The Master stands his ground, crossing his legs and shoving his hand down on the Doctor’s skull. Finding a purchase in the rabbit fur flopsy mess, he grabs a sizeable chunk vaguely comparable to the dimensions of the candy bar in his back pocket, and holds the Doctor’s head up by his handful. He begins to mutter under his voice, “How many times have I told you, I don’t want you off-planet! You could lose the baby, be killed, or worse, start a dead-end Houdou cult around one of your old pairs of Chucks on bloody Easter Island! You’re too fucking important to the Restoration, much as I hate to admit it in company. So straighten up!”
But the Doctor just stares at him with that soft face, that unsmiling gaze. That Mask he used to wear, back when they were children. His fingers, however, are curving around the Master’s arse, diving for a pocket-kept yummy bar of chocolate wrapped in a fuschia and silver-streaked foil.
The Master decides to wrench the admission he’s looking for out of the man. “Give me that- it’s mine and you can’t have it!” his vicious elbow slams into the Doctor’s side, knocking him to the ground just as the Doctor sticks his own elbow out behind his body so he can lean.