With uncommon gentleness, like a warmly kindled hearth, a small flame after hours of a more boisterously rolling fire, does the Master smile at the Doctor.
“I promise you, I’ve come home, because you have.”
“M’friends are goin’ away for Christmas.” She said, suddenly, before a lingering silence took place as she fully processed her own words. She loved Christmas. Ryan, Yaz and Graham wouldn’t be there—- and all of her other friends? Except for The Master, at least? They weren’t options. “Think I’m gonna have to skip it this year. Sucks.”
“What?! Oh, like HELL!”
His outrage is flat-out comical. She might as well have declared herself the saleswoman of her own TARDIS, to some disreputable, shady party, the way he treats this like a calamity to end all.
The Master flings down hours of nuanced mechanical labor indelicately. Little bits and pieces of his work go flying like metal confetti. He stands and stalks over to the Doctor and kneels to her, taking both her hands, dramatic as a Shakespearean acting company understudy.
“Doctor! You and I once experienced a wondrously catastrophic Christmas! Remember, that time I was everyone on earth? Oh, those were the days. And you heard the Drums, when still I had them, and you told me you believed me, and I really must impress it upon you that this meant the world to me. For that reason, darling: let ME spend Christmas with you. I shall get crackers and wear a paper hat and eat all their disgusting rich food with you. We will indulge in pointless human rituals, like cutting down an evergreen tree and putting knick-knacks and lights on them. I will dress up as that unnervingly omniscient fat bearded man in red and we can sing songs of dubious taste while getting lit on gingered eggnog. Whatever your hearts desire.”
She was surprised. But it was a soft surprise, her eyes shifting instantly to her left as her head turned slightly, paying attention to exactly what he was doing. It only seemed like he wanted to get past her, but…. the feeling of his hands on her hips, the gentle way they moved over her clothes and placed pressure on her skin – if only to move her – was so delicate. She looked up to meet his eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“You could have just asked me t’move, y’know.”
The Master registers that surprise touch-telepathically from the moment the Doctor experiences it. It feels like a tiny squeak, like a mental nudge of an exclamation point in a tiny font. From such a brash, bold, daring soul, it’s precious, and it makes him smile just as softly.
Maybe she doesn’t remember their days as two far younger men, when he was a short, svelte man with dark hair and a thick beard, and she taller, with a cloud of gray curls and a high raspy voice. Maybe she doesn’t recall their Sea Devils days, when they were at zero hour and desperately collaborating, and she was the one gripping him gently by the hips and moving him out of her path. That’s alright. He’ll remind her in time.
He is ever so patient, after all, and very good at waiting.
“Then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of touching you,” he murmurs back, stealing an uncharacteristically meek smile right back at her.
The Master feigns astonishment, but draws close to the Doctor, leaning down, peering down at she who is at last shorter.
“I don’t doubt you could disarm a Dalek Fleet with your bare teeth and, maybe, a box of toothpicks and a jar of olives, or some other utterly incomprehensible, implausible combination of ingredients, but you don’t get to do that this time.”
He gathers her closer, tugging her near by the suspender straps.
“The pleasure of protection gets to be mine. I get to be the beast who paces in circles around you, so you can remain true to your quest for hope and innocence.”
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.
‘I am not being hostile!’ ‘Yes, you are! You’re being hostile and selfish. There are patients on board who need to get to Resus One as a matter of urgency. My job is to keep all of you safe. You’re stopping me from doing that.’
Icarus 