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“It’s going to be perfect,” he muttered to himself. Of course, perfect was subjective. The Master would hate it, like he hated any sentiment. But at least he had tried. Besides, he would enjoy it. And so would the Master, although he would deny that vehemently. He was just like that, hating all tender emotions. He fiddled with the TARDIS lights, changing them until they fit the romantic vibe he was going for.
He clicked his fingers and dragged a table out from a nearby room. It was nice to know that the TARDIS was supportive. He haphazardly threw a tablecloth over it before staring at it and deciding to make it nearer. He thrived in chaos but sometimes he just wasn’t a big fan of it. In certain things anyway. There was a time and place for chaos. Anyway, he was getting distracted. They set the table with plates and various cutlery—more than half of which they weren’t even sure when or where they got it. Ah well.
Now it was time for food. He just had to figure out how to cook it.
He wasn’t quite sure what kind of garbage the Doctor was making him do now. It was always one thing or another. It felt like he never got a damned break to himself. Always something like, “you’re my husband, let’s do something nice together!” He wondered, not for the first time, how to get a divorce when you’re the last two members of your species.
He, unfortunately, didn’t think there was an easy way. Also unfortunately, he had several moments of weakness where he still loved the Doctor. Of which he hated himself for. He had no idea what the Doctor was up to this time. Obviously it would be some sentimental rubbish that he would have to pretend to like—and might genuinely enjoy, but he couldn’t let the Doctor know that—while the Doctor stared at him with those giant, pathetic eyes. He always fell for those eyes. Should be considered blackmail.
He trudged into the room that housed the TARDIS console, scanning the room until his eyes landed on a table. Great. It was dinner. The Doctor was going to say something about how it was an opportunity for them to bond, yada yada yada.
The Doctor opened his mouth. “It’s—”
“Shut up.” The Doctor closed his mouth. The Master scowled and sat down. He picked up his fork and picked at his food. “What.” The word dripped with as much disdain as he could muster.
“It’s nice,” he said, frowning, big brown eyes boring into his soul. He scowled further. Trying to be mean to the Doctor was hard. He usually did not find cruelty difficult. But he was always so sweet and caring and—he internally slapped himself. He scowled at the candles. Of course it was supposed to be romantic. Because the Doctor loved him, and he loved the Doctor and—no. He hated the Doctor. He hated his husband.
He hated being married to the Doctor and how incredibly sweet and cute he was, how much he cherished everything around him, the wonder he found in every moment—the Master growled.
The Doctor tilted his head. “Are you okay?” No. Because your stupid face is one table length away from mine and it’s looking stupid and kissable. Also I think I’m remembering why I married you in the first place. He kind of wanted to bite him. To remind him who he belonged to at the end of the day. The Doctor shoveled another bite of food into his mouth, innocently looking up at him as he did so. He had no idea how he remained wafer-thin when he ate like a damned horse.
He stood up, slamming his fist on the table, not so hard as to knock over the candles—he didn’t want to start a fire—but hard enough that the Doctor jumped. “I hate you,” he said. The Doctor opened his mouth to protest, but the Master strode over, grabbed him by his lapels, and kissed him. The Doctor gave a muffled noise of surprise, but quickly gave into the kiss. After a while, they both pulled away, gasping for air. “You taste like pasta,” the Master spat. The Doctor opened his mouth again. “Shut up,” he snarled, going in for another kiss as the Doctor sighed contentedly into his mouth.