The first foot he sets on Perpetuua, Rassilon suspects, will be a tentative one.
It’s been so long since he was there. The Doctor was there once, he remembers as he reaches for a control panel and pops it, his long hands fiddling idly with a silvery wire there, a red and blue one here.
Oh yes, Rassilon knows about that. The Doctor killed four living beings there, and saved a thousand more. How like his old friend. How like his new one.
Still, by the time of the War he is thinking of now, the joys of such simple pleasures as solitude had long escaped his mind.
And when his wife had… well, best not to dwell.
It is such a funny thing, really; to speak the words to oneself in grateful comfort that a former friend turned friend again had struggled with until a very short time ago.
The Doctor was a poster child for trouble of every sort, baked, deep-fried, fire-roasted, candied, broiled, boiled, chilled or grilled, yet he seemed to come through better, even if he also seemed, in general terms, to be the last to know.
And speaking of through-way traffic…