He is all ready to hear another tantrum from the boy when that presence that he always feels at the edge of his consciousness in recent days –from where it's kept in that little doghouse by the stairs, all broken and lost– throws itself into sharp relief, refocuses and sings too brightly, not the feel of a man defeated the way it should be -
–oncoming storm, listen to the flowers whisper it, here it comes–
The Master feels those eyes on him, knows they're shining and can't understand why, wants to ask but can't because that's admitting defeat right there, is about to bark an order or make a mockery of him, regain some balance, until suddenly he's having trouble breathing and he's forced to ask the question:
-why would he have a dream where the Doctor was hugging him?
There is no sense in this at all, not even a pathetic one, but his spine is cracking and realigning under the pressure and there's nothing for it. He brings up his hands, shoving at the Doctor's ribcage as he manages to choke out, "Blue... is not your colour."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-09-30 10:54 pm (UTC)–oncoming storm, listen to the flowers whisper it, here it comes–
The Master feels those eyes on him, knows they're shining and can't understand why, wants to ask but can't because that's admitting defeat right there, is about to bark an order or make a mockery of him, regain some balance, until suddenly he's having trouble breathing and he's forced to ask the question:
-why would he have a dream where the Doctor was hugging him?
There is no sense in this at all, not even a pathetic one, but his spine is cracking and realigning under the pressure and there's nothing for it. He brings up his hands, shoving at the Doctor's ribcage as he manages to choke out, "Blue... is not your colour."