It’s an unusually crass declaration from the salty Victorian, but out it spills, with great panache, great enunciative crispness, on the t.
“I KNOW I didn’t say that aloud. I KNOW I didn’t. What’d you do, eavesdrop? We weren’t even touch-telepathing, how’d you DO that? God, is it that earnest a need? Not that I’m ADMITTING to it … !”
Hearing him drop an expletive in such a manner made it abundantly clear that she wasn’t supposed to hear what she had. The babbling attempt to cover it all up made her grin, a laugh spilling from her lips. “Create whatever theory you need of how I heard but just know I did hear it.”
“SHUT UP, you insufferable ray of sunshine! Don’t you give me that shit!”
With massive futility, the Master tries to bristle and fume.
The longer the Doctor beams up at him, with her pointy elfish brows and her button nose and her broad, cheesy grin, the more steam leaves the proverbial kettle of his temper.
“ … it’s not. I didn’t. Consciously plan on asking, it joost. Escaped me, like. Like oxygen.”
@julielilac for this photoset I elect you president of the galaxy.
Children of Gallifrey, taken from their families at the age of eight, to enter the Academy. Some say that’s where it all began. When he was a child. That’s when the Master saw eternity. As a novice, he was taken for initiation. He stood in front of the Untempered Schism — it’s a gap in the fabric of reality, through which could be seen the whole of the Vortex. You stand there. Eight years old. Staring at the raw power of time and space. Just a child. Some would be inspired. Some would run away. And some would go mad.
That monosyllabic command stops him dead in his tracks.
Because it’s not a command, really. It’s a plea.
Ahhhh yes. What a thrill. He remembers this.
The indescribable sensation of individual organs hemorrhaging and shutting down, on the floor of the flying fortress he designed and built with his own hands, a far younger, far more reckless version of the soul sitting on this bed begging him not to leave him alone.
And isn’t the choice he made on that day the whole cause for the trajectory of his–?
‘How about that. I win lose. ‘
Ohh, no. Don’t do that. Oh whoa. Dangerous terrain, these thoughts. Entertaining ideas of blame again. Stop that.
Let it be a draw, Koschei. Just this once.
Else why did you hover over his bed these past days, w o r r y i n g that the source of your mad strivings was going to be fully extinguished?
“ … .I did volunteer. I didn’t trust anyone else to keep you safe.”
In fact, let him win. With these words.
He takes a pitcher of water from the bedside table, and pours a glass.
He nudges the Doctor’s shoulder with it.
Now, this he isn’t expecting. Why was it so easy? Why has his demand been taken and accepted so quickly? He’d expected at least another sharp comment meant to hurt him. But he’s certainly not going to argue. He doesn’t move either, at first, just waiting in slightly awkward silence for either the comment to come late, or their less hurtful conversation to resume.
He’s glad it turns out to be the latter.
“Well,” he says, sitting up enough to take the water. “Thank you.” It’s a genuine thanks, though he is biting back an assurance that he no longer requires babysitting. It’s difficult to decide what he actually wants. Part of him wants to insist he can manage just fine alone now, and the other part wants the Master to stay by his bedside for the rest of this life (which he’s not fully convinced is going to be too long, if he’s honest).
He uses his free hand to pull the Master’s coat around himself better.
“Any tips on keeping regeneration at bay until I’ve recovered? I’m fine,” — and his tone is defensive and firm, as though challenging even the unspoken suggestion that he might not be. “But my body seems to think regeneration will be easier than waiting this out and healing. I don’t want to regenerate.”
Not now, and not at all. Not again. He can’t do this again. The tiredness has been making itself evident in his eyes over many years now, and it never quite goes away. Even the humans at the university have expressed concern for him. He brushes it off every time, of course, but he knows they’re right. The weight of the universe resting continuously on his shoulders has perhaps exhausted him to a point he can’t return from.
Still. He doesn’t have to make up his mind yet. He’s not dying today. Not yet. There’s still hope, and for him it currently appears in the shape of his best friend, at the side of his bed. He’s still here, looking after him, and that has to mean something.
Easy? Hardly, that was excruciating. And yet he can’t but feel softly. Softly, for the angry, weary, befuddled old man (old, like he is) fumbling for his dignity. And that is all he’s ever wanted to see from the Doctor, in the end: some semblance of vulnerability, or neediness. Some sort of aching empty spot where Koschei used to be. Rather like the facade of an old house, whose shutters have been ripped off, and the remaining rectangular stains haven’t weathered like the rest of the house. Something fresh and vibrant and yet devoid, beneath, within.
At his core, the Master wants to feel … . mandatory. Necessary. Needed.
By this specific person: or who this specific person was.
Softly, yes. He feels softly. Like he never feels.
How terribly, sentimentally ordinary of him.
“You’re welcome,” the words escape before he’s able to stop himself, because they are the truth.
But when the Doctor lets slip his true condition, up flies a protective emotional exoskeleton around the Master’s hearts. Up like the carapaceof an armadillo, circling itself. His eyes blaze and flash.
“Like hell you’re fine,” he snarls, face viciously animated, even while his voice remains discreetly low. Because this is his, this is HIS to hoard, the Doctor told HIM first how badly off he really is, and no one, not a cyberman named Bill, and not even his own future self, can take that away. “If your body is trying to regenerate that’s the very definition of not fine.”
He leans across the bed, feigning an effort to adjust the curtains and shutters, glances around, and continues, in the Doctor’s ear, so close that his scent of cloves and engine grease is overpowering.
“It’s mindfulness. That’s literally ninety-nine percent of it. You have to will yourself not to regenerate. You have to recite it like a mantra, and keep your mind from wandering off the subj … look, Doctor, I’m not giving you advice on how I stopped my own regeneration. You may recall that ended with me dying.”
Sturdy digits made callused by ferocious mechanical labor now grace the keys of the grand piano once played by Missy inside the Vault. They rest there, ghosting over notes, until a melancholic, tender melody streams forth. The Master sits there on board the TARDIS and croons, in a competently pleasant, soft second tenor, which startlingly lacks grandstanding of any sort.
“In every heart there is a room A sanctuary safe and strong To heal the wounds from lovers past Until a new one comes along.
“I spoke to you in cautious tones You answered me with no pretense And still I feel I said too much My silence is my self defense.”
He pauses mid song to catch the Doctor’s eye, with contrition and something more remarkable still: meekness.
“And every time I’ve held a rose It seems I only felt the thorns And so it goes, and so it goes And so will you soon I suppose. But if my silence made you leave Then that would be my worst mistake So I will share this room with you And you can have these hearts to break.”
He swallows hard.
“And this is why my eyes are closed It’s just as well for all I’ve seen And so it goes, and so it goes And you’re the only one who knows.”
The music swells.
“So I would choose to be with you That’s if the choice were mine to make But you can make decisions too And you can have this heart to break
“And so it goes, and so it goes And you’re the only one who knows.”
The music had drawn the Doctor in, initially- that gorgeous tinkling sound of keys finally being played once more after laying silent and gathering dust. It was gentle, almost mournful in the way the notes filled the air and drifted through it straight into her ears… into her hearts. The TARDIS had encouraged her to approach the Vault, the sight of which gave her more than a little trepidation. Too long it had been since that dreadful thing had been filled- too long since it hadn’t been a part of the ship itself.
Yet there she found herself, leaning against the metallic framework and staring, enraptured, at the Keeper of her hearts as he began to both play and sing. She remained silent, a swell of devotion wrapped in contentment dissolving into her blood and causing her entire body to grow warm. When he paused and caught her eye she felt that warmth blossom onto her flesh, turning her skin an appropriate color in accordance with the feeling deep inside.
The corner of her mouth tilts up, but it isn’t amusement in her eyes- it’s acceptance. It’s her taking every single word as seriously as he’s singing them, and as the song continues she finds her feet once again moving of their own volition. Before long she’s standing next to the piano alongside him, facing him, never once taking her eyes off of him- barely blinking, as it were. Both hands fold atop the dusty black instrument as the music swells, and moisture springs to her eyes as the song ends and leaves them both in silence that echoes the meaning and sounds even after they’ve gone.
She stands there a moment before slowly joining him on the piano bench, swallowing thickly as her own hands lift to hover fingertips over the keys. It seems only natural to her that she should begin to play, the notes gentle and a little faster than the ones he’d played, but no less haunting. Her eyes gaze down at the keys, at her hands as she begins to sing, voice just as gentle as the notes and wavering softly from the emotion he’s already brought up inside of her.
“I know I wasn’t there When you needed me the most I know I didn’t care And was afraid to get so close Tonight it’s getting hard to fall asleep Cos it’s becomming clear that I broke all into pieces And I cannot reverse it So I’ve got one more thing to say…
“I’m sorry for your pain I’m sorry for your tears For all the little things I didn’t know I’m sorry for the words I didn’t say But what I still do I’m still loving you.”
She takes a breath, her eyes closing and that moisture slipping down her cheeks as she continues.
“I know I let you wait And been away for far too long But now I can relate To everything that I did wrong I stop breathing when I think I’m losing you And there’ll be no excuse So I am on my knees, so listen please Let me hold your hand once again.”
It’s here that she finally looks at him, is finally able to do so, and as she meets his eye he will see the affection, the devotion, just as he always has but now.. now it’s paired with one other raw emotion: repentance.
“I’m sorry for your pain I’m sorry for your tears For all the little things I didn’t know I’m sorry for the words I didn’t say I’m sorry for the lies I’m sorry for the fights For not showing my love a dozen times I’m sorry for the things that I call mine But what I still do I’m still loving you
"I’m sorry for your pain I’m sorry for your tears For all the little things I didn’t know I’m sorry for the words I didn’t say I’m sorry for the lies I’m sorry for the fights For not showing my love a dozen times I’m sorry for the things that I call mine But what I still do I’m still loving you That’s what I will always do…”
He closes the piano lid just as she utters her final line, and shakes his head, and shakes it again, almost so violently that it should do damage to his neck and shoulders. Almost like a child banishing a poltergeist.
He shudders and it seems exorcized, the mood, the memories.
“Oh, enough,” he sighs, turns and seizes her against him. “We’re both so stupid, Doctor.”
The fingers of one hand dig into her scalp, the others into the back of her little rainbow shirt, pulling it tight, clutching a fist full of thick soft bleached hair, evidence that she is real and she is present, evidence that centuries of fruitless struggle, cycling a highway ramp with no exits, have ended.
“I love you. Say you love me. It’s that simple and that complex.”
He smiles at the ceiling.
“Aren’t you proud of me? See, I learn. I even learn fast. You know what I think you should do? What we should do?”
He peels himself off her with great effort, and rests his palms on her youthful, elfin face.
“Let’s demolish this room. Don’t ask the TARDIS to do it. Do it manually. Let’s do a … a cleanse, hm?”
A pause, as his eyes rove the room.
“Except I wanna keep the piano. I like the piano. And. I want a kangaroo. And a license to be a brain surgeon. And … maybe some Jelly Babies.”
“EWWWWWW,” he declares, nose wrinkled, but face transported with an unholy grin.
“Oi, you gonna help ‘er then?” she says, amused to see him down on the ground like that.
“Noooooo,” he retorts, twisting his neck so he can flash that leer at her. “This is ecology in progress! A food chain’s pecking order vividly displayed for our fortunate gaze! I’ll not interrupt at ALL!”
Icarus 