He watches her, agonized, life draining in the form of thick leaking red that blossoms unseen across the back of his black coat. Agonized, further, by the despair in her voice.
“You’re me,” he supplies, raspy, breathless, the simplest truth he can think to say.
“You? How can I be you?”
The hands that had clutched in her hair slid down, dropping to rest against her legs. The Doctor’s vision is blurred at the edges, her eyes thick with unshed tears.
“None of this makes any bit of sense…”
“Coom’ere, Hearts. The memory loss is temporary. It’s just your Kosch. That’s me. Some of the thoughts you have, the things you feel, they come from me. And mine from you. You’re me because we’re bondmates. Loomed at the same time, in different places, but meant to be in symbiosis. To be soul friends.”
The Master winces, and outstretches a hand. He mirrors the first gesture this person ever made in his direction. He repays her.
“I thought I’d never see you again. But here you are. It can’t be coincidence. Please sit with me. I dunno how long I have, and I need you to be okay.”
“No amount of pointless conversation is going to change the fact that I don’t know who I am!”
Her voice was hoarse as she all but screamed the words out of frustration. Her hands moved to grip the sides of her head, fingers pulling at strands of blonde hair.
He watches her, agonized, life draining in the form of thick leaking red that blossoms unseen across the back of his black coat. Agonized, further, by the despair in her voice.
“You’re me,” he supplies, raspy, breathless, the simplest truth he can think to say.
“No, no, wait!” Too late. For real?! “My… but… I have been collecting those for centuries!”
This ends now. The Doctor shoves the Master as far away from the doors as he’s able to, while staying at the console room. “If you want to kiss me, just ask me! Don’t threaten my accessories! Don’t throw my accessories into the time vortex!” The shock on his features slowly turning into you have wounded and offended me greatly and I am far from pleased.
“Now I most certainly do not want to kiss you.”
Which isn’t… entirely honest. But he threw his bowtie collection into the time vortex! The Doctor isn’t going to let that slide.
Most inexplicably, the Master is delighted by the Doctor’s indignation: and even more pleased by the rough handling. He’s like the kid on the playground that climbs to the summit of the monkey bars in order to toss down marbles and spare change at his crush.
“What’s yours is mine,” he declares, a guffaw in his tone. “You should know that by now! I was just giving us a makeover. Or maybe I just don’t want to see you encumbered with clothes at all.”
He lifts his arms overhead, and behind himself. He grins, eyes puckishly narrowed, and squirms luxuriantly.
“Fine, fiiiine, don’t kiss me. Do your worst instead.”
He is positively punch-drunk on the Doctor’s undivided attention.
Icarus 