Your name: Well, the Master is a title, not a name, but is suits me either way. It's not as if you'll ever have access to my Gallifreyan name.
Romantic or platonic?: I don't mingle with the lower forms, but why make waste of a good partnership? I can entertain a little play-pretend to service such an occasion, a romance themed Earth holiday.
A night in or dinner out or an activity?: Ostentatious though my TARDIS' interior dimensions are, they are a transitory place, not meant to savor for longer than it takes us to reach our destination. No, I rather have something appropriate in mind for today.
Ice cream or chocolate covered strawberries?: Although I've sampled many a sweet treats from my time on Earth, I've never really developed a taste.
What's your perfect date?: I am the Master, it applies to any and all trades.
Would you cook for me?: Would you trust whatever I concoct?
Would you let me cook for you?: I'd like to see you try and poison me.
Can we make-out?: Don't be disgusting.
Make out in private or in public?: Eugh, does your species really make a show of these affections in the town square? You're all too driven by attention.
Do you like to cuddle?: I'm told I'm made of pins and needles.
Blankets or no blankets for cuddling?: Just what does cuddling really imply?
Couch or bed?: Ah, I see, another horrendous notion born of your tiresome breeding cycle.
What are at least 3 hobbies of yours?: Making the Universe bend to my order, subjugating the screaming masses, a spot of gardening.
Tell me something about you no one else knows: Well, not no one else, but relevant to you, I suppose- Up until the face I wear now, for several incarnations, I used to be a man.
Why do you want to be my Valentine?: As if said, holiday appropriate plans we could put in place, and since there's no competition, I could easily claim victory.
What makes you a good Valentine?: Once again, I am the Master.
What the hell— there's his immediate reaction when he reads through the form, surprised that of all people, it's the Master who has filled out an application to play pretend. It's a little impressive how long she manages to humor the notion until repulsion toward humanity’s desire for comfort drives away what Caleb can only guess was the last of her patience. “Uh huh… You know, the thing about being a good partner is that the other person is supposed to get something out of it too.”
He was almost afraid to ask what kind of ‘holiday appropriate’ plans she has in store, calling to mind what little he knows about Valentine's Day. Like most modern holidays from his time, it had been commercialized to death as a reason to spend a lot of money on shit no one really needed and to pressure people to conform to the new tradition, stripped of its original meaning almost entirely.
Caleb remembers paying just enough attention in life to know Valentine’s Day got its name from St. Valentine, who had his head chopped off for marrying couples in secret after Rome outlawed the practice, thinking men were refusing to join the military because they were too attached to their wives and families, and he was pretty sure he knew where she was going with that and didn't like the sound of it.
“…Gardening doesn’t seem too bad.” He singled out the one thing that sounded oddly benign with a half shrug of his shoulders. The context of neither party trusting one another to cook, however, sort of suggested that whatever garden the Master tends would likely be filled with a variety of toxic plants.
“Interspecies thing aside… You’re not really my type anyway. Just my luck, I like people who are nice. And who don't make everything we do sound like some weird...mating thing...”
