What happened to “never do weapons”? It’s a flexible creed. Doors, locks, walls, buildings, fair game. If it can be rebuilt, I’ll allow it. No, no, you stopped me trying to shoot the Sniperbots before.
Did anyone else feel “yikes” about this, like it was an unflattering hint about the character’s continued genuine flaws? Which is excellent well-rounded protagonist stuff, btw.
“You have, Hearts. Long ago, and every day since, that you’ve welcomed me home.”
The words sound so polished, so practiced, but they’re on his mind like the constant thrum of the heartsbeat with which his own chest is synchronized.
He turns the parcel over in his hands, with the methodical, scientific precision for which he’s so well known.
“ … . what did you do?” he demands, with a sly grin. “What exactly’s in here?”
Smiling the Doctor reached and opened the lid. Within is black band with soft golden circles in their native tongue of Gallifreyan. Within the center of one circle is a deep red ruby that glints boldly against the dark colors. “This..” His tone is soft as he gazes at the ring in the little box.
Two words are carved into the band in Gallifreyan spelling out; love eternal. A deep blush has colored The Doctor’s cheeks as he awaits the reaction either negative or positive.
It’s only after staring at the writing, running callused thumbs over the simple truth in the concentric inscription, that the Master looks up at the Doctor. The sly satisfaction in moist eyes speaks volumes.
“You just never quit, do you?” he murmurs.
It’s evidence that he’s at last accepted the Doctor’s great turnaround–from running away, to chasing–is an act not of imprisonment, but of love.
Palms smack against ruddy cheeks, and he draws the Doctor’s face close, with a bewildering enthusiasm. He growls loudly.
“ARRRGH, you infuriating beautiful man! Would that I could bottle you like a color and paint a thousand canvases. Just kiss me, damn you.”
This time, it’s his dinner, from a lamb shank, which he just spent six hours seasoning and roasting, one of the culinarily incompetent Time Lord’s FEW cooking successes … . that clatters to the ground, as he catches, and is knocked over by, the Doctor.
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.
Icarus 