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The Master.
21 August 2009 @ 07:17 am
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It's exciting, this rush of euphoria and the anxiety of patience. His veins are already pumping with adrenaline and when the Doctor steps out, wearing that poor, pathetic frown (oh, what wonderful things must have happened to make him look like that), the Master feels it in his bones, in his drums, in every fiber of his Timelord being. He wonders of the Doctor can sense him there, but he doesn't give him the chance.

His loud-mouthed companion envelops him into a hug (how touching, he thinks in disgust) and he steps out, lifting his screwdriver with a self-assured flick of the wrist and Donna Noble goes limp in the Doctor's arms.
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The Master.
21 August 2009 @ 07:08 am
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He excelled at everything else he attempted to do. Still, it wasn't a problem of not knowing - for instance, he knew when something was *bothering* Theta, sometimes he even knew what it was depending on just how sullen, silent or pissy he was acting. This bout of withdrawing in on himself, the type where he found him in a small room that was almost as small as the closet back at their old place, before he wanted to explore less domesticated avenues, usually signaled that Theta was upset about something not easily talked about. This list of things had become even more narrow now that he'd become even more like the Doctor, sealed and delivered with an ability to talk about things that Gareth had never been able to bring up.
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The Master.
21 August 2009 @ 07:04 am
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His eyes flickered over to 'John' - just a clone unworthy of his attention - and he fixed his eyes on Lucy. She didn't look so different. Not physically, anyway, but she seemed almost... "How are you?"
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The Master.
21 August 2009 @ 06:59 am
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He swallows thickly, shaking his head, aching to deny it – because this is coming from the Doctor with all of his memories back, every memory of everything they’ve ever done to each other, and it has the weight of 900+ years’ worth of denial pushing it.
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The Master.
21 August 2009 @ 06:58 am
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The question was asked in a low, almost threatening tone - he didn't need weapons to hurt her. Oh, he could hurt her with only his words and that, that was what having power over another meant. He touched sure fingertips to her waist, barely moving past the hem of her top to graze bare skin underneath it, and just as quickly he pulled his hand away.
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