The Master, seeing the Projectile Best Friend, drops a project at which he’s labored for sixty-eight solid hours, and it shatters, motherboard, wires, bolts, and all, onto the ground, in a fantastical cacophony of destruction.
He lets out an undignified squeak, just as the Doctor’s body strikes his, and he goes flying back onto his ass.
“What the DEVIL? What in the name of RASSILON’S LEFT TESTICLE?!”
“Not helpful. Not helpful even a LITTLE BIT.” He moved past the other, barely touching him as he ran to the kitchen. “Come on-!! Quickly, follow me !!”
“ … right.”
The Master watches the Doctor exiting the room, flailing like a demented howler monkey, proclaiming death and despair at the hands of legumes.
Takes him back, really, to their school days. All he ever really wanted to do was complete his homework undisturbed.
Three guesses as to how many nights a schoolweek this successfully occurred.
He gathers his superhuman patience, draws his laser, and composedly follows the demented howler monkey.
It’s a peculiar mood the Master suffers, one craving attention and affection, proof that he, as he is, right now, matters, and is loved, but fighting directly with his reputation for prideful independence, and his fear of being perceived as flawed, or weak.
He can’t think of a way to alleviate the pressure of his loneliness, however, so he paces the floors of the TARDIS with growing grimness, and agitation.
“Well why WOULD I?” Koschei half-shrills, voice a disbelieving falsetto. “ ‘Escape,’ he says! You silly sausage!”
The nickname of Missy’s invention has stuck, and will stick, indefinitely.
He kicks his legs where he dangles “captive,” taking wholly for granted that his bondmate and dearest friend will hold fast. Even with the extra pound or two that the Master’s put on in middle age.
“What d’you intend to do, then, with my full and undivided attention? Play all the parts to Bohemian Rhapsody, on that bloody guitar? Give me an ethics lesson? Force me into indentured servitude, doing Console maintenance? Kiss me? Kiss me a lot? Kiss me a whole, WHOLE lot?”
“Kiss you? I might.”
He adjusts his hold again. They can’t get much closer to each other, really.
The Doctor tilts his head forward, touching the end of his nose to Koschei’s. For a second, he looks nothing but entirely innocent, loving, and intent on kissing him a whole lot. Then, his smile turns wicked, just as their lips are about to touch.
“Then again,” he whispers. “’That bloody guitar’ does sound rather tempting.”
He’s kidding. He can’t even kid himself for more than a few seconds. Finally, he closes his eyes and kisses him. Once, twice, and a third time.
“I love you. This is…everything I want. You. Me. Forever, if you want. I’ve never been happier.”
He kisses him again.
Koschei hoards his Theta close. He shifts to slide his legs around his waist, and his arms around his shoulders. He rubs his back while bunting the side of his face into the crook of the Doctor’s neck.
“You, bumping into me on that hillside on Mount Perdition, when we were little kids: that’s still the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Forever sounds good.”
“That is … . . absolutely out of bounds, you rule-breaking heathen!”
That the Doctor would regularly surmount his insecurities to display stubborn affection for the Master … oh dear. It delights the jealous Time Lord down to the marrow.
He turns and leaps indelicately into his lover’s arms.
“I’ll show YOU,” and he bites his nose, far from gently.
A cat, and guess who is this notorious, evil genius’s catnip.
“Rule-breaking heathen?”
The Doctor catches him, just about, and holds on tightly. Now that he’s got him, he has no intention of letting him go, regardless of the biting. He smiles instead, pleased to be able to demonstrate that he can hold him, carry him, even if he does look older and less strong than his previous bodies.
He shifts the Master in his arms, keeping one arm firmly wrapped around him at all times. There’s absolutely no chance he’ll be dropping him. The Doctor turns his head and kisses his cheek firmly, then does it again.
“You’ll show me? Oh, no, I think it’ll be the other way around. After all, you did just land yourself captive in my arms, and from where I stand, I don’t think there’s very much you can do about that to escape.”
“Well why WOULD I?” Koschei half-shrills, voice a disbelieving falsetto. “ ‘Escape,’ he says! You silly sausage!”
The nickname of Missy’s invention has stuck, and will stick, indefinitely.
He kicks his legs where he dangles “captive,” taking wholly for granted that his bondmate and dearest friend will hold fast. Even with the extra pound or two that the Master’s put on in middle age.
“What d’you intend to do, then, with my full and undivided attention? Play all the parts to Bohemian Rhapsody, on that bloody guitar? Give me an ethics lesson? Force me into indentured servitude, doing Console maintenance? Kiss me? Kiss me a lot? Kiss me a whole, WHOLE lot?”
Ah yes, his birthday has come around again. And this year, Jack has an extra special treat in store for him. Early in the morning, Jack slips out of their bedroom to pilot the TARDIS to their restaurant. The one that they always seem to go to for special occasions, ever since their very first date. As always, there’s a table set for two, but because it’s earlier in the day, the beach is practically empty except for a stray waiter or someone walking their dog.
It’s the perfect setting.
Jack’s waiting there for him, glasses of mimosas and a plate of croissants at the ready. There’s two wrapped presents in front of him, one largish one and the other much smaller, about the size of a ring box. Come and find him, husband.
Koschei exits the TARDIS dressed to the nines in natty formalwear that he rarely breaks out since the birth of the twins: featuring, of course, the red and brown tie. The moment he steps onto the sand he richly chuckles. He knew it. That romantic bastard always remembers.
“Sam McCoy, where ARE you?” he thunders languidly, extending his hand into the air for a kiss, and as he spots the table, he drops jovially into his chair. “For ME?”
“HAL-lo, WIFE,” the Master booms, “and HAL-lo, BABY!”
He kisses each forehead, loudly and appreciatively. And then, in answer to the Doctor’s question, he holds up a forefinger, and lofts an eyebrow.
“Watch this.”
He lifts a small remote control, no bigger than one of the TARDIS’s custard creams. He punches the red and green striped button at the center.
The entire library illumines with a lights display of every Christmas hue, including the shapes of Santa, trees, snowmen, reindeer, stars and snowflakes, to Trans-Siberian Orchestra music.
Koschei puffs up with endearing pride.
“For you, my girls! Ho ho, and a third, very merry, ho.”
Icarus 