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 all the Master's talk of destroying the Doctor, there's a sensible and reasonable side of him (albeit very small) that understands intrinsically that he can't, not ever, just the same way he couldn't destroy the Earth (or stand idly why while it was destroyed through inaction) and thereby destroy himself. If the Doctor wants to be consumed, he'll need to find another flame to throw himself in, as the Master is only good for a great burn.
His knee hits the edge of the bed and he balances precariously, leaning down when the Doctor urges but with the grace to keep himself from tumbling entirely forward. Instead, he takes the moment to shrug out of his tuxedo jacket without breaking the kiss, letting the piece of attire drop where it may. Then his full attention is on the Doctor, hand falling to the side of his friend's head to let fingertips brush at his temple. He wants a deeper telepathic connection, remembers a time when they connected on such a level (they didn't, not really, it never happened), but he's too afraid, knows too much of himself will be exposed for scrutiny to the Doctor if he seeks it out, presses for it, allows it. They never saved a planet together, not really, and the Doctor never burdened himself with the insistent beat of the drums to give the Master time and clarity of thought to work. They were never that close, they were never that connected, the Master never trusted him that much.
He almost wishes they had, he did, he could.
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Contrarily - so contrary, the two of them - the Doctor knows that year happened. Even if things reset, it happened just as equally as the year on the Valiant. And perhaps that taints it a bit, but the Doctor doesn't care ... he knows of and believes in the Master's potential for change, and still feels the unique bond they'd developed. He knows better than to bank too much on what happened in a timeline undone, but the potential, oh, that isn't going to go away.
There's something just a little impatient about the Doctor as he waits for the Master to remove the jacket and join him, and when the touch grazes his temple, his mind is open and ready, willing, welcoming the contact.
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This is where the Master hesitates, jarring and in a way he usually doesn't (he's too calculated to falter, too cunning to hesitate), because he knows what the Doctor sees, what he feels, what he thinks is possible. He hates that potential, though the idea of it lingers in his mind like a bad taste in his mouth, and it feels too much like the Doctor is gloating, like the Doctor has won.
There's telepathic silence from the Master's end for a moment that feels like a small eternity before his hand slides away, down the curve of the Doctor's neck, with little explanation. He's still there, physically, and thoroughly engaged in the kiss, but he seems more than simply hesitant to open himself that much, that willing, to the scrutiny and acceptance of the Doctor's mind. And while physical contact alone feels like the sudden deprivation of sense, it's safe. (Not that he's afraid.)
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Being shut out in such a way ... hurts, honestly, and that's something still openly conveyed from the Doctor, whether the Master chooses to keep listening or not. He feels a little twinge as the telepathic connection goes dead, but it still doesn't change the mind-buzzing intimacy of the physical moment, lips on lips, and the contact of skin against skin.
The Doctor doesn't press the Master to open back up, but he's ready and waiting for the time when the other Time Lord chooses to, his hands sliding around to fumble at buttons.
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For a moment, the Master is tense with anticipation at the idea that the Doctor might make his own attempt at a connection, might pursue the issue himself, might try and convince the Master otherwise. But there's just hurt and something like disappointment lingering in the air between them -- and the Master is almost sorry, but not very. Self-preservation, the Doctor must understand, even if there's really no call for it now with all that has (and hasn't) happened between them.
It's a matter of moments before the Master brushes the Doctor's hands away impatiently, moving to slide the white undershirt up the Doctor's stomach and off, rather than helpfully unloop the buttons the Doctor is fumbling with. He breaks the kiss just long enough to tug the shirt up and off, dragging his nails slowly down the Doctor's chest afterwards. Ridiculously, he almost feels the need to say something, but speech seems irrelevant and he's keeping his mind carefully in check.
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The Doctor makes the barest of noises of frustration as the Master brushes his hands away, but compliantly lifts his arms once he figures out what the other Time Lord is doing. His hair sticks up at odd angles once the t-shirt has been tugged off, hooded lids only helping to add to the rumpled appearance he's taken on. He wants to say something, any number of things, or simply to convey the various feelings he's experiencing to his friend ... but shut out as he is, he can't, and the Doctor is perhaps too afraid of rejection to actually attempt the connection without it being implicitly welcomed. He reaches for the buttons on the Master's shirt again, assuming he'll be allowed that much this time, and his fingers are just a bit steadier in undoing them.
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Leaving the Doctor to the line of buttons down the front of his shirt now that he's achieved the desired effect as far as the Doctor's own state of undress is concerned, the Master threads his fingers through the ruffled hair, as if trying to find a rhyme or reason to the odd angles it's been coerced into. Your hair ... He means to express just what he thinks (grudgingly how he feels) about the Doctor's hair this regeneration, but they're just words, however telepathically communicated. Still, with a slight smirk and appreciative eye, it isn't difficult to get the hint.
His thumb brushes across the Doctor's temple slowly, pensively, before he lets his hand slip further down, feeling his way from the Doctor's cheek to his collarbone. Through the confusing tangle of limbs between them, the Master searches out the front of the Doctor's trousers and both button and zipper, perhaps deliberately keeping two steps ahead in this dance.
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His hair ... the Doctor seems to recall the Master rather enjoying tangling fingers in his hair, and it would seem that's a memory that has held true. He doesn't say (mentally or otherwise) anything about it, but there is just the slightest twinge of amusement to be felt, indication of a funny thought having sprung to mind, just the same.
The Doctor isn't thinking of it as a race at all, rather something to take their time with and savor, but if the Master wants to keep a few steps ahead, that's fine. He pushes the shirt off his friend's shoulders, conveying a wordless thought on the subject of the Master needing to break away at least long enough to allow for the garment's removal.
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He did - does - and it's not difficult to connect the memory (it isn't) with the Doctor's apparent amusement. Somehow, perhaps by miracle, the Master doesn't take it as offense. He may just be too busy sitting up on his knees and removing his cufflinks before shrugging the shirt off to pay much mind to being offended. With little regard for small items or wrinkled fabric, the Master tosses aside the removed items and settles back down to capture the Doctor's lips with his own.
His hand is back in the Doctor's hair immediately, as if that's precisely where it belongs, an almost unexpressed sense of longing in the very brief way his mind brushes against his friend's. Theta.
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Satisfied now that they are - nearly - back on par, the Doctor is content to lose himself in the kiss for the moment, until his hands get curious again. Fingertips trail idly up the Master's sides, hooking in the hem of the thin cotton undershirt, and after a moment the Doctor rucks the shirt up under his friend's arms, tugging impatiently for it to be removed. Koschei. He clearly imparts, with the conveyance of a name, the imagery and desire for contact of skin on skin. It doesn't get much more basic, or simpler than that.
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Patience is not a virtue at the moment and, surprisingly enough, the Master easily complies with the Doctor's lack thereof, letting the undershirt join the accumulation of clothing on the floor. It can't get simpler than the press of skin against skin, the way his fingertips drag or how the Doctor's breath feels against him, but it's only that, only basic, and he finds himself craving everything self-preservation won't allow him to seek. The way his mind brushes the Doctor's own feels something like betrayal, at least to himself, and he wonders if the action was rife with as much vulnerability as it felt to be.
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In a rare (well, maybe not so rare, given things that transpired between them in that year that never was ... if the Master chooses to acknowledge it as a memory) moment of aggressiveness, the Doctor arches up into the Master's physical touch, fingertips sliding under the edge of the formal trousers' waistband. All while his mind casts out, and after a moment spent gathering a tentative idea into a plan, he attempts the contact they're both craving (whether admitted or not), reaching for the mental, emotional connection. Please.
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Remarkably, the Master responds rather well to that, though whether or not it's the action (rather than reaction) from the Doctor or the fact that he's brought please to the table in a fashion the Master's pride won't allow him to do personally is open for interpretation. "Don't," he tries to protest, but it's hardly more than a murmur against the Doctor's lips, a token gesture before he surrenders (proverbially more than literally, though the Master is renowned for reading too much into things) to the very slight pressure the Doctor lays on. It's pathetic, he thinks, that he can't stand his ground on such a subject and the beginnings of telepathic connection are rocky with the torrent of emotion pouring off the Master in waves. He wants this as much as he's afraid of it - of giving too much away, of losing himself - and he hates the Doctor for provoking him to it as much and as desperately as he loves him.
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Concentrating on the connection between the two of them, the Doctor nevertheless hesitates at the Master's verbal protest, but with the mental consent, it's not enough to stop him for long. He's a little less practiced with this part of it, not that he's unfamiliar with the Master's mind, but the other Time Lord tends to take control of these situations between them - at least mentally. Even as his fingers dexterously thumb open his friend's trousers, the Doctor is fumbling a little on his tentative psychic hold, almost overwrought by the sheer amount of emotion from the Master. It's more than he's felt from him in ... well, a good and long while. Since that timeline that ceased to exist, or perhaps since they were briefly turned human?
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No - is the first coherent thought that breaks through, followed in short order by, - let me - you're better with a foil - followed by an amused flutter of thought about the timeline he shouldn't actually be considering real and the bout of fencing they'd engaged in at one particularly stressful (at least for him) point in that undone year. There's a delicious trill of self-satisfaction at the memory of deftly slicing away shirt buttons and the like, followed by a nearly obscene roil of pleasure when he recalls the precise throb of pain through his shoulder, the feeling of Theta's teeth hard against his skin. Everything else, the overwhelming surge of thoughts and feelings, seems to take a step back as Koschei finds his focus, trying not to taste bitterness in admitting there's some truth to the timeline by his current association with the memories.
There isn't an ounce of hesitance, a second thought that calls for pulling away, when he brushes his fingertips across Theta's temple now, if only due to the fact that he needs to show his friend how it's done. Properly. Like this, he conveys, something effortlessly smug in the tone of his thoughts, plying the Doctor's mind along a heightened telepathic connection, coaxing him to open despite already sensing the Doctor's willingness to do so.
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