Koschei tsks softly at the obvious disgruntlement inside the
head of his beloved. He chuckles, and continues to massage
the Doctor’s scalp, while humming Oh Darling by the Beatles.
“O-ho darlinnn, please be-lieeeeeve meeeee, IIIII neverrr
dooo you no harrrm,”
he breaks both soothingly and cheekily into song, thrusting his
head to and fro, rocking enthusiastically to the music, and well
aware of the Doctor’s penchant for electric guitar.
He pauses to smugly smirk around that mass of suds, and loudly
obnoxiously smooch his charge’s forehead.
“Properly annoyed yet?”
He cackles.
“We’re not cheating with regeneration energy, it’ll shorten our lifespans,
so my dear, give it a month or so. You are exactly seven hundred
seconds in.”
The Doctor, despite his usual dislike for karaoke and all things close to it, finds the singing endearing and amusing. He watches as much as he can without moving his head, wishing he had a camera to record such a moment for later use as blackmail.
“Annoyed? No, not when you’re doing such a good job of washing my hair. If you’re trying to annoy me, I’m afraid you’re failing miserably.” He stops when he learns he must keep the cast on for ‘a month or so’. “A month? No, that can’t be right, surely there must be some other option...”
His surface level frustration is about keeping the cast on and this does hold truth; the cast is heavy and he has no doubt it’ll start to itch at some point. He’ll have to find some pointy object to push down the side of it. But his eyes hold a deeper fear of prolonged helplessness and vulnerability. One of his hands is essentially useless for the forseeable future. For someone who relies so much on being able to do things for himself, that is terrifying.
Still, nothing like burying his fear and pretending it doesn’t exist. The Doctor glances up at the Master. “You’ll have to sign it. Nicely, though. Maybe I’ll even let you draw something on it.”
