“They were bound to need me at some point, these little hypocrites of ours,” Rassilon quips to the guard, reaching down to pick up the empty jelly baby bag as the clink of keys resounds through his musty little space.
He hands the bag to the obscured face of the guard, whose long hands are on the door handle, and says, “Might I have a refill? It was a pleasure to find that someone had a stash of these… I must thank whosoever it was, when this latest crisis is over.”
A nod of yes from the wiry spindle of a guard, and then…
Jack Harkness laughs as Rassilon takes his arm and worms up the steps with him. For some reason, an image of the guard dancing about like a mad rabbit comes to mind.
The slim guard follows, a peek of light brown curls peering from under his helmet as he ascends behind them, his long, mad, heart-shaped lips pinned up by corners given only to the wall.