Don't fret, precious

Continued from here.

Back at the Hub, the Master keeps his expression still and his thoughts carefully in check as he unbuttons the first button of the Doctor's shirt. It's late, so late it's becoming early, and even Ianto has gone home for the night. The place is just theirs, and that, he thinks (or doesn't, because he's taking care not to think) is good. If the others were here, he'd have to answer, or ignore, questions—and no matter how he answered, they would think he had done this. They know his history, and they've learned to know their superior officers' relationship.

This would be his fault.

It is His fault.

He hooks into the thump-thump-thump-thump of the drums and lets that, and his concentration on unbuttoning the Doctor's shirt, as the other man sits on the examination table, legs over the edge, be the only thing on his mind.

Each button reveals more of the angry bruise blotted thick across the Doctor's chest.