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.
“Hm.”
“I’ll tell you a secret: the Doctor isn’t interested in you unless you need them. And I don’t mean need them to carry your parcels or give you driving directions. I mean need them in a deep, aching, existential way. I mean you’re looking for a savior. They can’t resist. Not one. Single. Time.”
Tonight he feels inert with the futility of his smallness.
Tonight he can’t shake off the ghosts.
Tonight he can’t stop the stomachache.
Tonight his faults are loud as klaxons.
Tonight he sits at the edge of his bed and stares at his hands and wonders why he bothers to do anything but smash things together and kill.
Behind the arrogant bravado, there is a haggardness, borne of loving worry, on the face of the Master.
“What do you know about post-partum depression?”
“I have a question.”
Behind the arrogant bravado, there is a haggardness, borne of loving worry, on the face of the Master.
“What do you know about post-partum depression?”
He’s reading Antoine de Saint-Exupery, with what ostensibly appears to be detached curiosity. But when he reads the passage aloud, his voice is trembling.
“ ‘You become responsible forever for what you have tamed.’ ”
Icarus 