The Master’s bristly chin rests on the Doctor’s shoulder. Arms slide around his old friend’s waist like additional appendages, and he reaches for a fist full of marshmallows, which he places directly in his mouth.
“Mhm,” he confirms, with a smirk.
“Well, you can’t have any now. I’m going to drink yours too.” He’s smiling, and it’s audible in his voice, but he pretends it isn’t.
“I’m going to have the rest of the marshmallows, too.”
There are far too many left for this claim to be reasonable, but he holds the bag out of reach anyway. Long arms are useful for many things, the most enjoyable of which being holding things out of the reach of people who are shorter than he is.
“Oh yeah? Just so happens I have leverage, Doctor.”
By now the Master’s standing at the Doctor’s other side, leaning his head back onto his shoulder, coquettish. Wicked.
“If you eat all the marshmallows, I’ll never tell you where I’ve stashed your favorite guitar pic.”
The Master’s bristly chin rests on the Doctor’s shoulder. Arms slide around his old friend’s waist like additional appendages, and he reaches for a fist full of marshmallows, which he places directly in his mouth.
He smiles, then rolls over to face the Master. They’ve been laying here quietly for a while now, and he’s not sure what prompted him to say this. It’s nice to hear all the same, though. He does all he can for the universe and all the living beings within it, and it’s so wonderful to know that somebody would go to extreme lengths for him. Not because he’s the Doctor and he’s needed to save the universe; because he’s the Doctor and he’s loved.
“I’ll have to remember that one next time I want a favour or something fetching from another room. For now, though…”
The Doctor takes one of the Master’s hands in his own.
“You don’t need to. You don’t need to do a single thing for me. It won’t make me love you more, because I already love you as much as one living creature can love another.”
He moves his hand up his arm, shoulder, neck, and finally strokes his cheek, hand gentle. Adoring. He adores him.
“You already do so much, and I don’t think you even realise. Things you do without thinking. You’ve been so patient with me and my stupidity. You’ve helped me. You’ve listened to me even when I’m being a complete idiot. You did all of that, and you didn’t have to. You do everything for me, Koschei. You are everything to me.”
The Doctor moves closer, wrapping an arm around him.
“I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel that what you do isn’t enough. It is. It’s more than enough. I love you.”
The arm draws him closer, and now he smiles slyly and kisses his head.
“By all means, though, if you’d like to cater to every want I have, I suppose you could rub my back. You did say anything.”
Koschei laughs huskily and slinks upright. He kisses his Theta on the forehead and the corner of an eye, growls playfully and rolls him back over.
“You’re horrid, turning my mawkish moment into a chance for pampering.”
Strong firm hands, callused from years of mechanical and technological tinkering, rest on the Doctor’s shoulders.
“Of course, I would’ve done exactly the same thing.”
He barks a laugh, ever so pleased with his own wit. And he begins to knead the tight muscles of the Doctor’s skinny back like a cat plying for attention. Which is precisely what he is.
At the Doctor’s apology, he stiffens. His features tighten with the effort to retain composure. Then he leans over him again, draped across him lazily, one leg slung across his side, one hand in his wooly-sheep hair, lovingly rummaging.
Oh God, that tug at his shirt might as well be a scythe blade embedded in both his hearts, dragging him down. He remembers it too. That’s the problem, the Master’s memory as as far-ranging as his foresight. He remembers being sought and he remembers the long gentle frightened face of the boy seeking him and he remembers the smell of them together in bed, two innocent children smelling of honey and damp earth and long hours of running in sunshine, holding hands in one of their school beds, because Theta Sigma’s nightmares were dogged and relentless and Koschei felt for once like a source of something wholesome and good.
And every instinct the Master has is telling him to lunge, to punch, to assault, to hurt. Hurt him before he sees he hurt you, hurt him before he sees he hurt you, hurt him before he sees he hurt you.
[ I would rather d i e than beg YOU! } Stupid, stupid words, so unfortunate and true. SHIT!
All the fury festering beneath rushes forward with violence, in a single wordless strangled agonized ROAR, as he strikes the wall over the Doctor’s head. He strikes it so hard that it bloodies his knuckles. He cradles his fist to his chest, and grinds his teeth at the whitewater sound in his ears.
It’s the death throes of resisting every magnetic, gravitational pull of every pore and tissue and muscle and firing synapse and feeling in his being, to just. Sit down. And BE. With his best friend.
So that’s when he sits down, in that space the Doctor provides, and drops his head between his knees.
A long silence ensues.
Then,
“I’m sorry, too,” he surrenders. “For the girl. The girl out there. Your girl, Bill. There’s a thousand and one reasons why you care for her, I know. I took … . considerable time getting to know her, after all.”
He sits upright, and wipes his eyes.
“Did I ever tell you how long I was trapped on Gallifrey, after that day you spared me, and I you?”
He smiles at the Doctor, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Seventy years.”
The Doctor sees the sudden violence coming with just enough time to squeeze his eyes shut and tense his whole body in anticipation for a strike that might finish him off.
If that punch was delivered directly to his chest, he wouldn’t have blamed the Master for even a moment. A punch is the least he deserves.
His eyes open slowly at the slight dip of the mattress next to him. He glances over, wary now that the Master might be prone to another outburst of violence, and that this time he may not be so lucky as to avoid it being directed at him.
“I will forgive you. Not yet. I can’t yet. But one day, I will forgive you. As I always do and always will.”
He gives a minimal shake of his head at the question. They haven’t discussed it very much, he and Missy, apart from the occasional comment made. It hasn’t been something she’s wished to bring up, and he hasn’t pushed for information.
“Seventy years,” he repeats, raising his eyebrows. Longer than he spent with River, and roughly the same amount of time he’s spent on Earth with Missy. From living it himself, paying attention to the passing of time, he knows that despite their lifespans, seventy years is not a short time. It doesn’t feel it. He knows how the years can drag.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, because he doesn’t know how else he can respond. What is he to say? He is truly sorry, and though he is curious, he knows better than to ask questions when the Master isn’t necessarily in the best of moods.
He eyes the bloody fist. The sight of it makes the golden energy running so close to the surface burn in sympathy. He resists letting it take him over, because he knows he can heal from this if he’s only given time, but perhaps he can expel some of it — relieve the pressure slightly. Usually it would be dangerous to do so, but if he’s given something to actually focus it on, it might not be so bad.
The Doctor takes the Master’s hand gently in his own and concentrates.
“Let me do this,” he says quietly, waiting just a moment to give the Master chance to pull his hand away. Although he will be insistent on trying to heal him, he won’t do anything the Master actively doesn’t want him to do.
“You miss the point. I don’t want your apology: I want your faith.”
The Master draws so near the Doctor that his breath stirs his friend’s hair, like a thousand hot scarlet birds disturbing the drift of a cumulus cloud. He holds his bloodied hand jealously. It’s as though all he has left is his pain, all he has left to claim as his alone, and he won’t relinquish it just yet. It’s his sole bargaining chip.
“I want you to … to understand that it’s nothing unique to Missy or me that divides us as a person. It’s how we’ve been treated over time. Environment over innateness, and all that. She might’ve thrown Bill in a meat grinder to get at youifshe still had fresh wounds from seventy years of abuse and neglect! And maybe if I’d spent the same!!! Identical!! Amount of time!!”
He pounds his other fist insistently; redness spreads to his other palm.
“Then I might be the one knocking me out to untie you–oh yeah, you think I don’t know she’s on your side? I know–and weeping with remorse… hell, shit, I wish I had a companion to give you now, to show you I don’t want to always be the one hurting you.”
He has no idea Clara exists, beyond the vague outline described by Rassilon during his torments ( “the Doctor will come to Gallifrey to save that human, but not you!”); he has no idea he’s predicting his own would-be future, when Missy was new.
But he looks down at his hands, and he knows now that they’re both in agony. He knows that he’s becoming more and more disturbingly self-destructive lately.
Almost sheepishly, at last, he offers his hands to the Doctor’s, and to its sunset glow.
The Master’s mind is capable of conquering tangled knots of physics, metaphysics and technology, and yet when it comes to relationships, at least those not rehearsed and performed for the sake of a scheme, he is a bull in a china shop: all emotion, no nuance. Clumsy, a peculiar mixture of manipulative and childishly ardent. Scared of losing things, so he smashes them, and self-thwarts.
He has no idea what he’s doing.
So he must compress and simplify what the Doctor is saying, and he hovers there over the Doctor’s form as he does so.
His mind reaches a solution in time. The Doctor’s essential message:
{ I chose you because you chose me first. You showed me you care about me, so I chose you. }
Ah. That he can process. And his hearts twinge with the return of that softness.
But the remarks in defense of imprisoning Missy raise a few recurrent hackles.
“Missy wants to be good in Missy’s way. If you’re not looking for that, then you’ll miss her efforts entirely. Your version of good is not absolute. It’s vain, arrogant, and sentimental.”
Chilling, perhaps, to hear Missy’s own words echoed by her previous self.
“But more important to this conversation: I AM Missy. If you had shown me an ounce of the interest you show her, maybe I might be in your little accelerated ethics workshop. Maybe I’d be making you proud. But I was stuck on Gallifrey for YEARS after I saved you. And you never came for me.”
There are tears in his eyes.
The Doctor stares up at him now while he talks, all fidgeting paused. That final point hurts because it’s true. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to get across how truly sorry he is for any pain he has ever caused the Master.
He holds himself together, still and quiet, until he sees the tears in the Master’s eyes. Then he finds that he can’t stop his own from brimming.
His cold hand reaches up and grips the front of the Master’s shirt. He tugs. It’s weak but insistent. He remembers reaching out for Koschei, whether he was there or not, when they were young and restricted. Nightmares have plagued the Doctor always but never more so than as a child. He remembers leaving his bed, or sometimes just looking up to find him already there, reaching out and tugging at his friend’s shirt; forbidden and secret, as all their touches were at that point. Come here, the action said. Come here and stay with me, please. I need you here. I want you to stay.
“I want you to stay,” he says, because their words and their touches aren’t forbidden anymore. He’s allowed to say whatever he wants. No – not just allowed – FREE. He’s free to do that.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Every instinct he has is telling him to look away and hide his face, or even try to leave the room, because there are tears in his eyes and his voice makes that obvious enough. No.Doctor, be STRONG. That’s what the Master has said to him, so that’s what he needs to do. He needs to let him see him the way he’s learned to let Missy see him over these years. But it’s so much easier to develop openness and willingness to share his emotions over seventy years than just a few minutes, here and now.
The Doctor shifts an inch to the side, leaving the Master at least enough room to sit down. That’s all he asks, just some hint that he’s not in such a hurry to leave as before.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t-” he stops and starts again. “I’m not going to make an excuse because nothing can excuse that. I left you there and I’m sorry. I would do anything to take it back. But I can’t. All I can do is make it up to you. Please let me try.”
Oh God, that tug at his shirt might as well be a scythe blade embedded in both his hearts, dragging him down. He remembers it too. That’s the problem, the Master’s memory as as far-ranging as his foresight. He remembers being sought and he remembers the long gentle frightened face of the boy seeking him and he remembers the smell of them together in bed, two innocent children smelling of honey and damp earth and long hours of running in sunshine, holding hands in one of their school beds, because Theta Sigma’s nightmares were dogged and relentless and Koschei felt for once like a source of something wholesome and good.
And every instinct the Master has is telling him to lunge, to punch, to assault, to hurt. Hurt him before he sees he hurt you, hurt him before he sees he hurt you, hurt him before he sees he hurt you.
[ I would rather d i e than beg YOU! } Stupid, stupid words, so unfortunate and true. SHIT!
All the fury festering beneath rushes forward with violence, in a single wordless strangled agonized ROAR, as he strikes the wall over the Doctor’s head. He strikes it so hard that it bloodies his knuckles. He cradles his fist to his chest, and grinds his teeth at the whitewater sound in his ears.
It’s the death throes of resisting every magnetic, gravitational pull of every pore and tissue and muscle and firing synapse and feeling in his being, to just. Sit down. And BE. With his best friend.
So that’s when he sits down, in that space the Doctor provides, and drops his head between his knees.
A long silence ensues.
Then,
“I’m sorry, too,” he surrenders. “For the girl. The girl out there. Your girl, Bill. There’s a thousand and one reasons why you care for her, I know. I took … . considerable time getting to know her, after all.”
He sits upright, and wipes his eyes.
“Did I ever tell you how long I was trapped on Gallifrey, after that day you spared me, and I you?”
He smiles at the Doctor, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Okay, I’m asleep,” Koschei mumbles slyly, grinning palpably against the Doctor’s neck. His chuckle comes from a deep rich smoky place, and thrums against the Doctor’s chest.
He lurches upright, eyes closed, with a foolishly trusting smile that is a once in many millennia rarity, and kisses his way up to the Doctor’s nose, from chin to lips to the final destination. Then he nips the nose tip, wrinkling the bridge of his own nose in delight, and sinks back down.
“It’s the same for me, y’know.”
“You know, I was under the impression that people who are asleep tend not to respond to conversations.”
He smiles against the kisses, his own eyes closed in delight at the attention.
“Or kiss people. But then, you always were extraordinary, weren’t you?”
The Doctor’s arms encircle him, squeezing gently. You are the most precious thing I’ve ever held. His hands move very slowly up and down Koschei’s sides, like he’s trying to memorise him, the shape of him, how it feels to hold him. You’re real, this is real. He hardly even realises he’s doing it.
Koschei’s four limbs encircle his Doctor. It’s not enough to snuggle; he must literally seep into all the nooks and crannies and burrow there, savoring the person who is his every reason for all things.
He knows he’s being admired; knows it from habit, from their childhood. It was always Theta Sigma whose wild insomnia kept him up gawking at his beloved and softly chattering about what colors might exist beyond the eye’s perception, and whether inanimate objects had feelings, while Koschei slipped into deep slumber, the only time and place when he felt anything akin to peace.
So he smiles, just a little bit, enjoying the attention; he can hear whispers from the Doctor’s mind: beautiful.
“Ohooo. Professor. You flirt,” he slurs, and flashes teeth.
He rolls on top of the Doctor then, heavy and boneless, and shoves his face up under his chin, pinioning him.
“Bad dreams,” is all he mumbles, at last, by way of explanation, before dozing back off.
“You,” he begins, accusatory but teasing, “Weren’t supposed to hear that.”
Not like he minds much. He’s far too content to make any kind of complaint.
The Doctor’s arms are loosely wrapped around him at first, while he lets him move and find whichever position he’s decided is best today.
“Bad dreams,” he repeats, one hand slowly rubbing his back while the other arm holds him close. “Well,” he murmurs, possibly to himself and possibly to Koschei. He doesn’t know if he’s awake or not. “How can I go anywhere now? Clearly I’m needed here most of all today.”
He enjoys being held so securely, feeling the weight on top of him. There’s absolutely no way he can feel alone like this. Even if the whole universe were to suddenly despise him, it would be okay, because he has this. His Koschei. The love of this one being is worth more to him than the rest of the universe combined.
“I hope you know that.” He’s hardly even speaking, more whispering, and he doesn’t know how much of what he’s saying will actually reach him. It gives him confidence, though. He’s always found it easier to speak from the hearts when there’s less chance he’ll be heard. “I hope you know that I would give up everything if it meant I could still have you. You’re essential to me.”
The Doctor shifts, kissing his head softly. “I love you. And I hope you’re asleep.”
“Okay, I’m asleep,” Koschei mumbles slyly, grinning palpably against the Doctor’s neck. His chuckle comes from a deep rich smoky place, and thrums against the Doctor’s chest.
He lurches upright, eyes closed, with a foolishly trusting smile that is a once in many millennia rarity, and kisses his way up to the Doctor’s nose, from chin to lips to the final destination. Then he nips the nose tip, wrinkling the bridge of his own nose in delight, and sinks back down.
It’s not a bad idea. It’s a very tempting one. He doesn’t have any lectures today, but he does have a big pile of work to get through. Perhaps it could wait. He knows how he’d rather spend his time.
He gazes across at the Master, his own eyes open just enough to see him clearly. He’s beautiful. The Doctor finds himself growing less and less willing to get up out of bed and leave. How can he, when the alternative is to stay here, warm and comfortable, in the presence of someone he loves so much?
“I suppose…” he murmurs, a gentle hand brushing the Master’s cheek. “That wouldn’t be so bad. Are you okay? Any particular reason you don’t want me to go, or are you just too comfortable to allow me to move?”
Koschei’s four limbs encircle his Doctor. It’s not enough to snuggle; he must literally seep into all the nooks and crannies and burrow there, savoring the person who is his every reason for all things.
He knows he’s being admired; knows it from habit, from their childhood. It was always Theta Sigma whose wild insomnia kept him up gawking at his beloved and softly chattering about what colors might exist beyond the eye’s perception, and whether inanimate objects had feelings, while Koschei slipped into deep slumber, the only time and place when he felt anything akin to peace.
So he smiles, just a little bit, enjoying the attention; he can hear whispers from the Doctor’s mind: beautiful.
“Ohooo. Professor. You flirt,” he slurs, and flashes teeth.
He rolls on top of the Doctor then, heavy and boneless, and shoves his face up under his chin, pinioning him.
“Bad dreams,” is all he mumbles, at last, by way of explanation, before dozing back off.
“I know I said you had a stupid round face, but it’s not. Not stupid, I mean. It is round. Good round. It’s good to kiss.”
He pauses, deciding whether to continue and risk revealing too much emotion at once.
“I think you’re brilliant. You make me very happy.” There’s so much more he could say on that subject, but he’ll say it later through the adoring way he gazes at him.
Koschei removes his glasses and sits up out of the Doctor’s lap. He cups his face with practiced gentleness, caressing the barely-encroaching wrinkles of his oldest love’s face. Every crinkle in the Doctor’s skin, he loves individually and well.
“My clever, clever ploy. To get you to prove your own pretty words.”
He kisses him then, with more fortitude, more enthusiasm, deeply. There’s the softest suckling sound as he pulls back to study his face.
“You’re the one I’ll always want.”
A nuzzle.
“Even if you called me Stupid Roundface, and even if I called you Grandad.”
Icarus 