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.
“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.”
[ Well after that sweater post how can I not?… >8D ]
“Aha! Hoosband! There you are! Look wot I found in tha’ little Christmastree Shoppe ‘round the corner from the electronics dealer on Banue Prime! Isn’t it joost perfect?”
She gestures, with what is most definitely a smug and nefarious grin, to the Christmas tree she’d insisted they display in the control room, just off the right side of the console unit nestled betwixt a corridor leading into the body of the ship and a bookshelf with her Top 127 Books [because she’d refused to only choose 120, but 130 wouldn’t fit].
There, hanging from a high bough near the apex of the tree is a brand new Christmas ornament just for him.
The Master has crashed after about 72 hours of contemplating an impossible interlocking computer matrix: that is, connecting Twirly to the TARDIS’s navigational channels. Presently he stumbles out of the bedroom, hair a silvery-blond nest of disarray, eyes bleary. He rubs his face and stifles a yawn.
“What. You what. We were at Banue Prime? How coom you didn’t wake me oop, I love Banue Prime …”
That’s when he recognizes the deviousness of Theta Sigma’s smile.
Oh Lord.
He’s wide awake now. Gaping brown eyes scour the whole environment for the punchline. His features freeze into a mask of exasperated amusement as he approaches the tree, with a sense that his odious fate lies there.
Razor-sharp wits lockdown quickly on the koala ornament.
“Why do you HATE me?” he wails, sparing not a drop of melodrama for a later occasion.
He comes up for air, a drowned rat, sputtering and coughing and fuming with disappointment. Particularly when he sees her arms are wet up to the elbows and she’s holding the chains that had restrained him within the tank.
“Theeeete! Bloody HELL. It was only 180 seconds! You panicked! LOOK, if Houdini can impress you, then SO can I!”
“OI!! Ri’ then, listen oop. You an’ I ‘ave got centuries between oos so don’t try any more funny business or I’ll lamp ya, understood? This’s no time t’be stroppy, m’only tryin’ to ‘elp and I’m all set bein’ shocked, thanks, so pack it in or I’ll toss you into a supernova!”
The Master strolls into the kitchen, where his best friend is speaking in Northern Tongues while threatening to assault a toaster.
Typical Tuesday, really.
He sniffs, holds up a forefinger, and winks at her as though to suggest he has the entire situation well in hand.
Then, this technical genius, this intellectual titan … . bangs hard, three times, on the side of the toaster.
Intimidated, it tremulously surrenders perfect toast.
The Master declares this in the most lordly manner while sauntering toward the Doctor.
“My decidedly UN-ginger spouse, having the gall to feign disinterest in the one she loves.”
He dances his fingers up her white-sleeved arms, then throws his black sweater over her head and draws her near in a Time Lord sandwich, two heads popped out of the neck.
“Now you shall never escape. My most nefarious of schemes has come to fruition. Diabolical laugh. Maniacal cackle. Monologue, monologue, ditto, ditto, et cetera, kiss me.”
Here he rests, on his side, in their bed, dazzled by the perfectly centered blow. How can someone as haphazardly, carelessly silly as his oldest friend have such excellent aim when he barely tries?
“And here I am,” he murmurs, numb as though from blood loss, head to toe, “unable to love anyone but you. We are perfectly star-crossed.”
Oh, the smirk that spreads across his face, at that declaration; the expression of triumph. Oh, this conquest. He takes the hands around his waist, forces them down and slides his fingers into the Doctor’s. He lifts both joined hands to his lips and kisses, with particular fervor, the left.
“I think you belong to me already.”
He turns his head enough that he can look up, and back, at his oldest friend’s face.
“But I will marry you anywhere and anywhen. So let’s go.”
“Now, now. You’re being disagreeable, you know.”
The Master stands on the Doctor’s feet, as he always does when particularly, possessively affectionate. He snaps his teeth at his nose, and nuzzles his face, demanding access to every inch of his essence.
“Monopolizing all the pretty words, so I’ll have none left with which to speak you my vows, heard across those infinite star systems. You cur. You know what a show-off I am.”
He slips off the feet of his beloved long enough to return his arms round his waist, standing behind him, conspiratorial, inhaling deeply of his fugitive scent. He closes his eyes and burrows a cheek against the crook of the Doctor’s neck.
Nowhere, you’ll go nowhere on me again. You’ve got to break this death-grip. I am obstinately attached to you now, my love of loves.
The thought process is silly and infantile, but he can’t help it; it’s so difficult to trust this building euphoria. Even as the TARDIS moves toward the spot the Doctor has chosen, the Master gloms tightly on. His features are blinding, joyous and wicked and crafty.
The Doctor’s hearts both melt in tandem as the keeper of them speaks, climbs onto his feet in that way that they both know he cherishes perhaps more than any other gesture made. It’s invasive, it’s territorial, it lets the Doctor know exactly who he belongs to and prevents those feet from moving a centimeter. He wouldn’t move, anyway- he’s through running. He’s found comfort and peace in the static, in the long-way-round with his counterpart, his other half. Himself, external, staring back at him through a mirror of affection and ownership.
“Disagreeable, hm? How insubordinate of me. I hope I’ll be punished for it later.”
His tone is impish and as luminescent as the chocolate-umber of his eyes, and as the Master snaps his teeth the Doctor growls- actually, genuinely growls -in response. His free hand moves briefly to the other’s hip, holding him there as he nuzzles and returning the intimate and affectionate gesture by nuzzling right back.
Oh, he belongs to the Master, always has- but now he relishes in it. He’d proclaim it from the highest point on every planet, if that’s what it takes to convince his cloven half that this euphoria is not a blip, not a pit stop but a promise. His mind shouts to those infinite stars of which his lover speaks.
I am his. He is mine, we are each other. We are the same. Hear me Universe, if you ever dare disturb this utopia of bliss I will rend every star asunder. I will burn every planet, I will tear time and space apart to get him back.
“Hmmm, you’ve not heard anything yet- and you know my propensity for the dramatic, Hearts. Pretty words are my forte’, among a few other things I know you enjoy. I can’t really be blamed for it. I’m just that good, darling.”
He chuckles softly, not joking but rather joyous in his own admissions and arrogance. His mind holds no fear, no regrets, no turning back now, no shame or embarassment. The past is over and done for the pair of them and only the future awaits and Theta Sigma is free. He lets out a contented hum as the Master circles him and encircles him in his arms from behind, one hand lowering to rest atop both of the Master’s own hands and the other lifting to card through his beloved’s hair, scratching his nails gently against the other’s scalp. The TARDIS materializes at its’ destination but he makes no move to untangle them, finding comfort in the embrace.
“We’re here, love.”
The words are spoken as a whisper, and still he makes no move to pull away. The embrace reassures the Doctor of the very same thing it reassures the Master- they are together, they are happy, and they are staying.
“You arrogant bastard, I love you.”
He’s hanging off his affianced, his best friend and bondmate, utterly besotted, bunting his forehead into the Doctor’s cheek, as though doing it enough will rub off his scent, will impart his essence indelibly.
He steps off the Doctor’s feet only when convinced that the act will bring them breathtaking adventure closer together, ever closer, in mind and body and soul, colliding indelicately and jubilantly, like the wild children they are.
He takes the hand of his beloved. He drags him in circles round the TARDIS in flight, every jostle and bump eliciting a mad and joyous cackle, a wiggle of eyebrows, a flash of teeth.
Once they’ve landed he resumes the embrace, tighter still, rests his stubbled chin on the Doctor’s chest and grins all the broader. Dark effervescent eyes like a mug of root beer sparkle.
“Then what are we waiting for? You think this’ll end just because we’ve changed positions? You REALLY think you’ll ever get away from me now? HA.”
Once again rendered the intrepid forthgoer, when all their lives it was the Doctor dragging him by the hand on exhilarating journeys, he seizes his bondmate and pulls him straight to the doors.
He pauses and turns, hearts thundering. He places both hands on the Doctor’s chest, over each heart. This is a gift for him, a surprise, and he must appropriately articulate his gratitude. His bliss.
Who better than a human the Doctor has met and admired? And so:
“ ‘Did my hearts love til now? Foreswear it, Sight. For I ne’er saw true beauty til this night.’ ”
He loves the finality of bodies hitting hard surfaces.
The Master loves to watch the final impotent exercise in futility, as a foe’s form wriggles and writhes like a worm on a hook and finally falls slack in blissful lifelessness. It’s nearly as grand as watching an enemy’s skin blister as he burns.
He loves these things without pretense, needy and ironically abject as an addict standing in the rain begging strangers for a lighter.
He loves them, and he indulges every whim to a new fix, the longer the epicenter of his life is skewed off course: the longer the Doctor is no more.
It’s rare that he feels that darkness existing palpably outside his own mind. But he feels the rage radiating from above his head, and it is raining on Mondas, raining on the corpses of the government agents that rose against him for his tyranny and died. Raining off the blood on his face and mouth and hands, raining a deluge so forceful that he nearly cannot see the blue box materializing on the muddy slippery hill overlooking the most populated platform of the ship.
The Master’s feet carry him upwards, until he’s waiting outside the TARDIS door for the man who steps out; without having ever seen this long thin face, he knows his oldest friend; the miasma of violent darkness radiating off of the Doctor, however, that is new, and it is intoxicating.
He is impenitently aroused.
“Oh, you … are … . beautiful,” he breathes, snatching out a hand, cupping the Doctor’s jaw harshly, appraising the old friend who has sunken into the quicksand beside him. “A Doctor without hope: you are a black hole. I feel that I am standing inches from death and I would nearly pitch myself over the ledge into oblivion just for the pleasure of the fall.”
That crafty little timeship.
Theta’s scowl immediately transforms into something between a satisfied smirk and astounded pleasure as his green eyes land on the visage just outside the doors. A visage so familiar that for a few seconds he deigns to give himself permission to believe it, because it simply can’t be true. Yet here he is, standing before him, older than he had been the last time they’d met and looking for all the cosmos as if he’d been having all the fun. He wants to ask a flurry of invasive questions, the first of which being how in Rassilon’s name the Master had escaped a timelocked planet in the throes of an epoch War, but he remains silent.
The scent of blood and rain, of dirt, of fire and burning flesh, it fills his nostrils and they flare as his pupils dilate. It’s liking to that of two predators meeting in the heated jungle during the depths of the twilight hours, eyes glowing and muscles both lax and tensed- always prepared to spring. Theta doesn’t move a centimeter as the Master’s hand lifts to grasp his jaw, studying, and he knows just what the other Time Lord is seeing. Instead of attempting to hide it, the satisfied smirk widens and those green eyes practically shine with malevolence, with pride, with lust.
He lets the Master speak, if only because he can feel the appreciation, the arousal, rolling from him in droves, the energy electric even in the wet of the rainfall. He doesn’t bother to attempt control over his biological systems- he lets his hearts speed up with excitement and anticipation, he allows his breath to shallow and escape with a shudder that lets the Master know he enjoys the words, enjoys the sharp grip he has on his jaw. As he speaks his tone is almost flirtatious.
“Well look who’s found his way off of Gallifrey. A true Master, if there ever were one and might I say… you look positively dashing covered in the blood of your enemies. It’s a shame the rain’s washed most of it away. I only wish I’d gotten here sooner so I could’ve joined in on the fun.”
He inhales again, deeply, and his green eyes darken.
“A few things before either of us get into questions, of which I’m sure we both have plenty. The first rather important thing is that I’m happy to see you. The second, nearly as important as the first, is that I don’t use that title anymore. I’m not the Doctor, I’m Theta. Just- Just Theta. The Doctor is gone, and good riddance. Now on to the third. The third and most important thing I’ve ever said, at least up ‘till now…”
Theta lifts his own hand then, fingertip tracing the outline of the Master’s face, trailing temple and cheek and finally jawline. He still speaks too much, it’s true, but at least now he says things that matter. He’s honest, blunt, and there is very little in the way of theatrics.
“You were absolutely right. I was a fool. I allowed myself to become perhaps even more despicable than the Council itself, and for that, I apologize. Hope is a frail and pointless venture, justice and peace futile mistresses and I’ve wasted enough centuries in the company of apes chasing after them. If I’m honest, your hand was the only one ever worth holding on to and…”
His fingertip trails lower, following the Master’s pulses-point all the way down to the sodden collar of his shirt, curling into it and pulling him closer.
“…-yes, you are standing inches from death and believe me when I say… the fall would be absolutely euphoric. Some may say it’s almost a religious experience, but I never put much stock in theological matters. Now, what d’you say you and I have a little chat, ay?”
The Master licks his lips, on which infinities of possible responses pose. Should he be grateful? Horrified? Stimulated? Angered? Threatened? Aroused?
All of the above?
The emotions crash, beat against each other like boiling waves, and manifest violently fast: his hand collides with the Doctor’s cheek. The sound that erupts is ballistic. The force of it echoes across the Mondasian landscape.
He’s on the Doctor then, scarcely hearing anything he’s said in the wake of a single phrase.
“Say that again. Say I was right.”
He’s backed him against the TARDIS door, face contorted with bewilderment and rage and lust.
“SAY it!”
Doctor, he’s no longer the Doctor?
If he isn’t the Doctor, then what is the Master?
The dichotomy must be upheld or their orbit will lose its gravitational pull and they will both collapse into oblivion.
This freefall suddenly terrifies. It is wrong, wrong as cold fire and hot snow, and the only consolation the Master has is to hear that the once-Doctor understands his years of quarreling with the sky.
Icarus 