Work Text:
The Master, contrary to popular belief, was not a completely uncaring person. Sure, he found joy in other people’s pain and suffering (especially when he was the cause of it) but sometimes, he liked to sit down, close his eyes, and feel.
And when the Doctor — not the one he was used to, but rather an older one who looked more tired than the one he’d known, impossible as it seemed — asked him to feel, he did. He did not admit it, but instead wore a smirk like the one he had learned to do with his current face and brushed the Doctor’s speech aside like it meant nothing to him.
The thing is... it did. Sort of.
Again, he would never admit it, not even to herself — although Missy probably knew anyway — but he missed battling the Doctor. He missed the times before he was snatched back again to Gallifrey, the times when he had looked at the stars and smiled because he was not alone. Oh, he hated the Doctor, that was true, but he had someone to hate and who hated him back.
That hatred became a comfort, and when that was taken from him, he grew lonely. He missed the cheekbones, the hair — damn that hair — the remarks, but most of all, simply the comfort of knowing someone else was out there who understood him, who cared — or something similar— about what happened to him.
And when finally the Doctor came back... it wasn’t his Doctor anymore. Yes Missy, go and have your fun while I’m stuck here in the middle. The only part left to me is that of the villain. I know how to play that very well.
When the Doctor spoke of being kind and caring about other insignificant lives because he decided to live by those ideals, the Master felt even more lonely. How would he choose to die? He didn’t even conceive of such an event, and yet it was bound to happen at some point. Would he die having the Doctor believe the worst of him. Yes. Who needs the Doctor? I am one of the worst enemies to this universe, and I delight in it.
He did indeed. But there was more to him than that. If there was someone out there who could claim to understand him, it was probably the Doctor, and he suspected the other Time Lord felt the same.
Good. At least he’ll keep mourning my death.
He was not going to help the Doctor. That was pathetic. But he hoped, one day, that they would be able to see each other again. Not physically see each other, but rather contemplate themselves and relish in their understanding of one another, even if it hurts. Especially if it hurts.
Missy was probably closer from the two to achieving that goal, but at what cost? The Master did not intend to change who he was only for the sake of the Doctor’s appreciation. He wanted to be seen for what he was, and he wanted to find comfort again.
The other Doctor had seen him, and the Master could have seen him too, except he was too... scared to do it. He hadn’t been ready. He didn’t think he was ready even know. His hearts burned like the twin suns of his home planet, the sound of drums in his head never quite satisfied with everything he did, and he could not shut them out or slow down to think. That’s what he missed the most from his previous selves; the ability to sit down and think.
His one chance had probably already passed, his one comfort taken away, presumably forever.
You could be so beautiful.
Was Missy the portrayal of that prophecised beauty? Only thinking about it made his stomach hurt, and secretly, he knew that his hearts were aching as well. He missed him, he really did, but he was gone, and he could never be beautiful to his hearts’ content.
He was ugly and evil, but he’d always been that. What had changed?
He was unseen, he was unloved, and he was alone.