boxing day ;; scene, taptaptaptap
The Titanic was just as much of a disaster as the ship it was named for. Not so much in the loss of life as the catastrophic level of crisis. The Doctor did all he could, and maybe he knows that, but he does not seem especially keen on acknowledging it. So many lives lost ... the cyborg-alien, the couple who had spent their life savings to go, ( Read more... )
For once, the Master is reserved, choosing his words carefully if he finds call to speak. Since leaving the doomed ship, however, he's had not much to say on the subject of anything, least of all the Doctor's reaction to the loss of human life -- and perhaps one in particular. A very small part of him, a part he's trying his best to ignore at the moment, wishes he'd been able to repair the damnably inferior technology and retrieve the poor creature's biological signature for the Doctor. A very, very small part, almost entirely engulfed in the bittersweet taste of something particularly jealous-flavored.
Closing the doors of the TARDIS behind him, the Master drapes his tuxedo jacket over the bend of coral by the door and steps up the grated gangway to the console. A few twists of knobs, the flick of a switch and pull of a lever, sends the ship grinding into motion. "Theta," he urges, steadily commanding without raising his voice, and presents the Doctor with a hand to help him up from the seat. "Come on."
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The Doctor's first thought, stubborn and childish, is that he doesn't want to move, he doesn't want to do anything but sit right there and, for a few minutes, ignore everything and act like the world really has ended. But that's silly and selfish, of course, and while he might often be fairly accused of the former, the Doctor is not particularly indulgent of the latter.
Even so, he spends a few seconds still staring blankly forward before blinking and turning slowly to look up at the Master. The sight of the other Time Lord reminds the Doctor why he should eschew human companionship. It's so fleeting; this, at least, is forever ... or something close to it. He reaches up after a reluctant pause and takes the Master's hand and rises slowly, dropping his feet down to the floor and struggling to stand.
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Something close to forever. The Master has traveled with humans, perhaps if only to better understand why the Doctor seems to prefer it so, and has found the experience wanting. He wonders why the Doctor would ever prefer a human companion over his 'good' company, why he'd ever choose the searingly hot touch of human flesh to the pleasant kiss of comparable body temperatures, how a human companion could ever hope to match the Master himself in intelligence and cunning ( ... )
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As much as the Doctor craves the Master's companionship more than that of any human companion, at the same time, he finds himself wishing for one of them and their ... well, humanity. For Martha to have been there to help with any wounded, for Rose to be bold and decisive, for Jack to share in the unique, endless sort of sorrow that this kind of loss brings again and again. He draws in a breath and swallows hard, movements slow and measured as he reaches up to catch the Master's hand before he can pull it away.
"What are you going to do?" he asks mildly, something weary in both his expression and his tone.
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That is what the Master, in all honesty, cannot possibly understand or couldn't be bothered to attempt to fathom; humans are, after all, so far beneath him from an evolutionary perspective that he might as well be a god by comparison. And with the whole of the universe is stretched out before him, before them both, with all of space and time at their command - by right, as Time Lords - what is there to want from a human? So simple, so dull, so boring.
Sometimes, he all but entirely forgets his Doctor's very real humanity.
"Nothing," the Master reassures, watching the way his hand cups the Doctor's cheek with something like fascination. "Don't you trust me?"
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Faltering, the Doctor leans in to the Master's touch, eyelids fluttering closed for a brief moment. The attempt to find comfort doesn't last; he has the images of the dead burned into the backs of his eyelids, Astrid's voice, weak and faint, still an echo in his ears. He draws another steadying breath and opens his eyes again, trying to find a smile and ultimately unable to.
"Yes," he answers, truthfully and somehow reassuringly, even though he's the one seeking reassurance just now. "I just ... what are you going to do ... while I'm ... resting." He trails off, making a vague gesture.
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It doesn't exactly take a telepathic rapport to feel the churn of emotions roiling across the surface of the Doctor's mind, though such a connection might help the Master to better understand the reasoning behind it. As such, he remains rather resolutely an island unto himself and leaves the Doctor rather alone to his emotional distress. The physical contact lingers, however, though he draws a quiet breath as if preparing to pull away at any moment.
"I don't know," he answers, more evasive than undecided, not entirely sure how he feels about the line of questioning. "I finished Sun Tzu and have given half a thought to following your suggestion about reading something else ... " It's a nonsense answer, the question itself in the delicate arch of one eyebrow. Would the Doctor like him to stay?
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There's another bout of silence that doesn't feel uncomfortable even in the seconds that it's drawn out - at least, for the Doctor. He remains still, maybe lost in thought, perhaps lost to contemplation of any of a great number of things. Then he shifts, just a fraction, and breaks the illusion that he might be made of stone. For such a creature of perpetual motion, however, even that sort of stillness is uncommon and a clear sign of the Doctor being out of sorts.
"Come with me?" he asks after a moment, careful to keep his tone neutral. There's nothing in his voice or his posture that suggests a fear of rejection, but it's there in his eyes, a sense of resignation, and brows lifted just a fraction to brace himself for the response.
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The Master feels long past the point of suggestion - assumption, even - where such a question is concerned and the simple fact of the matter that the Doctor is so terribly off makes his mind up for him well before the carefully neutral inquiry passes between them. "I suppose I could," he responds casually, a picture painted by his nonchalant tone suggesting, no doubt, that he can read just as well in the Doctor's quiet company as he can alone. With the added bonus of making sure the out of sorts Time Lord doesn't do himself an injury.
The resignation and whatever else playing across the Doctor's features, for the moment, is not given his attention. Instead, he draws the Doctor away from the jumpseat with a casual gesture and steers him towards the door to the TARDIS interior, letting a steady hand rest on his friend's shoulder. They're going this way, it seems, with the Master guiding the Doctor the simple way to the latter's own room.
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The Doctor's black Converse (for formal occasions, you see) thud in a flat and almost forlorn sort of way against the deck of the ship as he allows the Master to guide him toward his own room. He absently strips off the bowtie as he goes, tugging at one end until it unravels to hang limp in his hand. He's grateful for his old friend's direction; not that the Doctor wouldn't find his way, but ... there's something undeniably comforting about the pressure of the hand on his shoulder.
Once inside the room, he stoops to unlace his shoes and toes them off, kicking them aside. The tuxedo's jacket goes next, and the Doctor sits down on the edge of the bed once he's down to shirtsleeves, breathing out a little sigh as he tugs off his socks. "Thank you," he murmurs.
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Oh, but there's a sneaking suspicion, at least on the Master's part, that the Doctor wouldn't find his way if left to his own devices. The Doctor is so suddenly unlike himself that it feels like a complete stranger has taken the place of his usual companion ... and the Master wonders how long he can tactfully ignore the severe rift the death of a handful of less, finite beings has created in the Doctor.
With the door closed behind him, the Master picks his way through the room with the familiarity of a casual visitor, given that he's overstepped his boundaries and into it so many times, to find whatever battered book the Doctor has been most recently reading. The title doesn't interest him, per se, but whatever it is he finds is taken up, along with a seat pointedly not next to the Doctor on the edge of the bed. His shoes are slipped off (those dancing shoes he never got much use out of) and he hesitates a moment through something that looks nothing like hesitation before tugging loose his bowtie and popping the first two buttons of ( ... )
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Almost mechanically, the Doctor goes down the line of buttons on his dress shirt, shucking it off when he's done to toss it onto the floor beside the bed without any particular care toward fastidiousness. Down to a white undershirt and his trousers - belt on the floor along with everything else - he pulls down the covers of the bed and crawls beneath. He lies there on his back for a moment, pillow fluffing out on either side of his head and causing his hair to make an even more daring escape than usual straight upward.
Finally, he turns onto his side to face the Master, almost childlike with covers up to his chin and large, liquid brown eyes. "Koschei ..."
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Murder on the Orient Express, the Master notes, finding the words of Agatha Christie, especially picked up mid-sentence in the midst of the novel, somewhat jarring to the senses after his most recent read. Nevertheless, he bends his concentration on the novel itself, rather than the clothes accumulating on the floor, and attempts to recall whether or not he should be impressed with the imagery invoked. Perhaps a favorite of the Doctor's, if the wear of the spine is any indication, though he can't seem to imagine the Doctor being entirely impressed with the plot even the first time around. Too much of a genius for the trappings of a human murder mystery, the Master knows, so why the adoration of the work itself? He tries to image the way Theta's mind wraps around the words, sinks into the plot, how and what he'd think during the downward slope of a sentence and the subtle twist of plot. For the long moment of silence stretching between them, the Master makes a better attempt as studying the Doctor through his reading habits than ( ... )
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Agatha Christie, she had fooled the Doctor ... well, once. He should still like to meet her someday, thinks she might be quite the clever sort; he'd expressed as much to Martha, before she'd left him, even though he'd known she wouldn't stay. None of them stay, even the ones who swear they'll never leave, torn away (like Rose) or abandoned (like Jack), and the Doctor can't help but feel a little proud of Martha, despite his own injury at the fact, that she was the first in recent recall to gather the nerve to actually get out on her own.
"I wonder, sometimes," he says in a measured tone, after a beat, "if I only make things worse." He'd been unable to save Astrid. Or to prevent Rose from being trapped. Unable to save Martha the task of saving the entire world. Unable to save Jack from being broken ... in more ways than one. "I only want to save them, but ... even you, I've got you here, going against your nature in staying with me."
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The book is snapped shut with an immediacy that resounds through the otherwise quiet room, tossed aside without a second thought on the subject of mysteries or the depths of the Doctor's own unique psyche. "Oh, Doctor," he almost purrs, menace dripping from his voice, "I thought you knew better than to compare me to your simple human pets." Would you rather I go? he questions in inflection alone, a clear threat on the edge of his offended tone. "You know absolutely nothing of my nature. You assume. You pity. You delude. You are so far above this, whatever it is this is, yet you make yourself sick with it." And, the envenomed tone details, he makes the Master sick with it, too.
"You see the whole of eternity laid out before you," the Master continues, filled with a barely contained energy and almost twitching to jump up from his seat, "and yet you weep, like a child, for all the fleeting moments you touch." Did you never learn that there's beauty in even the most finite temporal space? the Master questions, narrowing his eyes in an ( ... )
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Half-way through the Master's tirade of a response, the Doctor pulls himself into a sitting position, looking rumpled and small on the side of the bed. He flinches at the words, finally looking down and away, uncertain how to respond. I'm sorry, I don't ...
The Doctor falls silent, physically and mentally, for a long moment broken only by the careful sound of his own breathing. I don't know why I do this, I don't know why I - it's impossible for me to avoid attachment. I look at them and their life and their ingenuity, and I ... I didn't mean to compare you, or imply that these moments are all I care about ... "Please, don't leave."
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