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Back in the TARDIS.
When Clara hurried through the doors, the Master trailing close behind, she set the coordinates for the vortex and whirled them away from their botched attempt at crashing a dinner party. Nobody confronted them on their way through the halls, the ship entirely silent save for their quick footsteps. She didn’t want to linger, and the awareness that everybody died pressed upon her not exactly with guilt—but still, it felt a little discourteous to be having such a good time while her hosts now lay tiny and scattered around the scene.
The Master did pocket the one they’d been standing over, but didn’t seem inclined to go around on a scavenger hunt for the others. The image is morbid, but sort of funny, so she stifles a laugh.
Sitting on the edge of an examination table, Clara can’t help finding the situation somewhat comical. What she didn’t expect once they’d settled slightly in the console room was for the Master to drag her to the sickbay and insist on properly inspecting her injuries. It was so surprisingly kind that she followed without complaint, marveling at the concern.
He stands in front of her. Face guarded, cut off from the vulnerability shown earlier, but his eyes are softer than usual. Devoid of the polar intensity or weathered exhaustion.
“Let me see,” he says quietly. The closest to asking he’s offered all night. He would know immediately and with great clarity had she not wanted anything, though.
She tilts her head up, letting him examine the marks. Carefully, he wipes one side with a disinfecting cloth. It stings, fizzing on the wound.
“Ow,” she says for effect.
He laughs. “Really? This is what gets you?”
Clara grins. “Nah. It actually feels rather nice.”
The Master smirks. “Other side.”
She tilts her head again. Nothing seems… particularly different, since she kissed him. He doesn’t look inclined to bring it back up, and as much as she’d like to further press the subject, she’d rather keep his care than scare him off with any serious conversation about what it might mean.
If it has to mean anything. Still deciding on that one. Lots and lots of casual affairs for her timeline, but this feels different. Crossing some divide, slipping into a chasm still undefined… she’ll give her attention to it later.
The Master cleans the last of the marks. Then he lifts out the salve he found on one of the metal shelves along the walls. The sickbay is a large room with a plethora of scanning, mending, and other esoteric devices.
“Since you didn’t want to use nanogenes,” he says drily, with a little bit of condescending in his tone.
“They tingle,” she defends.
“Right,” he says disbelievingly.
With three fingers, he smooths the salve into her skin. It’s cool, soothing the wounds and she sighs softly at the feeling. When he finishes covering the affected areas, he pulls out a wrap of adhering gauze and begins to seal it over the marks.
Clara decidedly does not mention the comparison persisting in her mind. That his hands are gentler than they’ve ever been, healing instead of burning, smooth instead of trembling with frenetic rage and sudden despair. They’ve traveled long enough for her to witness the mercurial nature of his emotions. This regeneration, once shedding some of the raggedness, is less contained than his previous.
And he always shuts her out afterwards, which is why she stays silent instead of pulling to light that right now, he reminds her of the Doctor.
All of them bound together, and the long-dulled ache in her chest flares as the Master finishes his work. She wants to talk about it. And she absolutely does not want to talk about it. In place of bringing up the one topic that would unravel everything about this moment, she offers him a smile.
“Thanks,” she says softly.
He nods slightly and brushes her hair back into place with his fingers. “It’ll be better in about a day. No scarring, since you’re worried.”
“Not really,” she admits. “I find them distinguishing.”
“Easy to say with such pretty skin, Clara.”
“True,” she acquiesces. “It used to be that any injury would just… heal over. Not allowed to die then, still got a body back home to return to. These past ten years, though—I’ve got a few you haven’t seen.”
“You’ll have to show me,” he replies, not quite suggestive but not an innocuous appeal either.
“If you want, sure.”
An offering, less overt than the sudden rush of passion that captured her in the hall. Sobered, intentional—it hovers between them as he considers her implications. He hesitates, and she thinks she understands some of the internal calculus because she feels it too. Has always felt it, lingering nearby whenever they touch, and she has to hush it before she lets herself fully acknowledge it. That the person they really want—both want—isn’t necessarily each other. And they definitely wouldn’t approve.
They also aren’t here.
Something clicks into place and the Master’s eyes light with interest, clarity.
“Yes, Clara,” he murmurs. “I want to see.”
Damn the ghost that haunts her—for now. She slides off the table, into his space. Stepping around, she catches his hand in the process and pulls him towards her in a spin. He stops just short of being dragged along.
“Coming?” she asks.
Again, after all the times she’s led him in her footsteps, at first offering direction to the directionless, and then simply because she likes the cool assurance of his hand—he follows.