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The Doctor holds the Master's hand like a father clutching a disobedient child's, stern and firm and teetering on the edge of painful. From an outsider's perspective, the Master supposes it must all look very domestic: two grown men engaging in the province of darling girl-children or adoring lovers. But the truth is merely that the Doctor has grown tired of the Master pushing the limits of the restraint bracelets, always two steps short of electrocuting himself. So he grips the Master's hand with an annoyance reflected in the tight line of his mouth, in the coiled, angry energy of his stride.
But there are times when his palms grow sweaty and his grip loosens. And there are other times, when the hardness of his hold softens, when something distracts him and he looks at the Master with need, love, almost tenderness.
The Master is patient. He lets the Doctor crush his fingers together until his knuckles ache. Sometimes he even provokes: makes a snide comment to the Lpdorn ambassador or consistently resists the Doctor's direction or sometimes, just sometimes, holds the Doctor's hand in return, the aristocratic softness of this body's hands abraded by the callused, dirty roughness of the Doctor's own.
Sometimes he rubs his soft fingertips over the Doctor's prominent knuckles and listens for the Doctor's soft gasp. Waits for the slight relaxation of the Doctor's grip. Each time a little more, a little looser, a little more trusting.
The Master is patient, but perhaps, not patient enough. They stand on Ipzi with their fingers laced together like the bindings of a corset, like the ties on a straight jacket, waiting for some famous physician who has promised (like so many others) that he will be the one to deliver the cure, to strip the Master of his drums (and perhaps, his defiance?). The Master's hand is too warm and slightly damp and achy. He feels the Doctor's hand relax as the physician launches into some tedious explanation of how he will not suffer at all--and he can't help it, he jerks away, jerks his fingers almost free. Shouts:
"How many more worlds like this do you plan to take me to, Doctor? How much more of our time do you plan to waste? Can't you see I'm fine? Let me go!"
The light sheen of sweat almost gives him his freedom. For a moment their hands are apart; the Master begins to laugh in disbelief. For a moment the Master thinks the Doctor will let him go. And then the Doctor has him again, his grip stuttering but recovering, his hold so tight that the Master clenches his teeth against the pain, his Cheshire-cat grin covering it.
"No," the Doctor says, his words impressively even. "No, you're not fine. But don't worry." He has the audacity to smile. His fingers squeeze the Master's just a little more, just enough to make him breathless. "We'll get you all fixed up, you'll see."
The Master finds his fingers are curled against the Doctor's, but only in self-defense. That way, the pain is less. His grimace-turned-grin is much the same.
They walk into the Ipzi physician's office, hand in hand.