The Master sits grandiosely slackened, legs crossed, arms behind his head, lounging defiantly in the personal space of the Doctor’s TARDIS, all a calculated maneuver of appearing independent and invincible.
All a facade, for a mind as permeable as soil to water. He could not stand apart from the only true friend he ever had if he tried.
But he will try, anyway, because the Master tilts at windmills.
“I robbed you of your latest human pet in the most violently cruel way possible, all to foil your plot to convert Missy into some diluted goody-goody version of herself, and you still come back for more? Doctor, I never knew you to be a masochist … persecution complex, maybe. Savior complex, definitely. But this? How d’you know I won’t exact excruciating vengeance upon you, eh?”
“ … . . how the HELL did you build a guitar out of other guitars? Are they like, when you make a portrait of someone out of jelly beans, and the littler guitars are the jelly beans, and the portrait is the big guitar, or d’you mean you put a bunch of guitar bits together? Inquiring minds want to know.”
The Master A) is utterly unsurprised by the Doctor’s i) sunglasses, ii) lifelong lack of fashion sense, and iii) equally lifelong attention-deficient enthusiasm spliced with hyper-fixation, B) not moving an inch from where he lies, and C) genuinely curious about the guitar thing.
“ … Hearts, we. Need. To discuss your nightmares. And their source.”
“That really isn’t necessary. Discussing them won’t make them disappear. And why should their source matter?”
He’s lucky he’s been able to avoid this discussion for so long, really, given how well the Master can pick up on things that are bothering him. It’s purely by chance that his regular pattern of sudden waking after just an hour of sleep hasn’t coincided with a moment the Master has been watching over him, until now.
As he always has, the Master summons the courage to look directly at the Doctor when the Doctor chooses to reprimand or avoid him.
“I believed that sort of thing for a very long time, but if you hadn’t convinced me otherwise, I would still be festering with rage and bitterness. And pain. And I would not be here to comfort you. I know you think you only want things, and never need them, but … . Doctor. Let me return you the favor.”
“Take off that magician’s tux straightaway. And open the parcel on the bed.”
Never has the Master looked so benevolently smug. Never.
He’s standing in the doorway, wearing an implausible shirt indeed, a simple white with red print, in a blunt Century Gothic sans font, which reads,
I am Koschei.
Within the parcel is another white tee, which reads, in blue,
If lost, return to
and in red again
Koschei.
The Doctor, meanwhile, has never looked so confused.Take off his magician’s tux? For a start, there’s a complaint about the use of ‘magician’ on the tip of his tongue, and shortly after, a question about why Koschei would suddenly demand that he take off his beloved outfit. He doesn’t voice either, though, because his eyes fall on the parcel. A gift? He hasn’t done anything to deserve a gift, he’s quite sure, and he doesn’t think it’s his birthday. Not that he’d remember anyway.
He steps forward and tears open the parcel, hesitantly at first, and then with the eagerness of a child at Christmas, once he’s forgotten he’s being watched. The shirt he takes out warms his hearts like nothing else. ‘If lost’ can be said to have always applied to him, and now applies whenever he is alone. The idea of being lost, literally or metaphorically, does not affect him greatly any more. ‘Return to Koschei’ is the part that touches him, warmth seeping through the cracks in any mask of emotional detachment.
Now he follows the initial instructions, throwing off his jacket and the several unnecessary layers underneath that. He pulls on the shirt, wearing it with pride. He is wanted. Needed. The other half of something that isn’t ashamed to claim him as its own.
There’s a specific part of his mind that hurts sometimes, when he feels the sting of rejection or abandonment. In all the time he’s been in this body, the only thing that can soothe it is being made to feel wanted, or irreplaceable. Doing what he does, being the Doctor, doesn’t help. Wherever he goes he is an abstract concept, a mystery. He’s simply a being with a title, who arrives with a purpose and disappears from a person’s world when he has done what he needs to do. All the kindness in the world won’t make him important to someone who needs him only to save their life. He is temporary, most of the time.
This touches that part of him more than anything else has ever done. He doesn’t speak, because he hasn’t found the words to express any of this, but he does wordlessly make his way across the room to the doorway where Koschei stands. His arms hug tightly, pulling close the only being who has ever made him feel so complete. He’d never dream of asking for validation or reassurance that Koschei is pleased to have him. Him specifically, not just a being who has something to offer. The wonderful thing about this is that he hasn’t had to ask.
“I love you,” he says. “I’m never going to take this off. Do you understand what you’ve just done for me?”
He’s still holding him, but he pulls back just enough to let Koschei see his face. This is no time for using hugs to hide his face. His eyes shine, and there’s no hint of coldness anywhere in them. No mask. The Doctor kisses him on the face, just in case the hug and the tears in his eyes aren’t enough to demonstrate his feelings about this.
“I do understand, as a matter of fact.”
I love you.
Every time the Doctor says those words–the Doctor that the Master thought had finally given up on him, relegated him to a “hopeless case”–his hearts are buoyant, and his head experiences brief but intense vertigo. He gets giddy.
“When you’re accustomed to being thought undesirable, or problematic, or simply ‘too much’ … . being claimed by a loved one is an act of salvation.”
The Master opens his mouth. Considers. Closes it. Opens it again.
“I have been the embodiment of your pain too many times. I don’t know … how I couldn’t have stayed, or seen it.”
That would be a kind of unforgivable that excels any and all of his present litany of crimes. Because it would be hypocrisy. The Doctor is the storm. And he who quarrels with the stormy sky cannot abide hypocrisy.
He’s still in his own nightclothes. He slides closer to his best and oldest friend.
“It’s not as if it’s anything I haven’t seen before, love.”
Many times; the change of faces does not erase all of the most poignant memories. Nothing ever could.
He takes the hand offered him and sits in silence.
“Yeah, the … hair-stroking was real,” he ventures, feebly.
And the blanket covering. And the humming, and the touch-telepathic guided meditation that wrecked Koschei because he is so telepathically permeable and naturally assumes the emotions to which he’s exposed. Especially from the one person he adores.
“You wanna … ah, try resting again? I’ve ways to block bad thoughts for you. If you. Want.”
The Doctor shakes his head. “No. I wouldn’t inflict that on you. You being here is enough.”
He edges closer and closer, knowing in his mind the very specific comfort he needs. He has just dreamed about loss and the enormity of it, and here sits the person he is absolutely terrified to lose. The Doctor knows the Master is more than capable of looking after himself and surviving in spite of everything. That doesn’t do anything to change the instinct he has to protect, to hold close what he has claimed as his own, and keep it safe from the universe. Keep him safe. His failure to do so with every one of his other friends leads to more pain each time he tries to protect someone. Finally, he sits upright properly.
“Not you,” he whispers. “I won’t lose you too.” He strokes the Master’s face, eyes glazed with exhaustion. “Can I hold you? I need to feel that you’re…safe.”
Stupid thought. The safest place for anyone is as far away from the Doctor as they can get. Is he being selfish? He falters, suddenly unsure. Eyes full of questions and self doubt search the Master’s face for any sign that he doesn’t want to be here. His mind races, ahead of itself and still partly stuck in its dream.
“Not need. You don’t have to. You don’t…owe me anything.”
God, he hates being vulnerable. He’s slipped up twice now, first with the crying and now with the admitting he needs something. What he should’ve said is I’d like to hold you. Not need. He doesn’t need anything. The Master doesn’t owe him his company or his closeness, and especially not after staying with him all night. The Doctor looks at the other side of the room, shame plastered all over his face.
But there is nothing the Doctor could have said that would have pleased the Master more, than I have a wish that only you can fulfill.
Koschei beams softly at his best friend. He looks more youthful and innocent than he has for several consecutive faces, and it has nothing to do with the roundness of his bone structure. There is neither pity nor disgust on his face as he makes one smooth motion, t-shirt, sweatpants and all, and situates himself in the Doctor’s lap.
He cups his chin and guides pale eyes up to meet dark. He doesn’t force his Theta to look long; he knows shame so well, it is his intimate friend, his motivation, his cause to chase greatness, like a greyhound chasing a stuffed rabbit.
"Oh, my sweet fool. Nothing makes me happier than this. My hearts are safe with you.”
His lips meet the Doctor’s so slightly that the kiss is nearly ticklish. Then, they press more firmly to his lover’s mouth. He pulls back, and settles himself contentedly beneath his chin, and closes his eyes.
He knows now, but he certainly didn’t know it all night. The Doctor pushes himself up in bed, just enough that it’s clear he’s decided he’s not going to try and go back to sleep.
The night has been a long one, full of nightmares for him. He doesn’t remember all of them. They were fever-fuelled, panicky and loud. Too loud. With the amount of shouting and probably crying he’s done, he suspects the Master might know more about his nightmares than he himself does at this moment in time.
“Were you stroking my hair? I couldn’t tell if it was real or just in my head.”
Real or not, it definitely helped. He remembers crying, then, about the dream. All about how it’s his fault his friends all die. How he can’t save them, ever, and anybody who travels with him is doomed to suffer. He has these kind of thoughts regularly, but usually they’re in his own voice, which he can ignore for the most part. It becomes a little harder when it’s them. Their faces, their voices, accusing. Hatred for himself projected into the faces of his lost friends, blaming him like he deserves to be blamed.
It occurs to him that this might be the first time this face has cried in front of this Master. He’s cried in front of Missy before. Or… well, cried on Missy might be a more accurate description. But he’s normally quite good at holding himself together. Teary eyes sometimes give Koschei a window to his emotion, but he’s quite sure he’s never actually sobbed. Apparently while stuck halfway between nightmare and reality, he’s not so strong. He can still feel the tears on his face. It can’t be long since he had that dream, then.
He notices that the covers are still over him. Given his tendency to physically struggle against them when dreaming, he wonders how many times they’ve been picked up and laid over him again.
The Doctor sits slowly, reaching out to Koschei. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. It’s so much gentler than the torrent of apologies that spilled from him during his nightmares. Those words were rushed and frantic. Painful. He presses his face against the Master’s shoulder when he’s close enough. “You didn’t have to stay. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t want to see.” See me, see my pain. Of course he didn’t have to stay. The Doctor can never ask that of anyone. He never will. It’s not fair, no matter how much it helps him to know that he’s not alone. “But thank you for staying anyway.”
The Master opens his mouth. Considers. Closes it. Opens it again.
“I have been the embodiment of your pain too many times. I don’t know … how I couldn’t have stayed, or seen it.”
That would be a kind of unforgivable that excels any and all of his present litany of crimes. Because it would be hypocrisy. The Doctor is the storm. And he who quarrels with the stormy sky cannot abide hypocrisy.
He’s still in his own nightclothes. He slides closer to his best and oldest friend.
“It’s not as if it’s anything I haven’t seen before, love.”
Many times; the change of faces does not erase all of the most poignant memories. Nothing ever could.
He takes the hand offered him and sits in silence.
“Yeah, the … hair-stroking was real,” he ventures, feebly.
And the blanket covering. And the humming, and the touch-telepathic guided meditation that wrecked Koschei because he is so telepathically permeable and naturally assumes the emotions to which he’s exposed. Especially from the one person he adores.
“You wanna … ah, try resting again? I’ve ways to block bad thoughts for you. If you. Want.”
His exclamation seems to combine everything he’s feeling at once; delight, embarrassment, confusion, and warmth. He turns on the spot, taking in the sight before him. He’s known for a day or so that his lover must’ve been planning something, and now he understands. The Doctor has just woken up from a long nap following a few days of avoiding sleep, and he realises Koschei must have been waiting for him to fall asleep to put his plan into action.
The console room is roughly fifty percent more redthan it was before. Red roses line every surface, stems wound around each control on the console. The Doctor sees that the pots on his desk previously containing just pens and sonic screwdrivers now contain flowers too. He loves it. He takes up one of the roses and just stares at it for a moment, beaming.
He’s captivated with the beauty of it all at first, and then at the thought of how much work must have gone into it. Where might the roses even have come from? He doesn’t know, and he’s immediately distracted from thinking about it further when he sees the Master appear in the doorway.
“Koschei!” he almost shouts, racing over to him. His own eagerness speeds him up, and he skids to a halt directly in front of him. It’s certainly the most excited hug he’s ever given him, and the most confidently he’s ever initiated a kiss when he presses his lips firmly to Koschei’s.
“I love you. Why have you done this?” For me, he doesn’t add. I know the facts, I know roses are a nice gift to give someone, but why do I deserve them? What have I done to make you so happy that you’d do this for me? He wants to know, so that he can do it again.
The Doctor gives him another kiss before he even lets him answer, like he’s rushing to expel nervous energy through affection. The smile stays on his face, evident in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the energy brought to his entire body.
The Master opens his arms to the Doctor and catches him with a grinning growl.
His answer is so sublimely simple:
“I did it because of what’s happening right now.”
You, overjoyed, childlike, carefree and robbed of your weight and your gloom, you, the way you were before, the last time you saw me when I wore this face, and before that, when we were children; you, with hope.
“Welllll, what d’you know, I’ve a feeling I know who’s snatched me oop.”
The Master secures his arms firmly around the Doctor’s. One forgotten, tired misfit with a few too many wrinkles and silver hairs draws the hands of another to his lips and kisses his knuckles.
He turns in his arms, and burrows close against him, with a smile as drunk as his lover’s, nose rummaging into the skin beneath the Doctor’s chin, eyes closing contentedly.
Icarus 