“You didn’t kill him, Zagreus...” the Doctor murmurs, clenching his teeth as he straightens and rolls his shoulders, stretching.
The Valeshard raises his eyebrows a notch as the Doctor talks further.
“... I did” the Doctor says, circling around the Valeshard like a shark, “I killed Rassilon. A long time ago. I helped his wife deceive him. That was the little death, for him.”
“We know all this...” the Valeshard mutters, waving a hand dismissively, “...it’s a bit like old hat.” Turning round, he applies his tongue to the statue of Rose’s bosom and licks.
The Doctor smiles, crossing to the little boy again and placing a hand on the child’s frozen head. Petting him. Engraving the tight ice that used to be feathery soft hair on every nerve.
“Yes,” he says, smiling a small smile, “’we’ do.”
The Valeshard stops licking and looks up over the ice Rose’s shoulder at the Doctor with new and interested eyes.
“Stop that! I’m not like you! There’s nothing left of you in here!” he croaks, putting a hand to his mouth in alarm, “You could join me, you know! We could do things!”
“Oh I don’t think so, Valeshard,” the Doctor breathes, walking toward him with slow, tidy, careful steps, “In fact I rather think this is curtains for you ‘and’ your snake oil... plus I got hungry and ate your pet carrier pigeon.”
Covering his mouth, he coughs, flapping his tongue to rid it of the offending feather. Looking up again, he holds out a beckoning hand, palm to the side, thumb to first, readying for the snap.