christmas cheer [ scene, for taptaptaptap ]
With a week of advent deeds beneath his belt, the Doctor has retreated back to the TARDIS for a bit of a breather. Instead of taking up residence in the shiny, tinsel-bedecked control room, he meanders off into one of the ship's many inexplicable side rooms. This one looks rather like a Victorian parlor, something Dickens might have held an ( Read more... )
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The Master, feeling well out of control of his own normal telepathic function, has begun to mark the ebb and flow of the resounding pain in his head, using it almost like a sixth (or, as it technically is, a ninth or tenth) sense to track the movements of his unlikely captor. The Doctor, he feels, has retreated from the headache-worthy spectacular show of Christmas cheer that is the console room of his TARDIS and settled, rather unexpectedly, in one of the few rooms the Master has actually taken to peacefully populating during his something-like-imprisonment with his old enemy - friend? - rival.
In a fantastic show of good will - though it is not, he's decided, anything like a Christmas miracle - the Master abandons his own holiday alter-ego at the door, calls something like a truce by default of not attempting some ridiculous caper, and replaces the Doctor's precariously set cup of forgotten eggnog with a mug of spiced cider. Casually, he settles into the armchair across from where the Doctor might as well be dozing, fingers curled ( ... )
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Not quite as psychically impaired at the moment as his rival, the Doctor senses the Master's presence almost immediately, but he doesn't stir until the other Time Lord has taken up residence a companionable distance away. He sets his feet down on the floor and sits up, reaching forward to get the mug of cider. The Doctor hums an appreciative noise as he inhales the spicy aroma of the cider, and lifts the mug to his lips for a sip.
"Thank you," he says quietly, offering a smile. He's pleased to see the Master isn't out trying to steal - or otherwise ruin - Christmas just now, and truth be told, while the various people he's had a chat with in the Nexus are fine and nice enough ... well, he does prefer the company of his oldest friend.
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Not exactly dozing. He should have known that - felt it - but between the splitting headache and the constant drumming, he feels deaf inside his own head, down one of his senses, and completely unequipped to deal with his rival. (Helpless, is that the word? Something about having the tables turned on him, getting as good as he's given, inspires a sickeningly indignant reaction alongside something he hesitates to dub 'understanding.' The Doctor, damn him, is not in the process of teaching him a bloody morality lesson.)
"It's poisoned," he replies calmly, voice quiet and colored in the way only a pleasant smile can make it sound. Nevertheless, he sips from his own mug to mask the amusement tainting his attempt at ambiguous evil. Ahem.
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The Doctor shoots a skeptical look at the Master over the top of his cup, reasonably certain that the other Time Lord is only kidding. Besides, he's confident enough to think that the Master wouldn't poison or otherwise kill him - he'd miss him too much. "Nothing like a little arsenic," he replies, all in good fun, taking another sip of the cider. It really is good cider, supposed poisoning or no.
"Decided to take a break from stealing Christmas, then, have we?"
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