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... )
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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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