Then the grayish exit door slides open, revealing no reassuring bowtie below the Doctor’s strong chin. Above that, the ever calculating lips curving in just precisely the wrong way. Atop the downturn of those reddish lips, a scrunching, hawkish huge perfect nose more annoying than a check engine light, this set by two bleary, bloodshot peridot eyes a little too purpled and baggy underseat.
“Calm down. You missed some important diplomatic-type talkings yesterday, Moron,” the Master quips, glaring dark eyes at the comfy soft grey lounge chair he’s just vacated. As he looks, he realizes it’s closer to the Doctor than himself now, and the small, devious kernel of an adolescent prank forms in the hindmost thick of his massive brain. “Where were you?”
The Doctor sighs, puffing out his cheeks, then raises a hand to his forehead, holding his face down like a floppy dog as though out of sheer tiredness but really just his usual malaise. “Oooh goodie, comfy chair!” he cries, suddenly quite animate, squeaking and perking slightly as he curls a finger at the four-legged lump of grey softness and telekineses it in his direction.
The tapered dark chair legs begin to screech toward him-
Soon, so soon, the chair will be within his grasp.