“Quel surprise,” the Master drawls, from where he pointedly remains reclined, on the couch, in the intergalactic port’s cafe, where they mutually agreed to meet. “You, abandoning anything remotely resembling emotional ties. Didn’t see that one coming.”
Pointedly, yes, while not looking at his best and oldest friend’s ludicrous foppish bowtie and boy-band hair, and mile-long legs, and strangely attractive eyebrow-less face.
“Thanks for the paltry fifteen minutes pretending you weren’t itching to dump me squarely in your past again.”
Those widened-umber eyes scan the room surrounding him, a vastness he can’t quite place settling deep within his psyche and he doesn’t understand the meaning behind what he sees nor why that strange mechanical vibration seems to be apologizing. That was silly- machines couldn’t apologize because machines weren’t alive. So lost is he in his ponderings of the environment and the void within his head that feels both achingly familiar and steadfastly foreign that he doesn’t notice at first when the other man kneels before him.
He doesn’t notice until the gentle whoosh of air carries the scent of the other to his nostrils and they flare, his head turning instantly and his eyes locking onto the face of the man as a hand reaches out with a light touch to his brow. He can’t explain the flush that rises to his freckle-laden skin at the close proximity of this man, nor can he explain why it feels like there are two hearts fighting for dominance beneath his chest in a desperate attempt to escape the cavity they’re contained in. Before he has time to question his own bodily reactions he feels that soft, gentle warmth spreading through him that seems to relax him.
Perhaps that has to do with the touch as well but in that moment as his mind fills with a soft cotton and his veins pump downy-feathers through his body, he is perfectly incapable of caring where the pleasant sensation comes from- just that it is there and shall remain, always. His eyes become more naturally lidded and a crooked half smile appears on his face, nodding dumbly as the man speaks to him of lost memories, of friendship and safety. Of names.
“We’re friends. I’m safe with you.Koschei...”
He whispers the last part, the name, softly- like a prayer of the devout in the most holy of temples, but it sparks no memories to fill the void in his mind. This makes him feel guilty, and he can’t understand why- so he shoves the guilt aside, not wishing to feel it any longer.
“And I’m the Doctor… that’s not a proper name, though, is it. The Doctor. What sort of a man calls himself a Doctor? Bit pompous if you ask me. I don’t think I’m any sort of Doctor. Certainly don’t feel like a Doctor. Why couldn’t I have a normal name, like yours? Koschei. Your name’s beautiful, I want a name like that.”
Blimey, it seems his mouth is keen to move whether he wants it to or not. Snapping his lips closed promptly he attempts to stem the flow of vocabulary, which seems to make his tongue twitch behind his teeth. No thoughts accompany the semantics- they seem to have a mind of their own. Despite this attempt at silence, his mouth opens again and provides more words against his will. He doesn’t get up though- he stays put, as he’s told, on the floor of the vast and unfamiliar room.
“Diagnosing things- sounds more like you’re the Doctor, not me. Diagnosing mechanical issues, diagnosing me with amnesia, taking care of me here on the floor. If I am the Doctor then I’m a rubbish one and I demand a new name immediately- wait. Hang on. Did you say we’re married? Properly together? Oh that’s- that’s brilliant. How’d I land a bloke like you? You’re gorgeous! Certainly better looking than I must be, I mean- I feel all thin and- and wiry and-”
The words stop immediately, silence falling as he claps a hand over his mouth to prevent any more from flowing out. Clearly, regardless of who he is, he certainly has a gob. That flush on his face turns into a proper burn of embarrassment and he’s positive he’s going to melt into the floor. He shan’t be removing his hand from his mouth again any time soon, at least… that’s the plan.
Of all the Masters, this face is the most openly physically demonstrative, and that’s what compels him to hum fondly at the trust his lost beloved shows him, and to reach out, slowly, to pet his face.
“We’re best friends. You will always be safe with me.”
My love, oh my love, when your memory returns, and it shall, know that I didn’t lie, for all the pain’s squarely, firm as concrete, stored in the inaccessible past. Inaccessible even to time travelers, for we are changed people, no matter where or when your TARDIS takes us.
He laughs a broad cackle when his beloved suggests that he is worthier of the snobby moniker.
“You use the term less to connote a literal physician, luv. More as a bit of sanctimonious twaddle about patching oop the universe. You’re a bit of a prig, but your hearts are truly enormously loving, so after long agonies of feuding, you and I decided to simply be the old married couple that we are… . yes. I said that, yes.”
He quirks his lip at his beloved idiot.
“Don’t you dare flirt with me. Even like this! You cad. I love you.”
He turns a console monitor toward the Doctor on his way to studying the proverbial crime scene.
“You’re MY wiry thin blooshin’ maiden.”
He pinches his cheek, hard, and snaps his teeth “threateningly’ at the tip of his nose.
Even as his lover tucks in his chin, the Doctor feels no trepidation, no doubts soaking in to toxify the moment. He knows the Master better than perhaps he knows himself, can read his tells, can go on the journey of discovery with him as the keeper of his hearts sees the ring first. Good. He’s placed the items well, then.
He goes with him to the red fields, when flesh first met flesh, hand first met hand, mind first touched mind. He runs from childhood to adolescence, when the Council was manipulating him to suit their needs and he, hopeless dreamer, was too naive to see it, clinging to a lock of hair in a darkened room after hours with tears in his eyes and a deep fear turning his hearts to stone- their bond hadn’t faded, but it had been used a g a i n s t t h e m. Even further he runs until he’s in orbit around Gallifrey, his home, a place he never belonged, but he is alone and he is desolate, on his knees in front of the open doors of the TARDIS, staring down at the crimson planet where he’s left the only person that’s ever mattered to him, screaming, howling because he thinks he has no choice. Before he knows it they are calling themselves enemies and he is desperate to fix a man who doesn’t need to be fixed, who is p e r f e c t as he is, even through the monstrous acts.
The Doctor has never judged the Master for those acts. Never blamed him. No, rather, the Doctor has blamed himself- but no longer. The pair of them know now that neither of them are to blame but rather the Time Lords. The situation. The time. Their choices were their own but only at the most base and primitive levels. Even through this journey, the Doctor feels no fear in the present, no doubt, not a single drop. He is in love. He always has been in love. He always will be in love and now they’ve shattered the chains that bound them. Now they are free to be in love as they always should have been. The Master has taught the Doctor that there is little to fear about that, aside from losing it- and he will not lose it again.
The words ’put it on me’ are breathed and the Doctor breathes as well, respiratory bypass having engaged without his consent though his hearts remain beating steadily. As steady as his hand is as he reaches out for the ring and slips it on to the Master’s left ring finger to a silent chorus of forever, finally, eternally, yours, mine, yours, mine, everything I want or need, right here.
He knows the Master hasn’t seen the phial yet when he moves to kiss him, and the Doctor’s lips part, unsure whether to let it go or suggest he look twice. Thankfully he doesn’t have to do either, and the goggles tumbling to the grates, the sound of contact uncharacteristically loud in the silence of the room that’s only filled otherwise with their mutually shallow and hitched breathing, lets him know the Master’s realized something else hides within the box. A gentle anxiety begins to weave itself into the Doctor then, but it isn’t negative in nature- even now, unsure as to how the Master will respond to this gesture, he is hopeful. What a strange thing love can do once you accept it and learn that it’s nothing to be afraid of after all.
His knowledge of the other Time Lord comes in handy to quash his own overwhelming emotions as the Master begins to speak and subsequently goes silent. Realization dawns, and the Doctor’s respiratory bypass once again engages, his synaptic system having to temporarily reroute itself in order to avoid the deluge of chemicals that become emotions. What he witnesses is beautiful and his hearts swell, more and more until he feels the legitimate pressure within his chest and thinks it not possible to love another person more than he loves his Koschei in this moment. Gorgeous chaos, enchanting terror, beautiful tears- the reaction the Doctor had been expecting.
A gentle smile warms his face and at once he steps forward to close the distance that’s been placed between them. Hands lift to cup damp cheeks against his palms, thumbs trailing through the saltwater as he both lifts the Master’s chin and lowers his own, seeking out the other’s eyes. The question only makes that gentle smile widen, and his own eyes mist over as he finds himself incorrect– now, he thinks, now he loves him even more than he did moments ago and he knows that love will only grow deeper. Every moment of eternity is theirs now, and every moment will bring them closer. Every moment of their fixed-point infinity will be spent chasing away fears together.
“Of course I do. Koschei, I’ve never wanted anything more than I want you. As my traveling companion, as my best friend, my lover, my partner, my husband… It doesn’t have to be now, or tomorrow, or even anytime soon but-.. I’d love to have a child with you, Kos.”
It’s with an endearing wistfulness that the Master drops his gaze. A foolish, dreaming smile barely ghosts his lips. It’s obvious: he’s sold.
His fingers trace the silhouette of the phial of blood. The power he’s granted, and he’s so joyfully beguiled that he could never abuse what he’s always connived to possess. Oh, how wonderfully hilarious. He even chuckles, softly, just a few merry breaths of sound.
“But where’re we gonna find a loom, Thete? Gallifrey’s … it’s beyond us.”
Eyes that’ve softened to butterscotch snap up to face his other self, with purest faith that the Doctor will have an answer. Yet the Master finds it intuitively, before his best friend need speak again.
“You really think you and I can BUILD one? From SCRATCH? OHO. Oh, Doctor! Very WELL. Oh, VERY WELL, I ACCEPT THIS CHALLENGE!”
“You say our love is draining and you can’t go on You’ll be the one complaining when I am gone… And no, don’t change the subject Cuz you’re my favorite subject My sweet, submissive subject My loyal, royal subject Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever…
You’ll be back like before I will fight the fight and win the war For your love, for your praise And I’ll love you till my dying days When you’re gone, I’ll go mad So don’t throw away this thing we had Cuz when push comes to shove
I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love “
It works, obviously. His resting frown is gone almost as soon as the words are said. People don’t generally tell him that, and he’s quite sure the Master doesn’t mean it. He’s amused anyway, whether it’s a genuine compliment or not.
“I’m not saying that I cried at the Lion King, I’m just saying that I’m never watching it again.”
The Doctor takes the popcorn from the coffee table, evidently deciding it’s his now. He doesn’t really care what they watch, honestly, despite the fuss he’s making. He’d much rather watch the Master watching the film instead. To silently show affection in a way he hopes isn’t too obvious, he leans against his shoulder. He won’t be moved to putting an arm around his shoulders. He’s seen people try to do that to others and sometimes it makes them look as nervous as he feels when he wants to initiate physical contact. No — he’ll just sit patiently and wait.
“What about one of those science films that are completely inaccurate?”
Patience has never been a strength of his. He lays his head on the Master’s shoulder.
The Master’s whole body shakes with his laughter; he’s not trying to hide it, grinning toothily at his best friend.
“You sobbed like a schoolchild at Mufasa’s death–oh WHAT, do you think that when I was crash-coursing myself on the history of the planet in order to pose as a prime minister, I didn’t spend a few hours on Disney? ‘You’re WEL-coooom!’”
And, thusly quoting “Moana,” he selects Jurassic Park from the direct-watch menu.
“How about this one, a Tyrannosaur eats a solicitor while he’s sitting on a toilet, it’s ever so funny.”
He rests his cheek on top of the Doctor’s head, cozily.
“Hhhhah. Are we really a separate person, she and I? Are you quite sure?”
The Master removes his outer coat, the black hole hued one lined in blood red. He removes it ritually, ceremonially. Beneath it is a charcoal gray button-up, which he loosens down to the collarbones. He rolls up his sleeves, and then, thusly vulnerable and free, he continues speaking.
“She is … my wife. Mother of my child. My best friend. My oldest friend. My first friend. My friend, more than anything else. That may not seem particularly important to someone with a plenitude of acquaintances. But you see, where I come from, nobody could stand me until the Doctor met me. I was shy, and frail, and too sensitive. I was too eager to cling to others, particularly in the physical sense. I was too dependent. Then I met someone who not only valued my opinion, but enjoyed my company. Someone who taught me that connections were not only encouraged, but also safe. I suppose that’s when it began. The bonding that’s … I think, a fusion at the molecular level, at this point. Deeper still, even.
“The Doctor’s Thirteenth Face has circled back to that point in time when we met. When we were boys, and happy. Happier than we ever were thereafter, save in fugitive, fleeting moments. I can’t explain it to you, only that something about what she has just been through, in her Twelfth face, and what I have foreseen of my next face, has placed us in the … the unique position, to compromise for each other. She is the boy I met, only with the advantage of hindsight, and experience, and wisdom. We are both contrite, and it has broken the constant loop of misunderstanding.
“I don’t think I can articulate to you, what it does to me, when she smiles, and I’m the cause. It’s exultant. I feel as if the immortality I’ve connived and killed for is mine without an ounce of effort. I want to take her and squeeze her and burrow her into my marrow, I hate ANY distance between us, though I tolerate it, if it means I can stand back and watch that joy unfold from a front-row seat. I am wrapped around her moods and humors. I … I orbit her. Always did, it’s just I don’t care to pretend I don’t anymore. We know each other better than we know ourselves. No one can make her happy like I can. I know it. She’s told me, and I believe her. I believe anything she says, she’s never given me reason to doubt her. And I’ve. I’ve never felt so free, to exist without …without posturing. Of any kind. You know, the other day I wore an old sloppy gray jumper the whole day and all I accomplished was giving our daughter a bath and I felt completely fulfilled. It’s so strange.
“I want our daughter to grow up free of the pressures that were exerted upon us on Gallifrey. I want her to know it’s not shameful to touch and hold the person you love. It’s not shameful to feel biases and emotions. It’s not shameful to have self-serving wishes and passions, to care about your own welfare, independent of your family line and your legacy. But I don’t want her to become me, someone who … . who overcompensated for centuries by being a … despot and a lunatic . . I … I want her to make her own decisions, but not forced, not to prove something to her enemies, and not … not bloody WORRY about being ‘good enough.’ My God, I. I’ve perverted my own mind and will so long toward the goal of being … unforgettable, cheating, conquering death and obscurity, and it’s made me miserable. I don’t want that for her. I think only Theta can help me secure that future for our girl.”
Icarus 