Prompt : Velvet

There is something to be said for a little decadence. The Master himself had always been fond of luxury, of details and filigree and quality.

But why he had come into his room to find his sheets replaced with silk and his comforter replaced with velvet was of serious question.

He blinked once, not entirely sure what to make of the situation. Warning flags went up in his mind, and he approached the room cautiously. There wasn’t much else wrong, admittedly. The night table had a set of candles, replacing his usual lamp that rested there. They were lit – and probably scented: apple spice, if his nose did not deceive him – and… something else that looked remarkably like a fancy bottle of lotion with a funny shape, a lavender label, and something about “for lovers”.

The door opens behind him and he turns to get an eyeful of primped-up Doctor. His hair was slicked back so that the curls teased at the nape of his neck, his eyes alit with something caught between mischievous and hopeful. He had replaced his usual green Victorian coat with… a red velvet one of a near identical cut.

The Master blinks. Then his brow furrows and, in his American drawl, he scoffs. “Oh, what, so you made a dress out of sheets? Are you Cinderella, now?”

The Doctor shuffled his feet, faking shyness while his eyes glittered happily. “The sheets are silk,” he corrects the Master.

“So are your long underwear,” he retorts, trying not to think very hard on what ammo he’s using to throw back at the mild-natured and really too-damn-smug man in front of him.

Those summery blue eyes blinked once. His grin pulled widely and he stepped a little closer. “Won’t know until you look,” he puts out hopefully.

The Master rolls his eyes, putting his hands on the Doctor’s waist. “You could have just asked…”

“I thought you’d be able to take the hint, when I put on the jacket,” his lower lip presses out a little, and the pout works its magic. The Master curses this manipulative bastard and tries not to think about how lovely it would be to run his cheek against the Doctor’s sleeve for the rest of the night.

Thank you, but he has no intentions of looking like a pining, clingy housecat tonight.

“You could have whispered it sweetly in my ear when we woke up, at least. Rather than leaving me with—” he glances behind him, making sure he read right, “—strawberry-flavored lubrication on my table.”

“Oh, how silly of me,” says the Doctor. He tilts his face up and kisses the Master’s chin in that sweet way he has when he wants something. His hands slip under the Master’s jacket. “I shall make sure I bring out the chocolate, next time.”

The Master rolled his eyes, but obliged. A little velvet never hurt anyone, after all.

Prompt : Nuance

It is silly to assume, really, that a cigar is anything but a cigar. Humans, the Master thought, were ridiculous for finding as much symbolism as they did. Patterns in things that had none, meaning in things that were obviously very literal. Time Lords were sparing with their metaphors. Metaphors meant something far more literal to Time Lords than they did to humans.

Eyes like a summer sky would have layers upon layers of meaning, in their language. Eyes that are light like a clouded day, eyes that have warmth about them, eyes that make me feel like summer only could make me feel—often personal case could even be used to describe a certain emotional mindset. And the written language would be even more specific.

Symbols would be used carefully. Every word has meaning behind it; humans were flat with their metaphors. They could not understand the nuance of meaning that would go into words or actions, much less their shallow metaphors.

As it stands, it is a day like any other. Warm. Barely sunny. Not comfortable enough to tread out of doors in less than a t-shirt, jeans, and jacket, but it was a processor to spring. The world would be warm soon. Summer might even arrive. Seemed unbelievable now, but summer might actually come again.

The Master puts his hands over his paper, his hands stained with charcoal, and for the umpteenth time tries to wrap his head around the concept of love in the context of marriage.

He had been studying the human custom ever since the Doctor had brought it up. He had relented and popped the question, though “will you marry me” seemed as shallow as a human metaphor. There was nothing about being together for the rest of their days in the question. There was not even a semblance of love behind the gesture. All that came without saying.

No. “Will you marry me”?, to the Master, sounded flat enough that the only words he could imagine under the flat, metaphorical surface were “Happy now?”

It wasn’t so bad, he supposed. It felt flat, but it made the Doctor happy. Concepts such as forever, togetherness, belonging—those were all things that came on the side. He didn’t need marriage to demonstrate them. They came with the package. And if the Doctor was happy on top of it—well, that would do.

He starts doing research into it, and he can’t believe how little humans explain their terms. Four hours later, he throws aside his “Wedding Planning for Dummies” and approaches the Doctor with an air caught between gravity and annoyance.

“What the hell do the bridesmaids even do, and how do you tell the bride from the groom? And what—” he concludes, slipping in close for a cuddle, “by all the stars, is a honey moon?”

The Doctor blinked, then giggled. “Bridesmaids are friends who accompany the bride in the ceremony. The bride is usually a woman—”

“Neither of us are bloody women.” The Master pointed out, nuzzling his hair.

“—so I suppose the question doesn’t particularly apply.” The Doctor concluded. Then, “But if you want, I could wear the dress.”

The Master huffed. “And the last part?”

“Oh?”

“The hell is a honey moon.” He repeats.

Suddenly the Doctor looks nervous, almost shy, and the Master’s attention is caught. He tilts his head as the Doctor looks down.

“…well… on the honey moon, the newlyweds go off somewhere… alone. And celebrate their marriage.”

“…what for?” The Master furrowed his brows, not at all sure why you needed a second celebration ceremony.

The Doctor gave him a look. “Go somewhere. … alone.”

It’s a look that a Time Lord would have. In his eyes, the emphasis is given. Suggests the case of “alone” meaning “you and I, one day, potentially, somewhere, undefined”. His tone gives structure. Alone, regarding intimacy, regarding privacy. Go. Action.

“Oh.” Says the Master.

new developments

Structure-wise, at least.

Two options for a title, here. We have "Reconciliation" or "The Healing Sacrament". I'm more tempted by the first, since all the four sub-sections are one word-ers. The second does sound slightly more Catholic, which is the basis for the whole titling and organization of the piece -- because I get silly and obsessive about my fanfiction XD -- but even so. The terms are apparently pretty interchangeable, as far as I can tell from Wikipedia.

the Sin chapter should also maybe have it's title changed to "contrition". Granted, I can't exactly say that any Master would ever feel GUILTY for his sins, but... apparently contrition is the main first step in the whole confession-absolution process. So we'll see. It probably will change from "sin" though. >>

...and yes I wrote up a post just for notes. rawr. <3

Prompt : Gel

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.

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.

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.

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.