My excuse is as follows: I watched "Black Orchid," went a bit fan-girl-giggly over Five in a dressing gown, and then felt cheated when he began to remove it and the camera cut. This is my revenge.
Obviously, Doctor Who does not belong to me, and I make no profit from this.
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"A red silk dressing gown?" the Master asked, incredulous. "A red silk dressing gown?"
"And?" The Doctor looked defensive. "It looked quite nice on me, if I do say so myself."
"I can imagine." He gave the Doctor a blatant once-over, and leered.
"Oh, stop."
"Mm," the Master murmured, appreciatively. His eyes travelled over the Doctor's body again, this time more slowly. "Red...silk..."
"Now, stop that!" The Doctor's cheeks had gone quite pink.
"Do you know what I think, Doctor?"
"Well—no. Do I want to, particularly?"
"I think you wear far too many clothes."
"Oh, really—"
"No, look at you." The Master waved an expressive hand in the Doctor's direction. "Tall and fair, supposedly slim and athletic, but one would never know it to look at you. You're just a long streak of beige."
"I beg your pardon."
"In fact, you're just as bad as Four was, completely swathed in burgundy wool."
"I beg your pardon? 'Four?' I have a name, don't you know; I'm not something to be classified!"
"Of course not." The Master stepped forward and patted the Doctor's shoulder soothingly. The Doctor's face went part mollified, part wary, leaning more toward the latter as the Master stepped closer still. He reached out to push away the Doctor's coat, and the Doctor leapt back, right into the edge of the TARDIS consol. He let out a less-than-dignified yelp, and the Master made a shushing noise as he stepped closer, pulling the coat down the Doctor's arms.
"There. Look at you; already an improvement."
"You haven't a leg to stand on, you know," the Doctor said sternly, but the effect was ruined as his voice jumped half an octave. "You've completely encased yourself in black velvet."
"Would you rather I removed it, then?"
The Doctor's voice jumped the second half of the octave. "No!—no, that's—that's not what I'm saying."
The Master smirked. "Black is slimming," he said, dismissively. "But this particular shade of beige is decidedly not."
"I like that coat," the Doctor protested as the Master tossed it onto the consol behind him.
"Mm hmm." The Master stepped back to admire the ensemble, sans camel coat, and ran his hands down the Doctor's sides to his hips, approving. The Doctor jumped again under the touch and clutched at the consol, now looking entirely flustered. A rather smug smile tugged at the Master's lips. "Already an improvement," he repeated. "You know, stripy as the slacks are, at least they're flattering. But like the coat, I think this latest body of yours would benefit from losing the sweater."
He ran his hands up to the edge of the sweater in question, and the Doctor crossed his arms hastily over his chest, looking quite determined, if a little childish.
"Well, I'm not taking it off."
"You do realize just how ridiculous you sound? Come, Doctor, what are you afraid of?" The Doctor remained stubbornly silent, and the Master chuckled. "Me?"
"Certainly not!"
"Then indulge me."
"No, thank you." His voice was even, but when the Master rubbed a hand in a gentle circle on the Doctor's hip, he jumped again. The Master stepped a bit nearer, and the Doctor uncrossed his arms quickly to clutch at the Master's shoulders, trying—unsuccessfully—to keep him at bay.
"Please, Doctor. Just for me."
"No, no, I—rather think not."
The Master stepped close enough for their hips to brush. The Doctor swallowed.
"No? Are you sure?" He slid both hands under the sweater and round to the Doctor's back.
The Doctor's breath hitched in his throat. "Yes—quite sure, thank you..."
The Master wrapped his arms around the Doctor and pressed against him. The Doctor made a sound which fell somewhere between a moan and a squeak and ended up close to a whimper.
"You don't sound sure," the Master breathed back, and kissed him.
In the end, the sweater came off, along with everything else.