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The Master’s first impressions of Clara’s bedroom are organized clutter, and then warmth.
Months of traveling and only now does she allow him a proper look at where she spends her evenings. Not necessarily out of rejection, but he never asked. One boundary he didn’t push, though of course he was curious about her long hours alone, reclusive after exhausting adventures but always ready to bounce back with renewed interest in the morning. A term he refers to lightly because there’s no such thing in the time vortex. Only a kindness from her ship, a cycle rigidly maintained for lifeforms dependent on it for sanity.
And for an immortal, it’s the only tangible way of keeping track of an undefined, perpetual existence.
Dim lighting illuminates the space, decently sized to contain her variety of interests and collections. Shelves of worn books, trinkets, and memorabilia throughout the room. Lounge chairs for reading, a well-kept desk, an easel, a dresser, a few other provisions for crafting, and two doors for what he assumes lead to a bathroom and a closet brimming with clothes for any possible occasion. And of course a bed, perfectly made and thick with a soft comforter.
Photographs line the walls, portraying unfamiliar faces with and without Clara. His gaze flits over the mass of them, and he wants a better look later but for now, he turns his attention to the woman herself, standing in front of him.
“Exactly as you expected?” she probes.
He meets her gaze, dark and curious. Upon entering she removed her jacket and kicked off her boots, left only in her blouse, trousers, and socks. Her hair, slightly out of order from the excitement of the night, covers most of the gauze on her neck. Carefully dressed only some moments ago, and he’s not sure exactly why she refused to use nanogenes but he presumes there’s a story behind it.
“Similarly sentimental,” he replies, “you enjoy daily reminders of people you’ve lost?”
Clara’s gaze flickers to the wall, then back to him. “It’s better than forgetting them.”
“Your friend,” he recalls, “she didn’t have quite the same fortune as you… no superior technology to sustain her mind. I imagine that must have been frustrating.”
“It was,” Clara replies quietly. “Lifetimes of memories kept only in her journals. And with me.”
The implication lingers, slight sorrow shadowing her face. He remembers all too well in his previous body how her eyes would swell with emotion, all-consuming to anyone who happened to catch them. More than once he found himself compelled, and if anything he’s discovered in their time together is that he too is not immune to becoming absorbed.
She’s not quite at that point, and the familiar urge to twist the knife rises.
“I wonder if she’s forgotten you,” he muses, unable to resist.
Taken aback, she furrows her brow. Instead of deepening, the sadness dissipates. “That’s very cold,” she notes.
The temperature drops, just a couple degrees, and he pauses. Her ship meddling, ever so attentive to its captain. Typically it’s irritating, but it also warns him when he’s crossed a line. It takes a second to offer the words, but Clara’s going to hang onto it if he doesn’t. “Yes,” he finally agrees, “sorry.”
Her eyes light with surprise. Drawing an apology from him is rare—especially for something so small. The first time took place after a heated confrontation, where he bared his teeth and lashed out with enough vitriol to leave her stunned. They occasionally clash, but sparsely fight. Tears welled and he was certain she was going to curse him, drop him off back at the cliff they met on because it’s what he would have done, if not worse.
Instead, she whirled around, leaving him in the console room to seethe. He spent the night burning, wandering the halls unable to find his door and unwilling to enter even if he could. By the time he found her in the little yellow kitchen, soufflé half-baked in the oven and leaning tiredly against the counter, the fire had dwindled and for the first time in this body, he initiated the mending.
Clara observes the Master for a moment, then sighs. “Take your coat off,” she says.
The request leaves him suddenly hesitant. Though he accepted whatever she was offering in the sickbay, he didn’t stop to ask exactly what she wanted. He felt it, through her hands, the skin-to-skin contact giving him a glimpse into the waters of her mind. So inclined to touch, to connection, she gives it so freely and he’s ceded most of the guilt and reservation of allowing it. Still, he can’t tell whether she doesn’t remember the telepathic abilities of his kind or if she just doesn’t care.
What does he want? In the question, channels of thought jumble. Impulse implores him to take whatever it is, give in to the same urge that compelled him to swipe the blood from her neck and suck it off his finger. Hunger, tempered and tamed into something curled and untouched. Lit like a raging sun at the thought of her—the one person he’s desperately trying to push away right now, that he resolutely does not want to think of even though he catches glimpses of her all the time in Clara. And Clara—she’s the only one who’s come close to considering the compulsion acceptable, desirable even. She’s the only one who might look at him, witness the intensity of it all, and not cringe away.
In the two seconds it takes to react, awareness presses in. There’s the soft ticking of a clock on the other end of the room, beyond that the low, incessant humming of her ship. Carpet beneath his feet, the sharp scent of antiseptic mingling with lingering blood and Clara’s perfume. Lavender incense stale from the night before, a cup of coffee on the desk only infinitesimally bitter on his tongue.
The Master pulls off his coat and hangs it on the hook behind him.
His shoes slip off next, leaving him in his socks and he faces her again.
“Okay,” she says, “on the bed.”
Somehow, he doesn’t fully mind direction when it comes from her. She found him so ragged and unguided that letting her take lead doesn’t grate as it might have in past eras.
So he steps past her, mostly curious as to where she wants to go with this when he falls onto the covers, leaning on his elbows and giving her space to lay next to him.
Clara sits on top of the blanket, legs to the side and he rises to be at an even level.
She reaches out to hold his waist, and her lips curve into a smile. “Was that your first kiss in this body?"
He offers her a look. “No,” he says, and then reluctantly gives the explanation. “It was… your Doctor. The first one, with the floppy hair. Terrible sense of fashion and boundaries.”
“Really?” Her eyebrows raise. “He didn’t ask, did he.”
The Master scoffs lightly. “Did he ever?”
She grimaces. “He was… excitable. That’s not an excuse, of course.”
Then she sobers. “Let’s not talk about them,” she murmurs.
“Agreed,” he replies softly, and then closes the distance.
The kiss is softer, her lips warm and gentle. He didn’t anticipate enjoying the heat so much—her body radiates with it, far more than his own kind. It’s part of why he doesn’t mind so much when she drags him along, pulls him close and doesn’t shy away when contact lingers a little longer than it might between friends. There’s approximately a ten-degree celsius difference between his internal temperature and hers, but she must find some appeal in it else she wouldn’t wrap her arms around him like this, press them together as much as the position allows.
The embrace evokes something in him, pained and longing and her touch draws it out, the strangled awareness that nobody has held him like this in a long, long time. It’s why he deepens the kiss, struck by a hunger he didn’t even allow himself to acknowledge, indulging in a want he twisted and threw to the side—it didn’t serve him, he didn’t need it.
But she’s offering, and he can’t help wanting to take. He presses in with sudden urgency, and she gets the message, pulling back slightly if only to rearrange herself and swing a leg over, settling onto his lap. Her hands find his vest, and she unfastens the top button. Fingers linger over the second, and when he doesn’t protest she continues, unbuttoning the rest of them.
She pauses if only to urge it off his shoulders, leaving him in a collared shirt. Then she unbuttons and pulls that off too. Clara leans back a little, dark eyes flitting down to observe him.
“So pretty,” she sighs, trailing her fingers over his chest.
He’s not necessarily self-conscious, and she’s far from the first to admit an aesthetic attraction, but the admission surprises him regardless.
“Really?” he says lowly. Not because he doesn’t believe her, it isn’t insecurity, it’s just that something bloomed at the compliment and he wonders if she’ll elaborate.
“Oh, yes,” she murmurs, quick to pick up the interest. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
It sparks a buzz of pleasure, furthered when she presses a kiss along his jaw. Her lips trail down his neck and he hisses as she offers a bit of teeth into the sensitive skin. Each kiss gives the sensation of the tearing and rethreading of a stitch—cutting and mending at once. A needle, the same needle that drew him to her in the beginning, now pricking holes into his hearts and sewing her into the pattern. It’s been a slow, gradual tightening but now that she presses close, the strings already connecting them—tied in a complex weave with the other unmentioned party—tug him nearer than he anticipated.
He can’t say he minds the precipice they teeter over when she reaches his collarbone, despite the awareness that the web binding them together won’t catch him if he falls. Her hands skate over his sides and he recalls the point of this whole initiation.
“Clara,” he murmurs, “you promised me a show.”
She pauses her ministrations. “We’re getting there,” she replies.
The Master glances over her. “And yet you remain entirely clothed.”
Clara’s eyebrows raise. “That’s part of the act.”
Nevertheless, she pulls her shirt over her head. He thought he’d felt it, when he skimmed his hand over her torso in the hall earlier—raised tissue, mottled in the shape of a bursting star just above the line of her trousers.
“Oh,” he gasps lightly. “Dear Clara, that’s a mark. Energy blast… rather unrefined. Direct hit or caught in the crossfire?”
She sighs. “Ran into a patch of trouble, skirmish between two rivaling factions on some moon—don’t remember the name, or which side shot me. First time I’ve been hit and it didn’t instantly smooth over.”
“Hmm,” he hums, “little memento for the newly vincible, no?”
He swipes his thumb over the spot, satisfied when she quivers in response. His fingers trace across her belly, reaching two small white blemishes below her left rib, separated by a couple inches.
“Incisions,” he notes.
“Ooh, that’s an old one,” Clara says, “1998, few days after my twelfth birthday. My appendix decided to die and try to take me with it.”
“Unfortunate,” he remarks softly, “I’m forever amazed that any of you manage a decent lifespan given how dedicated your bodies are to failing.”
“Right—can’t forget that the Time Lords are perfectly evolved,” she jokes.
He tenses, and she realizes her mistake immediately.
“Sorry,” she says lowly, “didn’t help them anyways.”
“No,” he concedes. “It didn’t.”
Decidedly dropping it, he breaks her gaze to look back at where his hand holds over the scars, fingers triangulating because he’s found another small slit on the rim of her navel. Certainly a cleaner surgery than others he’s seen for the same complication. Flattening his palm, he slides up to grace over the edge of a line, barely visible under the lacing of Clara’s bra.
“Do you want to see?” she asks quietly.
“Yes,”
He expects her to take off the article, but she just lifts it up, too slight to reveal anything beyond the long, horizontal cut across the skin. Smoothly healed over, no jagged tears.
“A very lucky swipe,” she explains, “in a sword fight with a gaggle of space pirates.”
The Master laughs. “Space pirates?”
“It’s a technical term,” she defends.
“Sure,” he snarks, “now, tell me you didn’t let them sail off after such an offense.”
“I’m sure you’d delight in a bloodbath,” she says, “but no, didn’t have a choice but to retreat.”
He hums in disapproval. “Shame. We ought to hunt them down and eviscerate the lot.”
“It’s a date,” she says, eyes gleaming with amusement.
Could he get her to do it? Her admission earlier in the hall sparked the realization that his gradual testing of the boundary she set six months ago may be taking some effect. Of course if she catches the attempt he cedes, but an entire party dead by his hands barely fazes her. Either she superimposed the line to keep him primarily in check and has been masking her indifference, or she truly is relaxing with each kill he manages to persuade into necessity.
Regardless, it opens a new host of points to probe. He glances over her, curious as to any other apparent history on her skin, but pauses when he notes something on her upper arm.
A darkening bruise, blotching in the shape of a taloned hand. Nothing broken on the surface, but he looks at her other arm to find a match. It’s where the Triloskinian must have dug into, clenching her tight to throttle her against the wall.
He looks at her sharply. “You didn’t mention these.”
“My coat protected me,” she explains, “nothing pierced.”
“Yes, but you’re still hurt.”
“It’ll heal on its own.”
The Master presses a finger to the mark. Clara tenses at the pressure, the subtle reaction indicating actual pain. Some sort of emotion stirs—simmering anger, perhaps, with a coloring of possessiveness that he doesn’t really want to acknowledge. Anger at the officer? Or for her obscuring it from him? He can’t quite pin it, but she senses the rising angst and brings her hands to his face.
“I’m fine,” she insists. “Honest.”
He supposes he’s seen her recover from worse. Earlier into this, yes, when he didn’t feel so compelled to take an interest in her health. But also long before, when he pushed her down a twenty-foot hole into the dark, slimy tunnels of a Dalek sewer. Hilarious at the time, and she doesn’t seem to resent him for it, but still. He doesn’t doubt that these days, if he were anybody else, she’d lunge for his neck the moment he turned his back. And… he has less confidence that she wouldn’t do it if it were him.
“Okay,” he allows, “but don’t hide from me next time.”
Caution swells in her mind at the words, and he narrows his eyes. She feels it too, then. The draw, the fall. The sewing of a critical stitch as she releases the hesitation and kisses him again.
Finally, he touches her, truly, smoothing his hands over her skin and finding the ridges of old wounds across it. There’s more, as she promised, and he is curious—but the compulsion to feel, bring her close against him takes precedence over it. A couple minutes pass before she breathlessly pulls back to ask the question they’ve been dancing around.
“How far do you want to go?”
He decided when he saw the bruises. “Just this,” he murmurs. “I want you healed, first.”
“…Fair,” she agrees.
He brushes his fingers over the bandaging on her neck. Kisses the edge of her jaw, and thinks he can still taste her blood on his tongue. She’s warm, and soft, and he’s reluctant to let her go.
“I’m not kicking you out,” she says, eyes widening.
It suddenly occurs to him that maybe she can skim the surface of his thoughts in turn, as the connection might allow.
“You’re staying the night,” she continues. Then adds as an afterthought: “If you want.”
“I’ll stay,” he replies softly.
Her lips curve into a smile. Sliding off his lap, she steps onto the floor. He watches her for a moment before realizing she intends to change into nightwear, pulling a set out of her dresser. For the shred of decorum left in him he averts his gaze, though he doubts she would mind.
“You’re not sleeping in those trousers,” Clara announces.
Part of him doesn’t believe he’ll sleep at all, but he really doesn’t want to leave. So he obliges, feeling a slight irony that she’s the first that’s managed to get him undressed in decades and they’re not even going to do anything.
She urges him under the covers, shifting until she can crawl in next to him. He half-expected an inner alarm at the prospect of such vulnerability—he hasn’t trusted anybody to witness him intentionally unconscious since… the Doctor. And even then that was lifetimes ago, and the times since the initial whole-hearted faith in each other twisted into a reasonable caution of betrayal.
He can’t think about them right now, not if he doesn’t want to spiral or inflame. Not when Clara faces him, and the lights dim into the barest glimmer, glowing slightly if only to see her outline. A soft hand graces his arm and he forces the thoughts to submerge, all the while wondering how exactly she manages to do the same.
Maybe she doesn’t. How could she, when she presses close enough to hear his double hearts beating? Wraps an arm around his waist and offers a kiss to his shoulder like they’ve been lovers for centuries and this connection isn’t their last, desperate resort at distracting themselves from the loneliness and ignoring the long-suffering ache that comes with the thread stitching them together. There’s always been a third presence between them, no matter how much effort he puts into crushing the awareness that she doesn’t really want him and he doesn’t really want her.
But he wants her touch, and acceptance, and he likes her enough to pull the seam tight and embrace her, knowing that this is the best he’s going to get, and he might as well indulge. He remembers what she said on the cliff. Neither of them is the Doctor.
Clara whispers a soft good night and her hands soothe instead of burn, and he doesn’t look at her and feel torn between enclosing his fingers around her throat or kissing her till their teeth are stained with each other’s blood; she doesn’t leave him wondering about whether she’ll pull him close one moment and abandon him to a fleet of Cybermen the next. And she definitely doesn’t drag him along, dangling empty promises and dropping him when she decides she no longer wants him.
So, she’s not the Doctor, and neither is he.
As he finds himself somehow drifting into sleep, unconcerned that he’ll be shoved out of her ship in the morning and that the next time they meet he’ll effort another time to kill her, he finally agrees that perhaps, that is a good thing.