“Well, there’s no need to point it out so obviously.” He’s sulking, the way he always does when anyone points out something he thinks he’s been keeping well hidden. “Shut up, Roundface. I love you. Stop being so good at reading me.”
The Master leaves the safety of the TARDIS threshold, and rushes out onto the hostile planet surface. Every sense thrums; he is feral. Nothing and no one will blockade the way to his Bondmate.
He crashes into the Doctor and braces his arms with surprising power, given his comparably smaller stature.
“I’ve got you, Thete, c’mon.”
He hazards a moment to press together their foreheads, and impart what clean, clear, calming energies he can.
[ Well after that sweater post how can I not?… >8D ]
“Aha! Hoosband! There you are! Look wot I found in tha’ little Christmastree Shoppe ‘round the corner from the electronics dealer on Banue Prime! Isn’t it joost perfect?”
She gestures, with what is most definitely a smug and nefarious grin, to the Christmas tree she’d insisted they display in the control room, just off the right side of the console unit nestled betwixt a corridor leading into the body of the ship and a bookshelf with her Top 127 Books [because she’d refused to only choose 120, but 130 wouldn’t fit].
There, hanging from a high bough near the apex of the tree is a brand new Christmas ornament just for him.
The Master has crashed after about 72 hours of contemplating an impossible interlocking computer matrix: that is, connecting Twirly to the TARDIS’s navigational channels. Presently he stumbles out of the bedroom, hair a silvery-blond nest of disarray, eyes bleary. He rubs his face and stifles a yawn.
“What. You what. We were at Banue Prime? How coom you didn’t wake me oop, I love Banue Prime …”
That’s when he recognizes the deviousness of Theta Sigma’s smile.
Oh Lord.
He’s wide awake now. Gaping brown eyes scour the whole environment for the punchline. His features freeze into a mask of exasperated amusement as he approaches the tree, with a sense that his odious fate lies there.
Razor-sharp wits lockdown quickly on the koala ornament.
“Why do you HATE me?” he wails, sparing not a drop of melodrama for a later occasion.
As befits an over-achieving Time Lord, the Master is every bit the polyglot that the Doctor is. Her vehement entry signals that he must compensate with calm. He strides over, with a carefully composed look of amusement.
“I’ll hold while you punch?” he ventures, in Urdu.
He produces a handkerchief, fussing over the still-damp parts of her hair and face, following her in her raging circles, a storm-chaser if ever there was one.
-…how badly would it effect history if i killed him?…- -…is it too early?…-
-…damn i cant…- -…he is so damn lucky im not koschie…-
“I mean, if you’re serious about that, it’s not too late for me to snuff him then put a genetically-manufactured doppleganger on the throne. Just whistle.”
Icarus 