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“Let’s see if I wired the telepathic circuit right, shall we?”
The Master is fully aware of how hard the Doctor has been… trying. Trying to please, trying to compromise, trying to talk, trying to shut up. Trying to give space. Trying to give time. Trying, even, to be patient. It’s a commendable effort. The Master is under no illusions that this time since he awoke has been easy for the Doctor.
And still, all his commendable efforts are nearly undone in that suggestion.
Though he endeavors to keep his expression as plain, as dignified, as unreadable as possible, something surely slips through. He can feel the tension in his jaw, and the effort it takes not to clench his teeth. He does not form his hands into fists, but synthetic tendons jump along the knuckles and well into his wrist.
The Doctor actually flinches.
“My dear,” the Master says, and then does not know how to finish. What is he to say?
We do not trust each other, except that he has roamed the TARDIS free of any impediments, any doors barred or any locks turned. The Doctor has slept—not well, but slept—without guarantee that the Master will use his wits, his hands, or something entirely sharper on him. The Doctor idly talks to him of hopes, and dreams, and plans. There’s so little, these days, he’s not privy to.
And the Master has given the Doctor permission to open his synthetic skin and continue his work, where necessary. He has allowed this damnable fool under his very skin, and if that is not a smidge of mutual return, then what, in heaven’s name, is?
What is he to say?
I do not want you to see, except that he frequently puts himself at the edges of the Doctor’s vision, makes himself a presence to be acknowledged. He speaks up when stepping into a room, to alert the Doctor to his entry. He has taken to wearing cufflinks, for the sake of appearance. The Doctor complimented them a week back and the Master felt so much himself in that instant, he’d had to fight off a smirk.
The Doctor turns his face to him, these days. It’s a rare occasion that worry or reproach show up in his eyes. He looks, more often than not, relieved for the company.
What can he say…?
You are not welcome in my head except that he has invited the Doctor to sit, to drink, to read alongside him, has welcomed him into conversation and found them both in circling witticisms and bitten-back words. He doesn’t hunger anymore, but his synthetic organs churn with how many snippets of harsh or kind honesty he’s swallowed. They used to thrive on this sort of pax-de-deux of snippets revealed and truths concealed. It grates on him, now.
The Doctor opens his mouth sometimes like he wants to speak, and the Master finds himself listening. It’s a nearly physical pain, when he closes his mouth without having uttered a sound. It makes him want to press past the Doctor’s teeth and find the phrases he keeps in the back of his throat. It makes him want to grab his tongue—or maybe just kiss him.
What can he say?
Any of the lies above might suffice. The repulsiveness of the idea startles him. It’s only marginally worse than the idea of telling the truth. You, in my head, Doctor, solidifies what we are building together, here, and might stand to reveal what we yet hope to see. Are we ready for that, Doctor? Am I? Are you?
The silence carries on another two, three, four seconds.
Then the Doctor reaches up with a halting hand, and hesitates. “I promise,” he murmurs, “I’ll try not to look too deep.”
The Master studies him a moment. Oh, yes—yes, indeed. The Doctor is trying very, very hard, isn’t he? Trying to please, to compromise. To be patient. To guarantee. To make amends.
The Master takes a deep, unnecessary breath. And then he reaches in return, puts his fingertips—exposed for the metal and circuitry, at present—upon the back of the Doctor’s hands. He uses that scant touch—nerves firing, wires sparking with the sensation—to draw him closer, until the Doctor rests with his palm beside his own cautious throat, thumb upon his cheek, pointer finger parallel with the line of his jaw. Settled there, he slides his fingertips down the Doctor’s wrist, and hooks upon it.
It’s a dangerous thing, to try to hold this man in place. But for this gesture, the Doctor does not flinch.
Gracious, what a strange thing they’ve started to build.
“My dear,” the Master says, sure at last of what to say, “by all means.”
The Doctor sways. It’s subtle, but at this proximity, it would be impossible to miss. The Doctor closes his eyes—that would be impossible to miss, too. The Master decides against closing his own. He is too enraptured by the shape of the Doctor’s palm, and the subtle flex it gives as the Doctor leans forward, noses into the Master’s cheek, and presses their foreheads together.
The Master opens his mind.
(He leaves all the lies he pondered on display—not to fool anyone, but to demonstrate the folly of it all. To demonstrate that the Doctor is not the only one who is trying so very, very hard.
The Doctor breathes out and the Master catches, at the edges of his siphoned mind, a sensation like fear snapping to pieces under the weight of relief.
He lifts his other hand to grip the Doctor’s. He tries not to make it a possessive gesture. He makes sure the Doctor feels at the edges of his own mind, how hard he tries not to make it a possessive gesture.
The Doctor, in reply, lets the Master see the prickling nerves, the settling, and the decision to stay.)
A comfortable calm settles into them as they share a thought. A wire—in a mind, in an effort, in the tentative soldering of broken connections—is, indeed, right.