Heavy in your Arms
Once Rassilon has, typically, stormed off, the Doctor huffs, letting out a long-held breath, then lifts his dressing gown to check the bloody slash. His fingers probe near the cotton-like fabric, left hand holding back a hem which would still hang to his knees even if he wasn’t pregnant, right hand smoothly palpating the line of orange-ish blood the razor pages of the book thrown at him have cut into his stomach.
Quick as the wink on a fly, the screech of a stool’s metal feet near his dressing table made itself obvious, and, suddenly enough, he could smell the crispy, porky smell of bacon.
“… I Brought you a Buttered Bacon Sarnie. In person. ‘assilon doesn’t get any Because he’s a smarmy elitist Bastard,” growls the crumpled figure on the stool, taking special, gritted care to enunciate the B’s.
Well, it’s rather more a pile -namely a pile of grey hoodie over dark jeans and naked ankles stuffed in red Converse- than a person at that point, but it was holding out a nice plateful of yummy big sandwich…
Mmm… smoky red bacon… juicy green tomato and crisp butter lettuce… thick sliced sharp yellow cheddar... Red, green, and yellow. Ah, it reminds of his first regeneration’s time amongst the Maya… or had it been the Inca? The Aztec? Olmec? Toltec? Mixtec? KitchenAid? In any case, the Doctor feels genuinely touched. As for which numbered definition applied in the official galactic dictionary, he’ll leave that up to the Master.
“Oh I don’t know… I think I particularly enjoyed this latest tantrum of his,” the Doctor says, tilting his rabbit hair back as he pulls his dressing gown over his head and points to the dresser. Then he says, “Say, Kos’, do you mind finding me something to wear? I’m a growing boy, and too big for bending over at the moment.”
With a forced scowl the Master bends over the Bombay behind him with the plate still in one hand, then begins yanking out drawers as though expertly gutting a fish. His long hands, like a pianist’s, trawl through bits of lace and frilly shirts. He stops, drags a plain one out and holds it up, examining the billowy, surprisingly subtle poet-shirt sleeves in the double sunlight.
“This ought to afford you some movement, should things get messy…” he muses through the childish, permanent frown Lucy had always called charming, licking his lips in the nervous frustration to be somewhere else, anywhere, hitting something. Preferably Rassilon. “…it’s light enough. And you’re only as big as a human five-months gone, so why don’t you wear it, over the pyjama bottoms? You’re going to be riding or hunting something, anyway.” He indicates the stripes on the Doctor’s sleep trousers, which vaguely resembled riding jodhpurs, as they had a slight, elegant rounding out near the middle of the thigh.
The Doctor holds out his hand, his green peridot eyes quirking in quiet pride at the Master’s display of affection. He rubs his neck, pinches his nose, rolls his shoulders a few times before getting completely out of bed.
“Well, looks like another nightie without the cut, but it’ll have to do I s’pose. Good choice. It’s more modern than the 1800’s ver…” he stops on purpose, studying the Master’s face for a spell before continuing. “Oh go on, then,” he adds, sticking a hand in the air and waggling his fingers and twisting his wrist. “I’ll be along for the conference in a few tics. I can see it’s murdering you to be in the same room with me for more than a fiver; Go and stalk Pasmo or something. Just don’t put too many tacks in his chair. I still enjoy his company.”
Koschei of Oakdown, the Master, the present Lord President of Gallifrey peers at the Doctor from his perch on the stool, glaring out from his sad little cave of greyish fabric, and shakes. His body is indeed coiled- but not like a snake, oh no, more like a spring than any sort of Ophidian serpent. Reaching round and blowing his nose on a random shirt from the drawer, he then spins and offers a quick retort to the silence before vacating the room through the leftmost exit, still carrying the plate with the sarnie. Then he stops, looks at the drippy bacon sandwich on the plate, and rages back into the Doctor’s room. Faced by the Doctor’s suspiciously starry smile, he blows past the gingerly dressing Time Lord with turn on a penny care and slams the dish down on the bed.
“FINE! You’re better than I am at being a manipulative, Othering twat! NOW STOP SMIRKING AND EAT THE BLOODY SARNIE!”
The Doctor grins, and his soft call-out of, “If you really can’t stand the sight of me, next time bring an apple with a face on… and maybe some ngona oil to shoehorn yourself out of the oven!” follows the Master out of the room like a cloak of bad luck, courtesy of the empty hall corridor’s acoustic arches and sidewalls. When he can no longer hear the sound of the Master’s relieved bickering, he wraps his fingers around the nice heavy sandwich and takes his first big scandalous bite. Then, with the delicious tall sarnie in his mouth, he balances the plate on one arm, picks up his coat in the other, and strides off out of his own door in bare feet.