“… so let me get this… straight, Pasmodius,” the Master says, swishing the end of the Sash of Rassilon in his cocoa mug with a pointed look at the old man’s mostly toothless maw, “… -the Doctor- was the head archivist for Gallifreyan Central Intelligence? What the hell did they have you people do, spy on Borusa blowing bubbles in his bathtub?”
A tiny female snort from behind- probably Borusa, hopefully, “… watch yourself, boy. You may wear the mantel of Lord President, but I still have my Giant Ruler of Rassilon.”
The Master turns, blinking, and a smile grows on his stubbly face.” You know, little girl, I think you need an all-day sucker, and I don’t mean an ice lolly.”
“Don’t be vulgar, young man, or I’ll…” Borusa stops, her young ears tweaking to some sound in the hall.
“I wasn’t, Bimbo Smurf. But I didn’t hear you anyway. My Imprimatur doesn’t translate Raptor Jesus.”
“What is this ice lolly, Lord President?” queries Pasmodius, ignoring the rising voices in favour of rubbing his wrinkled chin as though trying to discern the fairer fruit at a market stall.
“Well, it’s what I call Raptor Jesus, I mean the Doctor, when he’s not here, you know!” the Master covers his face with an aside palm, looks around, then whispers, “…when he’s out being… fat and stuff!”
“I’m not fat, Koschei. Who has been spreading these malicious rumours? You know I’ve never ah, stolen anything except the TARDIS, and she stole me! Now what’s all this about me taking things from the old Museum?” comes the softly Northern, rather threatening voice of the man in question from nowhere in particular, his dangerous hyper-enunciations sliding like bits of shattering iceberg into the sudden sea of silence the mood in the room has become.