The Doctor reaches down to squish the lovely fluffy rise of seat in back, then cracks his neck as he turns to sit.
His body bends over itself, preparing to clutch the chair arms and ease into position, when a rush of air blows against his legs. But then an arm clutches the back, pushing the chair away.
“Goodness,” says Borusa, covering her bright eyes as the Doctor stumbles backward, his parental death glare -of death- glinting tiger yellow even as the same arm that took back the chair wraps around his shoulder and strains, easing him to the floor.
“-My- chair.” says the Master, dropping the heavy gold rectangle links of the Sash of Rassilon directly down onto the Doctor’s rabbit brown head with the hand he didn’t use. “Sit boy.”
Two golden, murderous cat’s eyes glow out from beneath the shadowing thick bars of the Sash. But then the crunch of cellophane follows, and the slightly sweet, dried and salted eau of seaweed, purple carrot and sunny red tomato crisps ascends the room’s various nostrils.
A squarish hand snakes out from the safety of the Sash, too. Its owner the Doctor looks up from between the dangling strips of golden bars comprising his shiny, not-so-bouncy headgear at the Master with a plaintive, pouty lower lip and asks, “… is that a Baby Jane chocolate bar I smell in your back pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”