(Untitled)

[victormakesart]

Victor has no idea what to expect when she's teleported to the Master's TARDIS, but she came prepared. Her backpack, stuffed with painkillers (alien and earth, prescription and over the counter) and bandages, and hairbrush, and gauze, and a miniature oxygen tank, and splints, and, yes, she is wearing pants. Plaid pajama pants, and a shirt that

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[bestinblack]

The Master is not at his finest. There's a large gash across his cheek, his clothes are lightly charred, a few rips here and there, some areas just tatters, fresh blood mixed with old. And then there's the drums. Using the drums as a means to follow Rassilon back into the war and back out - the drums had, in a way, fulfilled their purpose, and now they were acting strange. He is terrified that they might go away.

He doesn't act as if anything is out of the ordinary, however. He folds his arms and leans back against the console, surveying her, looking decidedly grumpy.

"You brought a brush. Why, may I ask? Are you here to remind me of my receding hairline? That is thoughtful of you, Victor."

[victormakesart]

She mumbles something that's terrifyingly similar to: 'Your hairline is gorgeous, sweetheart' and then she starts looking through the bag. As always with her first-aid kits, there's antiseptic something-or-other (it stings) and tape for attaching gauze where it needs to go. "Because I was in the shower when you called, and I have to brush my hair later." Then stepping toward him, glancing over him again and again, checking for what she can see, wetting a cotton ball with that stingy antiseptic. Giving him a look like am-I-allowed?

[bestinblack]

"Your hair is fine," he mutters, before taking a cautious step back, eying the cotton ball as if it's a nuclear weapon in disguise. After a few seconds his body relaxes, the tension leaving his shoulders, and he turns to sit himself down on his leather chair, masking a wince.

"Go on, then. No worse can be done to me."

[victormakesart]

She leans over him, rests her hand over his noncut cheek, applying a gentle pressure there. "Tilt your head back a little." This is the voice of someone who's been treating her own wounds for years, self-assured in a way she usually isn't, and would you believe that the girl used to be phobic of blood?