A miracle occurs: the Master respects the Doctor’s space.
Perhaps it’s because centuries of an inexplicable, terrifying, overstimulating, isolating noise inside his head, penetrative and invasive and cruel, at the hands of their society’s great patriarch, made him realize just what it is to have no space, ever, to oneself.
Instead of overcompensation with aggressions of his own, then, he releases his beloved and steps back.
“It’s okay. C’mere. Turn around and c’mere. You don’t have to sort it alone, you mopey, deranged cockatoo.”
“Everything’s too loud, too much, I know. But you’ve got me. I get it.”
Slowly he dropped his arms back to his hands, fingers curling back into fists. His shoulders twitched as he fought away his aggressive reaction. Bowing his head his body gave another shudder. When he felt the arms release his waist and the space between them return he inhaled sharply.
Cracked lips parted as he attempted to speak again. The words seemed caught in his throat but he felt his own relief pouring through the connection. The Master did understand, quite possibly the only person who ever could. It brought him some sense of peace knowing he didn’t have to bare all of this alone.
Turning he kept his arms at his sides, still afraid of what he might do if any little thing became too much. Any sound, any action, that could grate on his already frayed nerves. Stepping forward he allowed himself to get close enough to sag into the Master’s steady frame.
“Koschei..”
Again the man’s name was the only thing he could manage to get past his lips. Like a reverent prayer. Through the mental connection his silent thanks was louder than his voice dared to be. The Doctor couldn’t be strong all the time and at the moment he was crumbling.
The Master–over self, over death, over any attempt to conquer and break him, who would sooner scream back at thunder than cower beneath it–accepts the Doctor into his arms. Immediately, he presses two fingers to the Doctor’s temple.
“Breathe.”
It’s such an overwhelming telepathic suggestion, overriding all other frequencies in the psychic stream, that it might as well be a command.
Pink noise, static, a kind of cottony warm sensation, floods into the Doctor’s mind. It’s his choice whether to accept it. He steps back enough to lock eyes with his oldest friend.
It was those words that were dangerous when matched with the suffering in his eyes. Whirling in his grief, in his anger he grabbed the nearest object. A chair. Heaving with mild effort he sent it colliding into the and watched as the impact shattered the fragile glass. It cracked and popped, spraying shards of glass across the ground at his feet. Breathing in harsh jagged drags through his lungs, his hands clenched. Still he was ready to attack, to fight, to lash out at anything or anyone that dared stray too close.
Enough loss. Enough pain. Enough life.
E N O U G H !
The telepathic bond connecting the Doctor to the Master sizzles with rage and remorse. Koschei knows what awaits him before he stalks into the observatory.
He stutters to a halt behind the Doctor. And he closes the distance between them, slowly lacing his arms around his waist. Steadfast resolve mutes the pain on his features.
“Not until I’ve said so,” he murmurs.
And does not let go.
The Doctor felt the Master before he heard him enter. The footsteps were familiar and brisk until they halted behind him. Trembling all over the Doctor dragged a slow breath into his lungs fighting the urge to whip around and face the man behind him.
The arms around his waist made him tense, he didn’t want to end up lashing out at the Master. Swallowing hard he throws his hands up over his face, his jaw clenched tight.
“Koschei…”
A miracle occurs: the Master respects the Doctor’s space.
Perhaps it’s because centuries of an inexplicable, terrifying, overstimulating, isolating noise inside his head, penetrative and invasive and cruel, at the hands of their society’s great patriarch, made him realize just what it is to have no space, ever, to oneself.
Instead of overcompensation with aggressions of his own, then, he releases his beloved and steps back.
“It’s okay. C’mere. Turn around and c’mere. You don’t have to sort it alone, you mopey, deranged cockatoo.”
“Everything’s too loud, too much, I know. But you’ve got me. I get it.”
It was those words that were dangerous when matched with the suffering in his eyes. Whirling in his grief, in his anger he grabbed the nearest object. A chair. Heaving with mild effort he sent it colliding into the and watched as the impact shattered the fragile glass. It cracked and popped, spraying shards of glass across the ground at his feet. Breathing in harsh jagged drags through his lungs, his hands clenched. Still he was ready to attack, to fight, to lash out at anything or anyone that dared stray too close.
Enough loss. Enough pain. Enough life.
E N O U G H !
The telepathic bond connecting the Doctor to the Master sizzles with rage and remorse. Koschei knows what awaits him before he stalks into the observatory.
He stutters to a halt behind the Doctor. And he closes the distance between them, slowly lacing his arms around his waist. Steadfast resolve mutes the pain on his features.
The Master glances with his best effort at imperiousness at his beloved buffoon. He rounds on the Doctor as he has the TEMERITY to RUN AWAY from the feisty foreplay he himself instigated!
“Oi, OHO. Cat and mouse time, you little SHIT!”
He draws the nanotech tracker he had been engrossed with, a pinhead-sized bug that hovers after the Doctor and adheres to the skin of his neck. Then the Master spins round, grinning maniacally, and returns to his testing screen. Excellent. The tracker is activated, and the Doctor is now a bright blinking blue dot on the digital grid.
“Gotcha.”
Weaving around the changing halls and doorways of the TARDIS interior he tried to find himself a suitable hiding spot. After figuring he had gone around enough corners and through enough doors he fitted himself into a cabinet, pulling the doors shut with a barely concealed smile.
“I’d like to see you find me now!”
He snickered and settled himself to wait and see.
For about sixty seconds, the Master trots as loudly as he can on the grated floor of the TARDIS, to give the Doctor the impression of pursuit. Then he stops, and resumes studying the monitor.
The blue dot becomes static, in a labeled sector of the time machine.
Koschei detaches the remote nanotech monitor from the mainframe, and saunters smugly out.
He follows the portable GPS, which cheerfully beeps his menacing path, to the destination point, around an admitted labyrinth of twists and turns. He opens the door to the room, and strolls in.
“Pa-THE-tic,” he roars, grinning ear to ear, and FLINGS wide the cabinet door.
He will never, ever, ever tell the Doctor how he achieved this.
The Doctor made an odd noise out of sheer surprise as he was pulled back onto the bed. He couldn’t help the laugh that emitted from his throat, a gleeful sound. Sliding his arms around his beloved he grinned broadly. “Hmm..well I suppose I can stay. For you Kos.” Ducking his head he pressed a kiss to the Master’s lips. (hi ♥ ♥ missed you too 🙂 )
“I wanna taste you. I wanna … . hey. Hey. I like it when you make that noise. It’s adorable. Big scary Doctor, squealing. Mmm, this feels good.”
All the drowsy ruminating is accentuated tenfold when the master nuzzles the Doctor, even more intently after the most welcome kiss, taking care to tickle him with his stubble.
“You’re not allowed to leave ever again. I have decided. We’re to fuse at the molecular level henceforth.”
Icarus 