The other Time Lord blows out his cheeks, throwing off the napkin and grinning as he sticks a finger out from an advancing springy doll-fist and spears loopy fish in the Master’s direction. “Ha ha! I knew I could get you to smile eventually!” He frees the napkin from the end of his large nose and swipes it across his teeth, clearing his lips with Olympic abruptness. Then the hand goes back into a pocket, one supposes for another yummy.
But the Master cannot smile for long. There is Gallifrey to think of. He fidgets in his own small pockets, each found hem a subconscious wish for the omnipresent largess of his friend’s designs. He has them in all his jeans, save for one pair. “…mindful of the sugar rush, idiot.” He adds, swiping the fried treat away from the proffering hand with a sweeping flick of wrist and elbow.
“Yes, well…” the Doctor says, smirking and turning on his brightest smile, “I have an idea, being as that I’m the one who cared for that particular section of the Archive. Why don’t you try the…”
Rassilon comes as near to crashing into any room as he ever will into the room, finishing the sentence in a swirl of brown fabric and command.