’s projecting. I love you so much. He’s happy just to lie here and observe, in wait.
SEND FLUFF
Koschei doesn’t awaken fully at first. He took to hearts the Doctor’s demand that he not disrupt his own sleep schedule.
But feeling his Bondmate’s eyes rapturously upon his features has a way of rousing him even from the deepest stupor.
“Mnnnn, what?”
“Hmmmhmhm, Thete. You’re such a closet romantic.”
He speaks as though he hasn’t just described himself. Regardless he burrows closer still, greedily hoarding every gangly inch of his oldest friend. Lazily, he kisses his jaw, and then his mouth, and closes his eyes again.
“You’re wet, and fierce, and beautiful, and I have never loved you more.”
The Doctor is panting softly, which says a lot for someone of a species that’s built to avoid running out of breath. Her eyes are a perfect synthesis between annoyance and adoration, part of her wishing to throttle him for enjoying the uncomfortable happenings of wet cloth against skin without knowing specifics and part of her wishing to laugh until her respiratory bypass kicks in.
“I’ll ‘ave you know wot I jus’ went through was… it was… They called me Satan’s acolyte! I didn’t joost- I didn’t joost fall into the water accidentally, they- they… An’ all cos I’m a- a… Oh I tell ya wot, the human race needs t’sort out this whole gender inferiority business cos it’s gonna end up bloody killin’ me.”
She stops speaking with a grunt.
Three seconds pass, her fingers twitch at her sides. She needs a nap, warm, dry clothing, an entire sleeve of biscuits and, if the Master knows what’s good for him, a fair helping of plaudits and adulation. Shoulders slumping, she gives in to that gorgeous look on her beloved’s face and the first hint of a smile appears. Rays of sunlight breaking through the dark.
The misadventure isn’t over yet, but her Koschei gives her hope.
She moves closer, her arms lift to circle his shoulders and before any protestation can be had she’s hugging him tightly to her soaking-wet-self. Forehead pressing against his pulses-point just beneath his earlobe there’s no hiding it- this adventure’s taken it out of her, for many reasons, and she isn’t even done sorting it yet.
“Thank you, Hearts… I love you, too,more than there are stars in the cosmos, I joost-… Thank you.”
Her mouth closes and remains closed, but her mind, interwoven with his own, crimson and cerulean now a perfect and deep violet, is speaking volumes. She’s nervous, and that almost never happens.
Can you help me?
He steps toward her without her ever having to audibly speak the request. Her sheepishness and her flush are expression enough, to the soul who’s known her since they were seven years old. Koschei guides his Theta by the small of her waterlogged back, straight into the bathroom. He strips her down and takes a warm dry fluffy towel and dries her, roughening up the dry volume of her hair. He pauses to kiss her on that ever-worrisome crease between her eyebrows, and to speak:
“Darling, that all depends upon how you define ‘Satan.’ Is it the fallen angel of Abrahamic lore? Or is it the scapegoat, the spectre of a backwards society too fearful of what it fails to understand? Oh my love. Don’t you know how easy it is to weaponize xenophobia?”
He tucks her hair behind her jeweled ear, and kisses the lobe, and tugs his teeth on the little silver chain.
“Don’t take it to hearts. You’re brilliant. Annoyingly so. Kick ‘em in the nuts. Even the royal nuts. It’s the bitch’s prerogative. Okay, maybe I’ll do it, in that case.”
He trots out and hastens back with a dry rainbow shirt–maroon this time, of course–and trousers.
“Coat didn’t get wet, did it? I’d imagine not. Just so you’re aware, I’m actually full of homicidal wrath, and if you’d like me to poison the water source into which you were flung, and the soil along with it, so that the extra-terrestrial parasites within all die, I know you’re into the ‘high road’ and all that golly fluff, but sometimes a moral shortcut is in order. Oh, what, you think I’ve not done research while stuck in this box? Even I in my unstable regenerative state can reach my hand across the TARDIS threshold and collect a soil sample. That pipette’s been banging like a bongo with the mud particulates I collected. Lemme guess, anything interred in that stuff isn’t exactly restive.”
“Master.” The Doctor replies, schooling his features to not give away any emotion. He studies the man in front of him, his eyes tracing over his face. He clenches his jaw. There’s a million questions wanting to burst from his lips, but he stays quiet, not even sure where to begin.
Koschei lingers in the doorway with a surprisingly gentle expression.
“Nice, isn’t it? To have the perfunctory greeting out of the way. Now, to the meat of it.”
He strides authoritatively toward his counterpart, and oldest friend, and dearest enemy.
“I’ve a simple question, really.”
The expression in dark sly almond eyes is halfway between wistful and predatory. One finger reaches up to trace the contour of that clenched jaw. He knows every compulsion the Doctor combats right now. They’re mirrors.
He whispers the question, inches from the face of his other self.
Icarus 