“… is that her, then?” says the Doctor softly, smoothing his long cerulean silk coat –the one with the peacock buttons- over a cream and sherry vest as he points a long digitis secundus at a girl with white hair who is standing by the window. He elbows the Master with a chaste half-nudge, driving his arm into the man’s side.
The Master smacks the Doctor on the back of the head, grabbing brown hair and tugging, just so.
“You know, if I didn’t know any better I’d think you were jealous, Doctor,” the Master-who-is-currently-Lord-President says flatly, uttering a low, entirely lewd growl in the woman’s general direction for the Doctor’s benefit.
“Jealous of you, Koschei? I’d sooner be jealous of a Drumaani Fishpig,” comes the Doctor’s reply, fast and easy and completely without a care. But his eyes rest on the girl, and do not look away. “Shall I go to her? Tell her what an egomaniacal rapscallion you are?” He raises a glass, and does not lower it.
The Master smirks and semi-consciously adjusts the Sash where it is slipping from his shoulder, yet again.
“It’s always been a bit fickle, the old thing. Although I have to say, it liked me more than him,” says the Doctor, patting the bawdy string of gold bars-of-station that form its length. “I rather think it looked better on me, too.”
He misses the Master’s sidelong glance, though, for his sunken green eyes are fastened on something across the room, a shimmering necklace around the albino woman’s neck that seems to flirt with the complicated dimensional physics of the grand hall, softly tugging at them from somewhere out of sight and skewing the walls, ever so slightly.
“Your girlfriend has an interesting toy in that torque, Kosch…” he murmurs, staring at the jewelry through his wine glass.