Prompt : Coldness

It was his most attractive feature, at this juncture. A bit unfortunate; he had been a handsome man, before. Different bodies, bodies that had been his own; his appearance harsh and severe and angular, and all those things that a man of cold disposition would be like to own. He remembers it so well. He remembers what it felt like, what it was, being handsome.

They had extracted him from the TARDIS and he had come back in a body that was, for all intents and purposes, nearly the same as the American’s that he had possessed in the first place. The first day alive, free to roam, he had looked in a mirror and he had seen himself. He touched his hands to his cheeks and felt the roughness of wretched complexion and several-day’s-worth stubble. He had turned his face to watch the curve of his face and he had decided quite promptly that he was quite ugly.

It was also then that he decided the best aspect of him, now, was that his face had retained its coldness. He turned his eyes and he tried to find something in them. He felt everything – a great amount of uncertainty, a bit of fear, a lot of anger. He felt cold. He looked cold. He looked hard and he looked untouchable and he decided that if he had lost most of his dignity and his suavity along the way – at least he still had this.

A single glare could put people off.

That was the hope. That was the thought, at least.

…

“You look so angry, always.”

And the comment takes him by surprise. He turns his eyes to the Doctor and he says, quite assuredly, “I do not.”

“Well.” The Doctor looks away, and the curls of his hair shift across his cheeks. The shorter wisps touch his forehead and temple and block the Master’s sight of those pale blue eyes. “That is my best guess. You used to smile, Master.”

“I am not angry,” he repeats, and it is not exactly a lie. He is angry at those people outside but he has not seen them, lately. He got good at telling when they were lurking to watch or no, and they have not been around to observe for days. Even when he cannot see them, he can feel their minds, and he can feel there are no minds surrounding, here. Lately, he has not been angry.

It is stupid be to stuck here, but he has not been angry. Not recently, and certainly not at this man, for any particular reason.

The Doctor looks back though the corners of his eyes. He nods.

“If you say so, Master.”

Those eyes shift away and the Master waits a moment too long to scoff at him. He turns his eyes away and he stands, leaving the Doctor alone in the room.

He may not be angry, but he has no patience to deal with someone who cannot tell the difference between ice and fire.

…

The first time he holds the Doctor, the man surprises him.

“You are warm,” he tells him.

His brows furrow and he must confess, that in comparison to a frigid winter’s night, that is likely true.

With a start, the Master realizes that he can count the times on his hands, that he has felt physically cold. He looks down at the man snuggled in his arms for warmth.

His face does not change. His hands settle against the Doctor’s back and with the way his palms spread, he might just be pulling the smaller man closer than either have been in a long time, and safe like the Master is beginning to feel for the first time in a long, long while.