Lucy was still not entirely sure, exactly, what had happened. Sometimes she still marvels over it, and how fast it had all happened.
She looks at the closed door and thinks about it. In retrospect, she had known this man for maybe a month – a little more, perhaps a good deal more, considering how confusing things got between time and space. She wasn’t all clear on that either.
They had come back home at almost the moment they had originally left. A month had passed since the day she had met him in the park. September 18th. It was October, now.
They were getting married in two weeks and it suddenly dawned on her that she had not known this man very long at all. Longer than she had seemed to have known him. She had lied to her father and told him that they were business associates for some time before she brought him home.
“I like him very much,” she had told her father, and it was not exactly a lie. “I think I might marry him, if he asks me.”
Of course, he would ask, and she would say yes. It had been in their plan ever since she explained to him – as best she could – that politicians could not have mistresses. Humans did not like that.
She had sculpted her lips into a gentle smile for her father to see.
He – him, the man she was marrying – had made a joke and Lucy laughed. He laughed at himself to ease the stiff silence from everyone else. Her father had looked at her and said “He better buy you flowers.”
“Remember, sweetheart,” her mother had told her, “politicians are a nasty sort. They lie.” Lucy had smiled and kissed her mother on the cheek, and wondered how much of a fib it would be to kiss your mother when you wanted to laugh at her, or scoff at her.
Lucy came back to herself, and shook her head at the door as she heard the water turn off. The Master was getting to be a terrible influence on her.
The door swung open a few minutes later and she was greeted with the same wide smile and brown eyes that she had started to get so used to. She almost smiled back. And then she saw his hair.
“Oh, no.”
“What?” He asked, his face falling. “It’s not that bad, is it? I know I haven’t brushed yet, but I wanted to wait until after tea.”
“Master,” she frowned, putting her fists on her hips and putting on her best serious face. “You march right back in there and wash your hair.”
“I just showered! It’s clean! Why, does it—?”
“I don’t care what you did with it, just undo it. My goodness, Master…” she stepped close, her brows furrowing in distaste as she looked at that slimy mess of slicked-back hair he had. She almost picked up a bit of his hair between two fingers, but didn’t dare to touch it. “What did you do? Use an entire bottle of gel?”
The Master pouted dramatically at her. “Luce…” he said, drawing out the name. “I want to look presentable.”
“Yes, well…” she pursed her lips, then decided to take his hand instead. “Well, it looks… you did it sort of… let me help you make it up.”
“But—”
“Master.” She said, firmly, and that was that.
Fifteen minutes later, most of the gel was thankfully out, with just enough in place to keep his hair from flopping about. It was falling naturally now, and Lucy was pleased with herself.
“So?” She asked, looking up and smiling at this man.
He tilted his head. “You’re sure this looks presentable, Luce?”
“Definitely better.” She nodded. She brought up a hand to pet his cheek. “You look wonderfully handsome, Master.”
“Harold,” he corrected her. He leaned in close to give her a little kiss, and it felt so natural that she could not tell if he was practicing the gesture or if he really meant it. “Harold. I’m a politician, now.” He smiled so wide that she could not help but feel pleased with his enthusiasm.
“Harold,” she repeated, then leaned up to kiss him. She patted his arm. “Go on. Go get changed, or you’ll be late.”
He gave her a wide smile. He turned away and Lucy began to think that, maybe, time didn’t really matter so much. He would make a good politician, and a good husband.
“Lucy Saxon.”
She tried out the name, on her tongue. A smile slipped up across her lips and for a moment, Lucy Saxon was anything but a politician, herself. She gave an honest giggle when Harold turned around to give her a grin and a flattering wink.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Prompt : Purse
He walks in with a suit and a strut and a pink bag thrown over his shoulder. The Doctor raises an eyebrow at him.
“Master,” he points out, “you are wearing a purse.”
“What?” The Master raised his eyes up to look at the Doctor. He tilted his head. “Sorry, didn’t catch that. I’m going out.”
“With a purse?”
“No,” the Master gives him a reproachful look, scoffing. “With a man bag.”
The Doctor pauses a moment. He slowly gets up, walks toward the Master, and leans a hand on his shoulder.
“Master,” he tries again, “that is a purse.”
“Is not,” the Master says very decisively. He pouts a bit. “I even told Lucy. It is a man bag, when I wear it. Men don’t carry around purses.”
“Master, I am rather masculine this time around.” And it was true, this regeneration had turned the Doctor into a strapping soldier with broad shoulders, severe features, and a stringy sort of musculature that was deceptively slender for his physical capabilities. He crossed his leather-clad arms and said very authoritatively, “And I can tell you. No man would carry around a ‘man bag’ like that and still call it such.”
“What?” It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation. The Master’s brows furrowed and he pouted obstinately. “Men can wear whatever they damn well want. What is wrong with it?”
“First of all, it is a purse—”
“Will you quit it, with that?” The Master insisted.
“—and, by extension,” the Doctor continued. “Your purse is pink.”
“Pink is a perfectly legitimate color. Real men wear pink.” The Master clutched the strap of his purse to his shoulder, looking rather like Lucy when she was distrustful and as angry as the mild little thing could get. The Doctor sighed, giving up on that faction of the argument.
“Where are you going out to?”
“Shopping!” The smaller man gave such a smile that the Doctor could no longer feel quite as righteous in notifying him that ‘shopping’ when exclaimed like that, also decidedly not masculine.
“For?”
“Christmas.”
“Oh!” The scenario almost made sense for a moment. Then the Doctor remembered who he was talking to, and also the pepto-bismol-colored accessory that he had chosen. “You are going Christmas shopping?”
“Yes. And?”
The Doctor narrowed his eyes as more details gradually occurred to him. “… in April?”
The Master grinned, then leaned up to kiss his partner’s cheek. “Later, sweetheart.”
He left with that, and the Doctor was not entirely sure what sort of argument had just transpired, or if there had actually been substance argued at all. He went off about his business.
“Master,” he points out, “you are wearing a purse.”
“What?” The Master raised his eyes up to look at the Doctor. He tilted his head. “Sorry, didn’t catch that. I’m going out.”
“With a purse?”
“No,” the Master gives him a reproachful look, scoffing. “With a man bag.”
The Doctor pauses a moment. He slowly gets up, walks toward the Master, and leans a hand on his shoulder.
“Master,” he tries again, “that is a purse.”
“Is not,” the Master says very decisively. He pouts a bit. “I even told Lucy. It is a man bag, when I wear it. Men don’t carry around purses.”
“Master, I am rather masculine this time around.” And it was true, this regeneration had turned the Doctor into a strapping soldier with broad shoulders, severe features, and a stringy sort of musculature that was deceptively slender for his physical capabilities. He crossed his leather-clad arms and said very authoritatively, “And I can tell you. No man would carry around a ‘man bag’ like that and still call it such.”
“What?” It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation. The Master’s brows furrowed and he pouted obstinately. “Men can wear whatever they damn well want. What is wrong with it?”
“First of all, it is a purse—”
“Will you quit it, with that?” The Master insisted.
“—and, by extension,” the Doctor continued. “Your purse is pink.”
“Pink is a perfectly legitimate color. Real men wear pink.” The Master clutched the strap of his purse to his shoulder, looking rather like Lucy when she was distrustful and as angry as the mild little thing could get. The Doctor sighed, giving up on that faction of the argument.
“Where are you going out to?”
“Shopping!” The smaller man gave such a smile that the Doctor could no longer feel quite as righteous in notifying him that ‘shopping’ when exclaimed like that, also decidedly not masculine.
“For?”
“Christmas.”
“Oh!” The scenario almost made sense for a moment. Then the Doctor remembered who he was talking to, and also the pepto-bismol-colored accessory that he had chosen. “You are going Christmas shopping?”
“Yes. And?”
The Doctor narrowed his eyes as more details gradually occurred to him. “… in April?”
The Master grinned, then leaned up to kiss his partner’s cheek. “Later, sweetheart.”
He left with that, and the Doctor was not entirely sure what sort of argument had just transpired, or if there had actually been substance argued at all. He went off about his business.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Prompt : Nap
Most times, he still does not sleep through the night.
He is quiet about it. He never screams when he wakes up. Maybe he did, one day. Maybe he ran out of screams early in his life, when his lives were ripped from him as easily as one pulls petals from a daisy, as casually as a child pulling blades of grass from the soil.
Like he was screaming and no-one could hear.
So if it were not for the fact that he looks tired, if it were not for the fact that he seems to stay up later than everyone, and then to wake up earlier – maybe no one would even have an inkling.
Sleep is too much like death, so he does not sleep, most times. He does not look backwards to face the dark spots in his life and he makes a point not to actively seek them. He thought it would kill him to not take each challenge presented to him. He never thought fear would quench his motivation.
The Doctor had started to change that, slowly. In time he comes to find his challenges and his thrills elsewhere. Quiet affairs. Could they stay in the same room without fear of each other. Later, could they touch without fear and, even farther, could they trust one another again. It was all gradual and it was all very, very quiet.
He does not remember how it gets brought up the first time, except that he says something, and the Doctor suddenly understands something of the Master’s insomniac tendencies. And then does what he does so well, and offers his best as though it were casual and natural to do.
“I could stay with you,” he tells him. “I could stay while you sleep.”
This is the first time, and he gives him a long, suspicious look. Trust is not easy, still, and he shakes his head.
“No.” The Master tells him; then he pauses, knowing well that they have to live together, and that some civility at least makes the situation more easily maneuverable. He nods. “I have things I still need to finish, tonight.”
It is a lie, but a civil one. The Doctor understands this and he says nothing more that day.
And the first time, when the Master had allowed the Doctor close enough to sit with him, to sleep, he did not so much rest as merely nap. The intervals of his unconsciousness were short, short enough that the black never really enveloped him. He would doze for anywhere between ten and forty minutes before starting awake.
But he rests, and though he is forcing it, he does not have to face the distorted sensations and mild hallucinations that come with severe lack of sleep. And he does not simply fall over and sleep for nearly an entire day, leaving a dreamless black hole in his memory. Slowly, sleep gets better, at least in these nap-like intervals.
“You know,” the Doctor tells him one day, simply in passing. “I was going to bed. You could come with me.”
And it is such a strange thing to hear that the Master is skeptical. He gives him a long look and the Doctor shrugs and reminds him in that usual way that the offer stands.
It is not until several minutes later. Fifteen minutes of silence and slowly, the Master stands. He finds the Doctor in bed and he decides to stand there for three breaths – breaths which he then holds, to make his time watching last longer, and to avoid closing his eyes just a little bit longer.
He hesitates. And then he finally crawls into bed after the Doctor, to nap.
He is quiet about it. He never screams when he wakes up. Maybe he did, one day. Maybe he ran out of screams early in his life, when his lives were ripped from him as easily as one pulls petals from a daisy, as casually as a child pulling blades of grass from the soil.
Like he was screaming and no-one could hear.
So if it were not for the fact that he looks tired, if it were not for the fact that he seems to stay up later than everyone, and then to wake up earlier – maybe no one would even have an inkling.
Sleep is too much like death, so he does not sleep, most times. He does not look backwards to face the dark spots in his life and he makes a point not to actively seek them. He thought it would kill him to not take each challenge presented to him. He never thought fear would quench his motivation.
The Doctor had started to change that, slowly. In time he comes to find his challenges and his thrills elsewhere. Quiet affairs. Could they stay in the same room without fear of each other. Later, could they touch without fear and, even farther, could they trust one another again. It was all gradual and it was all very, very quiet.
He does not remember how it gets brought up the first time, except that he says something, and the Doctor suddenly understands something of the Master’s insomniac tendencies. And then does what he does so well, and offers his best as though it were casual and natural to do.
“I could stay with you,” he tells him. “I could stay while you sleep.”
This is the first time, and he gives him a long, suspicious look. Trust is not easy, still, and he shakes his head.
“No.” The Master tells him; then he pauses, knowing well that they have to live together, and that some civility at least makes the situation more easily maneuverable. He nods. “I have things I still need to finish, tonight.”
It is a lie, but a civil one. The Doctor understands this and he says nothing more that day.
And the first time, when the Master had allowed the Doctor close enough to sit with him, to sleep, he did not so much rest as merely nap. The intervals of his unconsciousness were short, short enough that the black never really enveloped him. He would doze for anywhere between ten and forty minutes before starting awake.
But he rests, and though he is forcing it, he does not have to face the distorted sensations and mild hallucinations that come with severe lack of sleep. And he does not simply fall over and sleep for nearly an entire day, leaving a dreamless black hole in his memory. Slowly, sleep gets better, at least in these nap-like intervals.
“You know,” the Doctor tells him one day, simply in passing. “I was going to bed. You could come with me.”
And it is such a strange thing to hear that the Master is skeptical. He gives him a long look and the Doctor shrugs and reminds him in that usual way that the offer stands.
It is not until several minutes later. Fifteen minutes of silence and slowly, the Master stands. He finds the Doctor in bed and he decides to stand there for three breaths – breaths which he then holds, to make his time watching last longer, and to avoid closing his eyes just a little bit longer.
He hesitates. And then he finally crawls into bed after the Doctor, to nap.
Prompt : Sheet
The Doctor walked on, stopped, and then promptly shook his head as if to clear his mind of the sight that seemed more illusionary than anything else. He slowly executed a sort of double-take, pausing in the doorway he had just passed in order to get a good look.
And yes. There was a sheet held up in a tent-like fashion, in the center of the living room.
“Uhm,” he said, brow furrowing as he stepped forward. He gave a little hop between steps, something that was almost feline in its skittish caution. He leaned forward to peek, and see if he could not find an entrance into the structure.
“Hello?” He asked.
There was a rustle, and then a charmingly round face peeked out from under the fabric. He put on a debonair, political grin.
“Hello,” said the man under the sheet.
The Doctor reeled back a little, then proceeded to frown. “Master!” he said, in a voice that should have been scolding, but came out more incredulous and curious than anything else. “What are you doing with that sheet?”
“Do you like it?” the face grinned. It ducked back under the sheet and a few short moments later, he rolled out from under the fabric. He lied supine, stomach turned comfortably up toward the Doctor as the smile continued to linger and never once falter. “It took me ages. It was such a fuss to figure out how to make it stand up like a circus tent, instead of one of those silly devices humans use for woodland excursions.”
“What? No, Master, I mean—”
“Do you remember those? Circuses? I first arrived to earth and there was a circus.” He nodded sagely, or as sagely as one could do with a wide grin on their face and their belly facing toward the ceiling.
The Doctor blinked, then crossed his arms. He put on his most serious, motherly face. “Master, why are you making a tent of that sheet?”
The Master blinked in turn, and then, as though it were obvious. “I am having a circus, of course.”
He reached to the corner of the sheet and pulled it up so that the Doctor could see. Underneath, stuffed animals had been arranged in rings made of Frisbees, and there was a trapeze set up with skewer sticks, yarn, and toothpicks. There were also a few scantily-clad Barbies that were doing splits and other less-savory poses.
“… Master, I think you’re cracked.” The Doctor said, mildly, but he could not hide the playful curiosity in his eyes.
The Master grinned. “We have a special on admission, today. Doctors get in for a kiss.”
The Doctor didn’t take too terribly long to consider. A little bit of play and recklessness never did him too much harm. The Master cackled in response to the kiss before wrapping them both in the sheet and hiding the show underneath.
And yes. There was a sheet held up in a tent-like fashion, in the center of the living room.
“Uhm,” he said, brow furrowing as he stepped forward. He gave a little hop between steps, something that was almost feline in its skittish caution. He leaned forward to peek, and see if he could not find an entrance into the structure.
“Hello?” He asked.
There was a rustle, and then a charmingly round face peeked out from under the fabric. He put on a debonair, political grin.
“Hello,” said the man under the sheet.
The Doctor reeled back a little, then proceeded to frown. “Master!” he said, in a voice that should have been scolding, but came out more incredulous and curious than anything else. “What are you doing with that sheet?”
“Do you like it?” the face grinned. It ducked back under the sheet and a few short moments later, he rolled out from under the fabric. He lied supine, stomach turned comfortably up toward the Doctor as the smile continued to linger and never once falter. “It took me ages. It was such a fuss to figure out how to make it stand up like a circus tent, instead of one of those silly devices humans use for woodland excursions.”
“What? No, Master, I mean—”
“Do you remember those? Circuses? I first arrived to earth and there was a circus.” He nodded sagely, or as sagely as one could do with a wide grin on their face and their belly facing toward the ceiling.
The Doctor blinked, then crossed his arms. He put on his most serious, motherly face. “Master, why are you making a tent of that sheet?”
The Master blinked in turn, and then, as though it were obvious. “I am having a circus, of course.”
He reached to the corner of the sheet and pulled it up so that the Doctor could see. Underneath, stuffed animals had been arranged in rings made of Frisbees, and there was a trapeze set up with skewer sticks, yarn, and toothpicks. There were also a few scantily-clad Barbies that were doing splits and other less-savory poses.
“… Master, I think you’re cracked.” The Doctor said, mildly, but he could not hide the playful curiosity in his eyes.
The Master grinned. “We have a special on admission, today. Doctors get in for a kiss.”
The Doctor didn’t take too terribly long to consider. A little bit of play and recklessness never did him too much harm. The Master cackled in response to the kiss before wrapping them both in the sheet and hiding the show underneath.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Prompt : Gifted
He had been a smart child. Intelligent. He took in information well, leaned how to apply it with the ease of someone who was notably astute. He would be knowledgeable, formidable, even genius, one day, if he worked hard enough at it. His foundations and his background gave him the best of opportunities and there was no doubt he would enter among the elite of the Time Lords.
Koschei was all of these things.
But he was never gifted.
In ways, Theta Sigma made him look like an idiot child. Whereas Koschei was deductive, a meticulous designer, Theta was an improviser. He took in information and managed to sort through the important things, and the ones that were less so – that was the way he said it, at least. He failed near every quiz ever handed to him, and anything vaguely mathematic or quantitative came out with a similar standard.
But his level of thinking had always been something beyond the other students. He was imaginative, something that Time Lords scoffed at and severely lacked, for the most part. He was a master of puzzles. He did more than put two and two together; he figured out ways to divide the pieces into wholes on their own, and make the outcome into five, six, infinity.
He sometimes broke the rules to do so, but between Koschei’s grounded and prestigious air and the young boy’s improvisational brilliance, the two managed pretty well.
So the two were not fast friends, not by any means. Koschei was a loner, was deductive and quiet and constantly analyzing the world around him to set a floor plan in his head. He was constantly looking for ways to navigate and to walk the correct pathways to get where he needed to go.
Theta was a step ahead of him; he analyzed everything around him to pull the information from it. He needed no idea of direction. He simply went forward and made up the ground plan as he went. Sometimes Koschei would have sworn that this boy could simply walk about and the world would follow with him.
It was funny, in a way. Koschei was smart. He was beyond smart. He was top of his class and by far among the most studious. It is strange that he never put two and two together, when Theta was a step ahead of him and the world followed after him.
But where Koschei looked at books and knew what other people knew, Theta looked at the stars and knew too little.
Three years later Koschei becomes the Master. He breaks over a gifted boy and, like the rest of the world, he follows after.
Koschei was all of these things.
But he was never gifted.
In ways, Theta Sigma made him look like an idiot child. Whereas Koschei was deductive, a meticulous designer, Theta was an improviser. He took in information and managed to sort through the important things, and the ones that were less so – that was the way he said it, at least. He failed near every quiz ever handed to him, and anything vaguely mathematic or quantitative came out with a similar standard.
But his level of thinking had always been something beyond the other students. He was imaginative, something that Time Lords scoffed at and severely lacked, for the most part. He was a master of puzzles. He did more than put two and two together; he figured out ways to divide the pieces into wholes on their own, and make the outcome into five, six, infinity.
He sometimes broke the rules to do so, but between Koschei’s grounded and prestigious air and the young boy’s improvisational brilliance, the two managed pretty well.
So the two were not fast friends, not by any means. Koschei was a loner, was deductive and quiet and constantly analyzing the world around him to set a floor plan in his head. He was constantly looking for ways to navigate and to walk the correct pathways to get where he needed to go.
Theta was a step ahead of him; he analyzed everything around him to pull the information from it. He needed no idea of direction. He simply went forward and made up the ground plan as he went. Sometimes Koschei would have sworn that this boy could simply walk about and the world would follow with him.
It was funny, in a way. Koschei was smart. He was beyond smart. He was top of his class and by far among the most studious. It is strange that he never put two and two together, when Theta was a step ahead of him and the world followed after him.
But where Koschei looked at books and knew what other people knew, Theta looked at the stars and knew too little.
Three years later Koschei becomes the Master. He breaks over a gifted boy and, like the rest of the world, he follows after.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Prompt : Feline
He wakes up and immediately, something is wrong.
Well. Wrong was not the perfect word for it. Something was off, more like on, but not in the correct way, more in the pleasant and unusual way. He was rather confused.
He had woken up a few brief moments ago and the more that he moseys casually into consciousness, the more the Master becomes aware that he is curled around the Doctor. In bed.
Naked.
He blinks, then mentally reels back to try to pin the events of the night before. There had been wine. He could still taste something like cabernet in the back of his mouth, and also something that tasted rather like the Doctor’s kisses. They had kissed. That was right. They had kissed and there had been candles that must have been left burning on the dinner table when they came upstairs and—
Ah.
Of course. That was what had happened.
For a very brief moment he is unsure whether to be embarrassed by the intimate embrace or pleased by the way they were curled around one another in a feline fashion. The latter of the two options begins to win out when, upon leaning his head against the tousled, curled hair of the Doctor, he discovers the Doctor to be purring.
Not profusely or anything. It is a quiet little sound, just strong enough to be felt more than heard. The Master blinks and he tilts his head – then has to huff to blow his hair off of his forehead. Damn the Doctor for not letting him slick it back, but he had seemed quite convinced that hair gel would taste like old couch cushions.
He is not sure how the Doctor knows what hair gel or couch cushions would taste like. He is not even sure why tasting would be an issue when it came to hair, but in retrospect, he could see how accidents might happen with all the… snuffling.
For lack of a better word, snuffling.
The Doctor turns a little, giving a gentle little sound between the purring that was rather like a kittenish mewl. The Master pauses, then relents to curling a bit more about him.
It was only ten o’clock. He could suffer to cuddle a while longer.
Well. Wrong was not the perfect word for it. Something was off, more like on, but not in the correct way, more in the pleasant and unusual way. He was rather confused.
He had woken up a few brief moments ago and the more that he moseys casually into consciousness, the more the Master becomes aware that he is curled around the Doctor. In bed.
Naked.
He blinks, then mentally reels back to try to pin the events of the night before. There had been wine. He could still taste something like cabernet in the back of his mouth, and also something that tasted rather like the Doctor’s kisses. They had kissed. That was right. They had kissed and there had been candles that must have been left burning on the dinner table when they came upstairs and—
Ah.
Of course. That was what had happened.
For a very brief moment he is unsure whether to be embarrassed by the intimate embrace or pleased by the way they were curled around one another in a feline fashion. The latter of the two options begins to win out when, upon leaning his head against the tousled, curled hair of the Doctor, he discovers the Doctor to be purring.
Not profusely or anything. It is a quiet little sound, just strong enough to be felt more than heard. The Master blinks and he tilts his head – then has to huff to blow his hair off of his forehead. Damn the Doctor for not letting him slick it back, but he had seemed quite convinced that hair gel would taste like old couch cushions.
He is not sure how the Doctor knows what hair gel or couch cushions would taste like. He is not even sure why tasting would be an issue when it came to hair, but in retrospect, he could see how accidents might happen with all the… snuffling.
For lack of a better word, snuffling.
The Doctor turns a little, giving a gentle little sound between the purring that was rather like a kittenish mewl. The Master pauses, then relents to curling a bit more about him.
It was only ten o’clock. He could suffer to cuddle a while longer.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Prompt : Physical
The Doctor holds out his hand and for a long moment, the Master honestly does not know what to do. He looks up to those pale eyes and for a moment, he thinks about sneering at him. But he remembers that even when he refused to take his hand, the last time, he could do no such thing.
Never, he had said.
How much did he really mean that?
He looks back to the Doctor’s hand and he tilts his head, as if summing it up.
The Doctor waits a long moment. Something in his eyes seems to waver and his palm falls maybe half an inch.
And then it is simply there. The Master has hardly taken a breath, hardly has time to catch up with what he has done, much less bring his mind to attention and fill the blank moments between when he had looked up to those pale eyes and when he had suddenly found himself holding the Doctor’s hand.
It was just a pinpoint of physical contact. Their arms were stretched out between them and in space, in mind, they were so far apart from each other. But he had not refused the offer this time.
The Doctor hesitates, then says quietly, “Thank you.”
He nods, slowly. A minute passes in relative silence. Then, finally, he tells him.
“I need my hand back.” He hesitates, then adds, “But I am not letting go.”
This seems to satisfy the shorter man, and that is good. It will be better if they can pass each other with acknowledgement, no matter how stiff the interaction may be.
They let go and the Master realizes that maybe he does not want to die, after all. Not quite yet.
…
The first time he kisses his cheek, it comes to mean something like a quiet “thank you”. The Doctor had been kind enough – perhaps brave enough – to finally tell the Master that he needed his hair combed a different way. That, in this ugly body he had been given, the hair slicked back by water and wax only emphasized his apparent lack of appreciable visage.
He had done it in such a quiet way, offering to comb his hair. And the Master had been suspicious, but had finally given in. The days here were long, and without travels or schemes or possibilities of death, life seemed relatively plain.
So they passed the time. And when he was permitted to look, he did so with utmost solemnity.
“It looks better this way, does it.”
“It looks fine.” The Doctor had put out, cautiously.
He scoffed. The Doctor hesitated before holding out his comb tentatively.
“You can change it, if you want.”
The Master had said nothing. It was a simple matter to kiss his cheek and leave, and at that point, who really needed words for the whole affair?
…
One day he is horrendously curious and when they stand, nearly touching, he unravels the Doctor’s necktie and loosens his collar. He opens it up to reveal the skin of his throat. And then he leaves, says nothing more about it.
He never even touched skin, to see him.
…
Their first kisses are had in quiet corners at night, when no-one would think to look, and where no-one could see with their eyes. The touch is almost overwhelming, the Master has not had his own sensations for so long.
“Master?” The Doctor asks, and he sounds worried by the way the Master has just shivered.
“Shut up.” He replies. He kisses the Doctor and his mind is confused, but his body is sighing with relief in response. He never wants to forget what it is like to touch.
…
Watching physicians strip him of his clothes to check his pulses, his hearts, his pressure, his lungs, his ribs, his everything – that he had hated. It became almost worse than the fear that, if he were to look at his body, he would find it falling apart underneath him.
The first time they sit in front of each other, chests exposed, both are too enamored and simultaneously modest to say a thing about it.
But he brings a hand to brush his fingertips over the Doctor’s chest, and he thinks some day, he might like to kiss beyond his lips alone.
…
Their bodies feel completely right together.
His body is shuddering and the memory of pleasure amounts to nothing, in comparison to this. They are breathing together and moving together, and he has an incredible, reverent respect for the Doctor’s body. In a strange way, it makes perfect sense, how much he wanted to possess this.
The pleasure all but crashes through them and the smell of sweat and musk lingers between them. They share exhausted kisses, touching lips and everywhere else, just to reacquaint.
He keeps his fingertips brushing against the Doctor’s arms and back and shoulders and neck long after the smaller man falls into a peaceful, exhausted rest. His fingertips are tracing patterns that in some language, must mean something like “I love you”.
He has never learned such a language, but if he could learn it here, against the Doctor’s skin, he might not mind trying to learn to speak it.
…
He keeps looking, hoping to find a letter that says thank you, or I am sorry, or gives some explanation. He finds no such thing and he does not need such a thing to know.
The Doctor has left, and he is not coming back.
He thinks it appropriate, really. First he had collapsed, body-under-mind. Strange how now he stands, collapsing heart under the muscles that still remember how the man had felt in his arms.
The Doctor will not return to this place, he knows it. But he leaves a small note on his bed, anyway. If not just because the physical act of doing so feels better than nothing. And his body needs something so much that he is willing – happy – to take it.
…
Doctor
I am not letting go.
The Master
Never, he had said.
How much did he really mean that?
He looks back to the Doctor’s hand and he tilts his head, as if summing it up.
The Doctor waits a long moment. Something in his eyes seems to waver and his palm falls maybe half an inch.
And then it is simply there. The Master has hardly taken a breath, hardly has time to catch up with what he has done, much less bring his mind to attention and fill the blank moments between when he had looked up to those pale eyes and when he had suddenly found himself holding the Doctor’s hand.
It was just a pinpoint of physical contact. Their arms were stretched out between them and in space, in mind, they were so far apart from each other. But he had not refused the offer this time.
The Doctor hesitates, then says quietly, “Thank you.”
He nods, slowly. A minute passes in relative silence. Then, finally, he tells him.
“I need my hand back.” He hesitates, then adds, “But I am not letting go.”
This seems to satisfy the shorter man, and that is good. It will be better if they can pass each other with acknowledgement, no matter how stiff the interaction may be.
They let go and the Master realizes that maybe he does not want to die, after all. Not quite yet.
…
The first time he kisses his cheek, it comes to mean something like a quiet “thank you”. The Doctor had been kind enough – perhaps brave enough – to finally tell the Master that he needed his hair combed a different way. That, in this ugly body he had been given, the hair slicked back by water and wax only emphasized his apparent lack of appreciable visage.
He had done it in such a quiet way, offering to comb his hair. And the Master had been suspicious, but had finally given in. The days here were long, and without travels or schemes or possibilities of death, life seemed relatively plain.
So they passed the time. And when he was permitted to look, he did so with utmost solemnity.
“It looks better this way, does it.”
“It looks fine.” The Doctor had put out, cautiously.
He scoffed. The Doctor hesitated before holding out his comb tentatively.
“You can change it, if you want.”
The Master had said nothing. It was a simple matter to kiss his cheek and leave, and at that point, who really needed words for the whole affair?
…
One day he is horrendously curious and when they stand, nearly touching, he unravels the Doctor’s necktie and loosens his collar. He opens it up to reveal the skin of his throat. And then he leaves, says nothing more about it.
He never even touched skin, to see him.
…
Their first kisses are had in quiet corners at night, when no-one would think to look, and where no-one could see with their eyes. The touch is almost overwhelming, the Master has not had his own sensations for so long.
“Master?” The Doctor asks, and he sounds worried by the way the Master has just shivered.
“Shut up.” He replies. He kisses the Doctor and his mind is confused, but his body is sighing with relief in response. He never wants to forget what it is like to touch.
…
Watching physicians strip him of his clothes to check his pulses, his hearts, his pressure, his lungs, his ribs, his everything – that he had hated. It became almost worse than the fear that, if he were to look at his body, he would find it falling apart underneath him.
The first time they sit in front of each other, chests exposed, both are too enamored and simultaneously modest to say a thing about it.
But he brings a hand to brush his fingertips over the Doctor’s chest, and he thinks some day, he might like to kiss beyond his lips alone.
…
Their bodies feel completely right together.
His body is shuddering and the memory of pleasure amounts to nothing, in comparison to this. They are breathing together and moving together, and he has an incredible, reverent respect for the Doctor’s body. In a strange way, it makes perfect sense, how much he wanted to possess this.
The pleasure all but crashes through them and the smell of sweat and musk lingers between them. They share exhausted kisses, touching lips and everywhere else, just to reacquaint.
He keeps his fingertips brushing against the Doctor’s arms and back and shoulders and neck long after the smaller man falls into a peaceful, exhausted rest. His fingertips are tracing patterns that in some language, must mean something like “I love you”.
He has never learned such a language, but if he could learn it here, against the Doctor’s skin, he might not mind trying to learn to speak it.
…
He keeps looking, hoping to find a letter that says thank you, or I am sorry, or gives some explanation. He finds no such thing and he does not need such a thing to know.
The Doctor has left, and he is not coming back.
He thinks it appropriate, really. First he had collapsed, body-under-mind. Strange how now he stands, collapsing heart under the muscles that still remember how the man had felt in his arms.
The Doctor will not return to this place, he knows it. But he leaves a small note on his bed, anyway. If not just because the physical act of doing so feels better than nothing. And his body needs something so much that he is willing – happy – to take it.
…
Doctor
I am not letting go.
The Master
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