Rassilon feels content enough to let this all take place, like a catshark who’s been tossed a freshly bleeding corpse- of course, River Song’s husband won’t be pleased; an outcome twice unlaughable, at best. So he scales his voice just so, rising his words through a precise ascension of teeth and muscle and moisture.
“Now that you two have become reacquainted…” he begins, his bright red robes advancing, the flick of fabric going before him like the paddle of low, tight surf across midnight beach, “I’m taking over this shuttle, as I have business elsewhere, tracking down an item of some importance to our doings of recent days. Have a care not to destroy the furniture. I’ve left the list with Pasmodius; do try not to excite him too much. And Jack,” he adds as he passes Jack’s face, “Why don’t you take your party to that pet informant of yours you were telling me about, the one you kept on Mnrva, in the old basement of the museum?”
River’s piqued golden head turns a fraction, but Jack Harkness never stops smiling. His blue eyes, though, glide like glaciers over the ancient Time Lord’s retreating form as the red-robed man disappears into the shuttle.