“Kos…” the Doctor says finally as he holds up a tiny silver object between thumb and forefinger of his left hand, using his entire body to draw another long breath that shudders through even his –unused- limbs, despite obvious efforts to project stillness, “… someone’s been listening in. That was why I did what I did. There’s yet another spider in the web.”
The Master’s hand flicks forward; soon, the planted bug is crunching between his fingers.
“Thank you, Theta. You were with it that much, at least. But good god man, stop whining! It’s not like you’re in any real pain right now, is it? We can turn it off! We can. Be. Beautiful.” he chokes, saying it softly to himself like a litany under the breath. “I will be… and so will Gallifrey, if I have to kill you to do it. You’re a frivolous, dangerous, irresponsible child.” His dark eyes flare up, softening only when they cascade over the baby bump stretching his dear friend’s overlarge and slightly rumpled blue-pinstriped white shirt.
The Doctor just turns away, purses his lips tighter than the clasp on a certain golden clutch and covers his face again, lying back and flattening himself the rest of the way. Rassilon’s eyes are on him, as well, so he looks. To his infinite suspicion and surprise, there is a refreshing, barest edge of sympathy there, hanging like cold dew from the tired, painted sill of a rainy window.
“I beg to differ, Lord President.” Rassilon says, his sky blue orbs glistening gravely. “Haven’t you heard him groaning under his breath for the past quarter hour? I’ll take him to his rooms and settle him in. If it’s what I suspect, he’ll need bed rest for a few days. In fact,”