“Dear, you’re giving me a bit of a challenge knowing where to begin.”
“Really? Is it that bad?”
Scowling his arms folded across his chest as he did his best to seem quite offended.
“What about your hair hmm? You don’t style it, you’ve just gone and changed the color twice.”
“I DON’T STYLE IT!?”
The Master points emphatically at the top of his head, both bemused and outraged.
“You cloddish edgelord, this is the result of meticulous shampooing, trimming, combing and gelling. It’s called proper grooming! Some of us can’t get away with ‘punk rocker hedgehog’!”
@masterfulxrhythm ; this is so very much Ten in pretty much any thread we have going with those two. I swear I think sometimes he rambles just to see how the Master will silence him.
Despite the forceful way he’d be thrust into unconsciousness and the inevitable nightmares that had formed at the tail end of his last REM cycle, Theta feels rested. He feels better, and more than that he feels grateful. His features soften and he visibly relaxes against the mattress, taking a slow deep breath as a small smile appears on his own face.
“Hi.” he responds, his eyes softening from the soot-filled-umber back into their resting chocolate hue, and his eyes follow the keeper of his hearts as he moves, almost cautiously.
Theta’s own voice is quiet but genuine, nearly a whisper in the space between them, but it’s loud enough to be heard and he knows it.
“And you found me… you helped me. Thank you.” he paused briefly, then finished simply with, “I’m sorry for my behavior in the Library, that-… that was uncalled for.”
The defenses are still down and he is, for all intents and purposes, Theta Sigma. Whatever title he may possess is pushed aside, and though his memories remain in tact, for the moment at least, he finds himself entirely unburdened by his past.
The Master catches the barb on his tongue before it rolls off: well, it wouldn’t be you and me if we didn’t habitually break each other’s heart.
He stops himself only because the joyful abandon on the Doctor’s face is too hard-won to sacrifice to his own visceral, latent anger.
He stops himself because he loves him.
Because he always will. Hopeless, hopeless. There will never be an end to it.
He turns his head before his reluctant eyes will even relinquish the sight of his lover. But his hand remains in sweat-dampened hair, stroking it reassuringly. As was once, long ago, their way, it is Theta who can find the way to articulate deep-seated emotions, not Koschei, who is weary at the same time as he rejoices.
Finally, he speaks, but of practical matters, and not feelings; that was ever his way of showing affection, after all.
“You haven’t slept long enough to replenish yourself. If your mind wanders back to that place, I can guide it home again. Rest.”
Icarus 