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It's not unusual for the Master to show up at your apartment unannounced- but he always acts a bit differently within the walls of your home.
When he visits your Earthly living space, he's always acutely mindful of the volume he occupies. He prefers to linger respectfully near the front door with his coat and shoes on, he never strays closer unless explicitly invited, and he never makes himself too comfortable while visiting. It's one of the many small things he does that reminds you he's not human.
He's given you glimpses of his past through tales from when he was much younger. You know that he's from an entirely different society with its own- often stricter- rules of what is considered 'proper'. It only makes sense that he acts in tandem with the way he views the world.
You don't want to make him uncomfortable by calling attention to it, but you hope he realizes that he's never an imposition to you. He's as welcome into your apartment you are in his Tardis. He doesn't need to wait at the door while you prepare yourself to be swept away on another grand adventure, and he doesn't need to leave the minute he's safely walked you to your front door upon your return.
You understand if he prefers to keep his distance... but you hope he knows that he doesn't have to keep you at arm's length. You've been racing all about the universe together for so long now that you're plenty used to him. The only time he touches you shouldn't have to be when he's pushing you out of harm's way.
On one hand, you want to bring the topic to his attention. You want to properly let him know that you're friends- probably even something a bit more- and therefore he's allowed to enter your personal space. He's allowed to sit on your couch, at your kitchen table, to use your restroom, have a snack from your fridge, maybe even nap in your bed. He doesn't have to be this bold, grinning, larger-than-life version of himself all the time. You won't think any less of him if he lets his guard down just a little around you.
But with that said, you don't want to push. You'd rather be patient with him. Perhaps he needs more time to grow as accustomed to you as you are with him. Or maybe his reasoning is something else entirely.
Whatever the reason, you're happy to give him time to adjust.
However, today, he breaks the pattern. He barges in without so much as a knock- which is deeply unusual for him.
He opens the pale blue front door of your one bedroom, one bathroom apartment and directly crosses your open living space. You're already sat in your tiny kitchen, finishing lunch, as he rushes past.
He only stops his brisk steps once he reaches your kitchen sink. He turns on the tap and the running water loudly splashes onto the stainless steel.
"Hello," you welcome him, curious as to what his urgency is. He's very rarely urgent when he's at your home. If he's chosen to welcome himself in during your free time, he's usually there to check on you. Never to rush you.
He doesn't appear to hear you for a few moments too long as he scrubs his hands together. It takes him nearly half a minute to process your words before he lifts his head, as if finally hearing you for the first time.
"What? Oh. Yes, hello," he says, sounding distracted.
Now this whole situation is very unlike him.
Usually he's all grins and charm when he greets you. He likes to banter in a cheerful, familiar manner and the first thing in his mind is always to ask how you are. However today, pleasantries appear to be the furthest thing from his mind.
You get up from your seat and cross the room to glance over his shoulder. Your eyes land on his hands as he washes them and-
"Why are you bleeding?!" you ask in surprise.
For the most part, he appears okay. His black and orange striped suit and the blue button-up beneath look as flawless as ever, but there are smudges on his usually immaculate purple coat. Messy streaks of red paint the sleeves and his left hand is still bleeding quite profusely. Actually, you quickly realize, both his hands are. And no matter how determined he is to wash off the blood, there's always more seeping out from the gashes in his skin. From the sheer amount of blood mixing with the running water, you can only assume he's more injured than he lets on.
"Are you alright? What happened?" you quickly follow up.
The Master's brows press together in annoyance and dismay.
"I think your cat wants to kill me," he growls. He momentarily glances out your window with narrowed eyes as if he's searching for something. He apparently doesn't find whatever he's looking for as he returns his attention to his hands.
Your lips curl into a small smile at his half-joke, but your eyes simultaneously narrow in confusion.
"I don't have a cat," you reply as you lean against the edge of the sink to his right.
The Master spins his head around to look at you.
"You do, don't you? It's the fluffy white creature with black paws that roams about the complex," he explains.
You scour your mind for a matching description. When your mind finally connects his words with an image; you smile.
"That's my neighbor's cat," you laugh warm-heartedly. "She's an old lady who likes to take in strays and the fluffy white cat that roams around here is named Applesauce."
He shoots you an inquisitive look.
"Applesauce?" he echoes, confused and slight appalled by the name. He then returns his gaze to the running water.
"I just assumed your cat doesn't like me very much," he grumbles.
You can't help but laugh warmly.
"Aww have you been trying to befriend the neighbor's cat for me?" you ask lovingly, your heart melting at the very idea.
The Master immediately armors up at the implication that he's done something worthy of 'aww'-ing at.
"I know that humans are often fond of their pets and I believed that creature was yours, therefore I was simply trying to form good relations! Or, rather, I was until the wretched thing bolted away. It led me halfway up the fire escape where some stupid dog leapt out at me and I ended up cutting my hands on the railing," he elaborated. He then added furiously, "Your fire escape is not up to code."
You can't help but grin. You feel bad that he's injured, but the very idea that he’d spent so much time and effort on your behalf only to have misunderstood is absolutely adorable.
"I'll be right back," you promise with a soft smile.
You step away for a minute to retrieve a first aid kit settled in your bathroom cabinet. You soon return with the box in hand and lay it open on the counter. There's disinfectant, gauze, band-aids, tape, and plenty of other helpful items to choose from.
The Master dries off his hands with a paper towel and then he turns his attention to the kit.
"I can take care of this," he assures you. He then adds more casually, "I'm... sorry for the mess-"
You simply pull a kitchen chair around the counter and set it behind him. He looks up at you curiously.
"It's alright. You had good intentions," you smile reassuringly. "You know you're never a bother to me. Let me help you."
You gesture to the chair, and he looks a bit taken aback by your offer.
However, after a moment, he reluctantly agrees.
He slowly shrugs off his jacket so the sleeves don't get in the way. The coat is already smeared with blood as he folds it up and tosses it over the counter with a dull thud.
"Last time I ever try to do anything nice. That was my good coat," he complains.
You only chuckle.
He takes a seat and sets his arms on the rests to either side of him. His eyes widen in surprise as you take a knee and gently unbutton the cuffs of his silky, deep blue button-down. You fold the sleeves up to his elbows, so that the fabric is out of your way, and then turn your attention to his injuries.
His hands are still bleeding, but the cuts aren't terribly deep and you know he heals quickly. He should be okay without any stitches.
You dampen down a cloth with cool water and then pull up another chair for yourself. You turn it to face his and take a seat across from him.
You cautiously take his hand and settle it between both of your own. You then press the cloth to the back of his left hand where the worst cuts are and hold an even pressure over the wound.
His muscles are tense as you patiently wait for the bleeding to slow. He doesn't protest against your touch, but you can sense that he feels... nervous- if that's even possible.
Does the Master get nervous? There must be a more accurate word out there, but you aren't certain what it is.
It's a long minute before he begins to relax, and even longer for him to stop flinching every time your fingers move across his skin. It takes time, but eventually his cold expression settles too. The creases in his face go smooth and you can feel him calm down as he gets the idea through his mind that you are not, in fact, a threat. You can feel the change as he slowly lowers his guard and eventually his hands completely comply to your whim. A minute or so longer, and you can see his shoulders lower as his breathing evens out.
You briefly lift the cloth to check the progress. The bleeding has almost stopped.
As you guide his hand to turn so you can have a better look, he silently follows the motion. Your movements no longer appear to bother him anymore. In fact, now that he's grown accustomed to your touch; nothing appears to bother him.
"It looks alright. Not too deep," you observe.
The Master doesn't appear to be listening. You've been paying careful attention to his injuries all this time, but as you look up to check on him; you can see that his nervousness has long since faded. What had been annoyance and then peaceful had now slipped into something deeper. His eyes are half-shut and glassy. They're distant, yet mesmerized at the sight of your hands gently cradling his. He's barely moving apart from his breathing. His muscles have relaxed, and he is very clearly lost in the sensation.
A few seconds after you speak, you feel the sharp, hesitant curl of his fingers as they slowly tighten around your hand in return. His grip is light and cautious, like the touch of someone who's just woken up. You've been pressing your hands to his all this time, but it's not until now that he decides to return the affection.
It's simple, to hold his hand in yours, his palm pressed to your own while your other hand is overtop his knuckles.
It's nothing... but it's also everything.
It occurs to you that this is another moment where you have to remind yourself he's an alien. You have to manually remember that even after everything the two of you have been through together, even after all his time on Earth, this is something that's different to him than it is to other humans.
This is special to him. And of course, it's special to you too. Just not in the same way.
He's from a world that doesn't touch like this.
And for you, well...
It's not often that you two get the chance to be like this. To just be in this world together. To just sit there, together and yet separate from it all. No running, no life or death situation, just being in the moment.
You keep his palm to yours as you allow your other hand to pull the cloth entirely away from his injury. You keep one hand to his at all times as you turn to grab the bandages off the counter.
You can still feel him watching. His eyes are transfixed on the way your hand fits perfectly into his, however his eyes are even more distant now. They're the only part of him that move as you tend to his injuries.
As you attempt to catch his eye, his expression shifts into something all too dangerously honest.
He looks... curious? No... he looks amazed. He looks like all of this is too good to be true.
"Are you alright?" you ask gently.
For just a second, his soft brown eyes look up to meet yours. They're so terribly wide in surprise, so innocent and almost scared.
He immediately gives his head a sharp shake, and then a firm nod directed to you.
"I'm fine. Just thinking," he says, his mouth a bit dry. He might be speaking, but he doesn't sound entirely anchored in reality anymore, no matter how much he pretends to be.
"Go ahead," he confirms.
You reach up a hand to run the tops of your fingers just beneath the curve of his chin, and then brush your open hand around to the back of his neck. Your fingers follow along the edge of his hairline.
He looks up sharply and his eyes lock onto you. He's immediately refocused and patiently listening for what you have to say next. All of a sudden, you have his undivided attention.
You simply smile.
"If you're sure," you ask cautiously.
He gives another nod. It's weaker this time, but he’s affirmed in his decision.
You remove both your hands for only as long as it takes to open the bandaging. His hands fall limply onto his lap as he waits. A bit of medicine, slightly dampened gauze so it doesn't stick to the site of the injury, and then a simple elastic wrap later; and his left hand is all cleaned up.
You then shift your focus to his right hand.
This one is cut across the palm and scratched at his wrist where it looked like he tried to grab something but caught a jagged piece of metal instead. You do your best to wipe off any remaining drops of blood and apply the same level of pressure until the bleeding stops.
You then apply medicine, dress the site of the injury, and wrap his hand up with the same material to keep the wounds clean.
It doesn't take long until you're finished, but you don't bring it to his attention right away. You'd much rather entwine your fingers with his and feel the way his hands eagerly accept your offer. His grip is just tight enough to notice, but loose enough to easily break away from. You give him a moment once you're finished so you can both continue to just be for a little longer and he can excuse the fact that his hands are still in yours.
This has to be the calmest you've ever seen him and you can't bear to break the air of tranquility that's washed over him. He looks peaceful, as if your touch as lulled him to the brink of sleep. His head is hung down slightly, his hair partially covers his eyes. He doesn't look at you but you can see something thankful through the silence.
"What are you thinking about?" you ask him gently. You're curious, but you make it clear that he doesn't have to answer.
After a minute, he replies.
"I'm telepathic," he begins quietly. "I can feel your emotions. They radiate out like..."
He shakes his head slowly as he searches for the word, "Heat from a fire. Like sunshine from the sky."
"So you've mentioned," you joke softly.
He breathes a small laugh and his lips pull into a small smile.
"Touch makes those feelings much stronger and... these ones feel... particularly pleasant," he confesses carefully.
You grin and shift a little closer, still holding his hands gently. Your legs brush against his.
"What about them is pleasant?" you ask.
He takes a second to think it over.
"Your... feelings towards me," he says slowly and carefully. You both already know exactly what feelings those are, but you still try not to show your embarrassment as he brings them to light.
He continues, "-they're so... genuine. So... selfless and patient. You... want nice things for me," he says as if this is some big realization.
"Of course I do," you simply chuckle.
He looks away in slight embarrassment.
"It's just... so rare. Something so... beautiful. And directed at me no less.
...But it feels very, very nice," he decides.
You can't help but grin a wide, loving smile.
You laugh warmly. He mirrors your grin.
"Thank you," he says.
You press your forehead to his, his hands still tight in yours, a promise not to let go. You hope you're not overstepping, but you know that this action is important to him. Something about 'minds in close proximity' is a special kind of affection where he's from- or so he's mentioned before- and you'll readily step up to the plate if he's willing to let you. He... doesn't really have anyone else to do this with anyway. He might be a bit strange at times, and unconventional, but he's yours. You wouldn't have it any other way.
"Of course. Think nothing of it," you promise.
He lets out a shaky breath. The heat of it ghosts across your lips as you maintain the pressure of your hands and forehead to his own respectively.
"My apologies. I... I don't mean to be distant," he attempts to explain. "It's just... this feeling....
It's soothing."
You give a pleased hum of agreement.
"You know you're always welcome here," you find yourself saying. "I know you don't like my flat as much as your Tardis but-"
"Who says I don't like it?" he asks firmly, almost sounding insulted on your behalf.
"No one," you quickly assure him. "It's just... you never come inside further than the foyer," you explain with a small chuckle that doesn't do as much to lighten the mood as you'd hoped. "I just assumed…."
He lets out a small breath that sounds... almost a little sad. But then his hands tighten around yours and he looks directly into your eyes with newfound determination.
"I don't like to intrude where I'm not wanted. This is your space, I have my own," he replies.
"And that's the only reason?" you ask.
His eyes dart away.
"No... No."
He pauses.
"I don't like to linger here because... it's difficult to explain, but everything here feels like you...."
His words linger in the air for a long moment. That's not at all what you were expecting. He shifts slightly and his energy renews as he speaks.
"It looks like you, everything from the color choices to the mugs you leave about the place. It smells like you, like your soaps and the cleaning supplies you use. But mostly it feels like you. The way you feel so comfortable and safe here, the way certain things are moved about, the traces you leave on things...
Whenever I walk in through the door it feels like... warm sunlight pouring down on me. Like a field of flowers safely tucked away from the rest of the world.
I don't like to stay for too long at a time because I think," his eyes flicker away, and then back again, "I think if I did, I would want to stay," he admits.
"I think it would turn me into a housecat happily napping in the sun," he confesses wholeheartedly.
You can hear how dry his mouth is and the way his lips shiver as he worries he's been far too honest.
"I think it already has," he finishes softly.
He looks away, as if failing to resist a pleasant feeling is somehow a bad thing.
You smile. He's completely still, not moving an inch, but you're quite certain you can hear his hearts pound against the inside of his ribcage.
You love him, of course you love him, but here you were thinking it wasn't possible to love him any more than you already do....
He always manages to surprise you in all the best ways.
"Then sunbathe," you joke warmly.
Your heart feels so full it might burst. He's just sitting there, trusting you so completely, soaking in the feeling of being loved itself, and it's somehow all because of you. You might not be able to feel what he feels, but it's undoubtedly a wonderful thing to experience.
"Stay. For the evening or just a few minutes. Stay as long as you'd like," you offer wholeheartedly.
He shakes his head, not willing to look you in the eye.
"I don't want to intrude. When it comes to you... I- I want to do the right thing.
And I'm notoriously bad at that," he scoffs in a disappointed and self-deprecating way.
You entwine your fingers with his so that he has reason to meet your gaze.
"You are doing the right thing," you promise lovingly. "You always have when it comes to me. And I'm telling you- honestly- that you can stay, if you would like," you promise. "I'll let you know if I ever need time to myself. You don't have to worry about overstepping."
You grin, and he smiles just a little in return.
"You're certain?" he asks, unsure.
"Of course!" you beam. "You can just stay for a little while, if you need time to get used to it first- but I highly doubt I'm ever going to get tired of you," you laugh warmly.
"Okay," he says far more softly than you're used to hearing.
You rub a thumb over his knuckles.
"We can just watch a movie tonight, if you'd like," you offer.
He smiles, wide eyed and grinning from ear to ear. He looks... lovestruck. And he's looking at you.
"I'd like that," he agrees.
He's quite sleepy throughout the movie and you get the impression that all these new feelings are a lot for him. Even still, he's clearly very happy as he drifts off next to you as the evening turns into night.
He falls asleep against your arm, with his hand still lovingly locked in yours.