(no subject)
COMM: fandom_muses - Solitude
VERSE: paradisa
WORD COUNT: 441
He'd gotten used to the silence. The lack of conversation, the lack of words, the lack of sound and of contact. Oh, technically it wasn't true that he was solitary, that there was no one to speak with, but he was still taking his stance of removal. Until he got what he wanted, he would have nothing to do with anyone. It's passive-aggression, certainly, but it's the only thing that worked now.
The Master laid back on his bed, boredly leafing through a book. He had read it some five hundred times, but it was an interesting read, and he idly translated it into other languages with every reread. Not to mention, it wasn't as if he could leave and fetch something of his own. He refused escort, after all, and that was the only way he could leave.
At some point the Doctor entered, but he remained consumed with his reading. He was aware of the man's presense, and he could feel him probing at his mind, trying to be allowed in. The Master pulled up his defenses and left it at that. He would have no discussion, verbally or mentally. He was purposely walling himself off, even if it was driving him further into his own madness. If anything, the Doctor knows he can fix it, but the man hesistates and does nothing; he justified his choices with affection and possessiveness.
The Master snorted at the thought. Affection. Absolutely absurd. Possessive though, that was right on. The Doctor was just as possessive of him as he was of the Doctor. It was a trait that had slipped between them, he assumed, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
In fact, much to his deadened dismay, his apathetic shock, he was considering a more permanent means of escape. He could find a way for something to kill him - a freak accident, if it were. Oh, certainly, he would be trading something for his freedom, but in two weeks time he would appear outside of the TARDIS. Then it was a matter of going to his and leaving, going as far away as possible.
The thought should have worried him more than it did, but he was too caught up in his apathy. It had taken a good year and a half to fully set in, but it was there. He half wondered if the Doctor could tell that he honestly didn't care about most things any longer. All that mattered was his freedom, and he would have it.
Until then, he remained closed off from every stimulus that he did not approve of. It was, in it's own way, a form of self-inflicted solitary confinement.
VERSE: paradisa
WORD COUNT: 441
He'd gotten used to the silence. The lack of conversation, the lack of words, the lack of sound and of contact. Oh, technically it wasn't true that he was solitary, that there was no one to speak with, but he was still taking his stance of removal. Until he got what he wanted, he would have nothing to do with anyone. It's passive-aggression, certainly, but it's the only thing that worked now.
The Master laid back on his bed, boredly leafing through a book. He had read it some five hundred times, but it was an interesting read, and he idly translated it into other languages with every reread. Not to mention, it wasn't as if he could leave and fetch something of his own. He refused escort, after all, and that was the only way he could leave.
At some point the Doctor entered, but he remained consumed with his reading. He was aware of the man's presense, and he could feel him probing at his mind, trying to be allowed in. The Master pulled up his defenses and left it at that. He would have no discussion, verbally or mentally. He was purposely walling himself off, even if it was driving him further into his own madness. If anything, the Doctor knows he can fix it, but the man hesistates and does nothing; he justified his choices with affection and possessiveness.
The Master snorted at the thought. Affection. Absolutely absurd. Possessive though, that was right on. The Doctor was just as possessive of him as he was of the Doctor. It was a trait that had slipped between them, he assumed, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
In fact, much to his deadened dismay, his apathetic shock, he was considering a more permanent means of escape. He could find a way for something to kill him - a freak accident, if it were. Oh, certainly, he would be trading something for his freedom, but in two weeks time he would appear outside of the TARDIS. Then it was a matter of going to his and leaving, going as far away as possible.
The thought should have worried him more than it did, but he was too caught up in his apathy. It had taken a good year and a half to fully set in, but it was there. He half wondered if the Doctor could tell that he honestly didn't care about most things any longer. All that mattered was his freedom, and he would have it.
Until then, he remained closed off from every stimulus that he did not approve of. It was, in it's own way, a form of self-inflicted solitary confinement.