except for some stubborn leaves (or, Domesticity for Dummies)
The Doctor is sprawled out on the grass, chin propped up in her hands as she listens to the soft tinkling of wind chimes in the distance, birds singing in counterpoint. Leaves born by gentle breezes paint swirls of colour on the wind; the overall effect is quite lovely.
“You realise, of course,” she says, “that this makes it a full month since you last tried to kill me.”
Her companion, clad all in black despite the hot suns in the sky, is seated stiffly with a tree trunk at his back. “Is that why you called for this ridiculous picnic?”
“It’s not ridiculous,” she answers, just a little bit hurt. “It’s quite nice, and I made sandwiches.”
As one, they turn their heads to examine the contents of the picnic basket. Several of the sandwiches appear to have grown legs, and are attempting to crawl away.
“Well,” the Doctor says, “I made them at some
The two fall into silence as the Master uses his laser screwdriver to reduce the sandwiches to something resembling fried jelly.
“Well.” the Doctor says again, filling in the conversation lull, “I brought cheese, too, and apples.”
The Master fixes her with this look
, this look that’s somewhere between frustration and horror and exasperation and just a touch
of fondness (or so she likes to think). “Doctor,” he says, “if you attempt to feed me any more of your picnic lunch, I will slip aspirin into it.”
She rolls over onto her side and fixes him with the saddest face she can muster. “You don’t mean that.”
“Oh, but I do,” he says, and stands, wiping miniscule amounts of dirt from his clothing with gloved hands. “And I think I’ll be taking my leave from this ridiculous affair. Good day, Doctor.”
She means to object, she really does, but at that very moment, the tree the Master had been sitting against falls towards her. Only her fast reflexes prevent her from becoming a Doctor pancake.
“And I believe you’ll find it’s been five seconds, not a month, my dear Doctor,” the Master calls, without bothering to turn back.
She pushes a hefty tree branch off her stomach and huffs. “Git.” Community: theatrical_muse
Prompt: 288 - Is redemption truly possible?
Word count: 367