“Wake up,” he says, patting the Master’s cheek. “I got you a present.”

The Doctor holds a box which is wrapped (badly) in multiple layers of patterned paper. He sets it carefully on the bed next to the Master, delighted in being able to wake him up with this.

“It’s a thank you present. For helping me. I’m not sure whether you can see the impact you’ve had on me – this me – but I’ve never been so happy. Really. And I want to thank you in some way.” He pushes the box closer. “Open it.”

Inside the box, there’s a jar full of tiny paper stars, buttons, and little strips of card. On each piece of card, the Doctor has written a reason he loves Koschei, or something he does that he finds particularly endearing. On the jar itself, he has written in marker pen ’REASONS I LOVE YOU’. 

The Doctor sits cross-legged on the bed next to the gift he has presented, watching him hopefully. If the Master so much as smiles at the present, it’ll be completely worth all the effort. If he doesn’t like it, he’ll just have to try again with a different approach. The Doctor is determined to express how grateful he is to just have the Master in his presence, in whatever way he can. 

(here you go I know you’re having a rough time at the moment but I hope this makes your day even a tiny bit better!) 

The Master has spent the past 68 solid hours trying to single-handedly mend the TARDIS transmission that SOMEONE broke jumping too fast between coordinates.  

Presently he thrusts upright on the makeshift cot by the strewn cables and guts of the vessel, startled at the tap to his cheek, fumbling for his laser screwdriver.  His eyes focus on the man who has basically been his spouse for the past many millennia.  

      “Oh, golly,” he grunts, scrubbing hands down his face. “What d’you 
        want, Thete?  I’m getting bloody nowhere with this.” 

He leans against the control panel bleakly.

      “What’s that. A thank-you present.  Buttering me oop for doing
        maintenance on the old girl?”

He falls silent at the explanation, silent and very nearly meek.

I’ve never been so happy. 

The Doctor just spoke those words, to him.   Oh God. His chest is so tight and sharp, what does that mean?  What’s happening?  

Koschei opens the box furtively.  He sifts through the little bits and pieces of affection made tangible.  He reads the paper slips and they grow harder and harder to read through astonished tears.  By the time he’s read the title on the lid, he has to hasten to wipe his eyes dry.  

It’s enormously corny and sentimental, it’s what he would scoff at as folly at any other moment, but now it has profoundest meaning.  Now it’s everything, it’s the key to making meaning from the entropy of the universe.

He stares at that stupid hopeful face and for a moment, a frightened rage seizes him, at how vulnerable they both are, and he moves to throw the thing across the room.  Instead he cradles it to his chest like it’s a baby, and weeps harder. 

His joy ought to be highly evident. 

But if it’s not, only a moment or two passes before he mumbles,

      “Thanks.”