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The Doctor has never been without certain... self-destructive tendencies. Sometimes it’s arrogance sending him headlong into situations well above his capacity to handle them. Sometimes it is a maniacal sense of mischief which leads him to idle curiosities, and ultimately, problems. Sometimes it’s a sense of vengeance and an odd vindictive edge—sometimes it’s naivety with such a propensity for heartsbreak, it’s a wonder he kept his head up among the stars...
This time around, it seems to be nothing less than absolute self-loathing intentionality that guides the destructive streak.
It’s late, or at least, the Doctor has had a long stretch of awakeness this time around, when the Master finds him absconded off in a corner, mood miserable, treating himself to a hearty pour of something clear and strong. The Master narrows his eyes, but says nothing. The Doctor regards him sourly over the rim of his glass but doesn’t invite inquiry.
The Master, easy as you like, selects a book from the shelf nearby and seats himself across. Twenty minutes pass in taut silence.
He hears the second telltale pop, splash, and glug perhaps ten minutes later.
There’s an odd silence, as if the Doctor’s waiting for the push-back. The Master considers his options, then turns a page with practiced nonchalance.
The third comes in only six minutes’ time.
Against his better judgment, the Master sighs.
“My,” he drawls, “would you like a little something to go with your seventh, eighth, and ninth shot, there?”
“Yes,” the Doctor snaps, with a quickness that verifies the Master’s suspicion—that the blasted man was waiting for this, anticipating, raring to bite back. He fixes the Master with a glare—and the Master, despite himself, blinks, leaning subtly back into the cushions of the seat. “Yes, actually, fine of you to finally ask—” the Doctor nearly bares his teeth, “—I was just thinking, some peace and quiet would go lovely with this. Master.”
The venom in the Doctor’s tone sets everything in the world a little... askance.
(He tries in a moment to reconcile the pieces—him, here, approximately alive, built up, attention paid and detail honored, present in the Doctor’s own TARDIS and wrenched from the Eye of Harmony—no small feat, no wave of a hand to manage—here’s here, by the choice of this man.
The Doctor looks at him so scathingly, he wonders, for a moment, about everything.)
“Doctor,” he says. The ice in his tone compliments the acid in the Doctor’s.
He stands, replaces the book, and takes his leave.
(He tries to reconcile it. The mood hasn’t always been so sour, of course, but why shouldn’t it take the Master by surprise? This time around, the Doctor can be downright playful, brimming with a childlike silliness that writhes its way past his weary eyes, sallowed cheeks, and tight throat. Most of the time, the Doctor carries with him a—albeit forced—blase ease, which carries into conversation, discussion, and even into the mutual time spent that’s only musing, or even silent.
It has, in recent times, left the Master with a striking sense of... mundaneity. Normalcy. Trust, perhaps—though assuming that between them on any given day is a tricky affair with its own risks, and he doesn’t like to mull on it too deeply.
Maybe because it always ends up here.)
The next time it happens, less than a week later, the Master says nothing—but as he makes to leave, hardly intent on watching the whole mess unfold again—the Doctor calls after him:
“Lucky you were never much one for feelings, eh? Can put the hardware in place, but given the rest is up to you—” The Doctor laughs. There’s no humor in it. Still grating out a chuckle, he plucks up the bottle, and sways it in weary example. “Guess only one of us will be needing this.”
The Master watches as the Doctor neglects even to pour from the bottle, this time.
Tightness of the chest is an illusion, he recalls—a crossing of senses, the interpretation of distress as a physical manifestation, under the presumption that ample emotional pain must necessarily equate a physical wound or impediment. Heartsbreak, he remembers, works much the same way. Illusory. Crossed wires, so to speak—in him, especially much.
The illusion, though even more transparent now than ever, is... uncomfortable.
(The Master, in a stint of great crossness, contemplates poisoning the Doctor’s next drink. He wonders briefly if a bout of illness will slow him down, if a forced rest will set him to rights, wonders if a dose of cruelty will recall the damned man to his more hopeful, determined sentiments.
Then he recalls a life where he let the Doctor fall to his death, recalls how he went from a manic and silly man to one who was so unspeakably mild, so unnervingly cool that he watched the Master burn without a word, a gesture, or a flinch to see him off.
Needless to say, the Master ultimately decides against the poison. He doesn’t bother to come up with an excuse for why not .)
The third time it happens, though, it is an undeniable pattern, and when such things present themselves... well. The Doctor might always have been more spontaneously clever, but the Master, for all his failures, is certainly no fool. He prepares.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” the Doctor starts.
The Master puts down a coaster on the side table, and places the cup of tea down with such force that it leaves ripples in the liquid and interrupts the steam. The sizable thud it makes as it lands is no small matter, either.
The Doctor, for once, shuts up.
Silence isn’t unusual between them, in good or bad times. This one does have a particular tension to it, but then, that’s been the standard for the last few weeks. Patterns, and all.
They do get old.
“Earl Grey,” the Master explains, “for when you’re quite finished feeling sorry for yourself.”
The Doctor says nothing. But then, he doesn’t tense, or glare, or grit his teeth, either. The Master politely chalks it up to his own imagination, that the Doctor’s head dips, that his shoulders very nearly shudder.
(Were it another time, another self, younger and more hopeful for the Doctor and more scathingly desperate for the Master, perhaps he might scold him. Oh, my dear, oh, you lovely, poor, sad thing—don’t you see, can’t you see , Doctor, what a terrible martyr you make?
Another time, another self. Or maybe that, too, is illusory. It’s impossible to tell, really—for all the reign they have over space and time, one does have to ultimately deal with the here, and the now. The Master thinks, suddenly, perhaps this is just as soft as the other imagining. Same softness—different worried hearts, tricking the mind into unbreathable tightness.)
“I’ll be in the console room,” the Master says, more softly.
He leaves.
He busies himself.
(He relishes the sound of his footsteps, and reminds himself that bitterness need not ruin the intended sweetness of a gift.)
An hour or so later, the Doctor joins him, reeking of vodka... and Bergamot. His eyes are red and his breathing a bit thick. But he does step up close, and the Master feels it, when he reaches for a lever, and brushes against his arm.
It feels—though the Master does so hate to speculate—suspiciously like trust.