A/N: So fanfiction is stubborn and screwed up the formatting. Sorry about that.
"So you're just going to... keep me?"
"If I have to."
It's moments like this where he really wants to hate his overdeveloped sense of pride—or, at least, he would want to hate it, were he not so deeply engulfed by it.
It's moments like this, dying in the Doctor's arms, where he really has to step aside and take another look at himself. Where he has to justify his own thoughts to the inside of his head.
And he knows, traveling with Doctor would be a very bad thing—he would be prisoner, a pet. The Doctor would be fixated on "helping" him. He might someday realize that it's an impossible task, in which case, he would do—what? Throw the Master out? Give up on him? Accept him?
The thought comes with a rush of contempt.
His arms are warm—the Doctor's. He's caught and cadled by those arms, cushioned against a warm chest and beating hearts. His are slowing down, he realizes—ticking to a hault.
"Regenerate. REGENERATE."
"No."
Damn that pride. And damn himself for caring. Damn the face looking down at him as if he matters so much. I liked you better angry, Doctor. I liked you better scared.
This—this, pity, this hideous affection suddenly sent his way—it's unnerving.
Because he almost hates himself for making the Doctor feel that way.
His hearts are pittering to a stop, one of them crippled by the bullet buried in its flesh. He can feel the Doctor's hearts pounding against his cheek and shoulder—beating fast enough for the both of them.
He'd almost feel guilty—if it weren't for the pride. He smiles and he mocks; it's all he knows how to do, really.
The Doctor just holds on tighter—and damn the bastard—he starts to cry. Why the hell would he—why should he—why does he mean so much? Why should he be so important?
The Doctor is warm.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I win.