The Doctor grins with half a mouth, whispering for his friend to lean closer. The other half of his face is fast becoming marble-ine dust. As the Master holds him, his jawline develops a crack, and starts to crumble…
“Koschei,” he murmurs, exhaling particles of himself against the older Time Lord’s cheek as he raises up, plastering himself against the man as he struggles to speak, “… three things, to start with:”
“What?” the Master croaks, amazed that his old friend has the strength to lift himself on only one arm, one arm that was turning to clay even now, in the mess of leftover blood and reddened dirt.
“One-she’s still a child inside, Kosch… she can still be saved.”
“Two- Trust me.”
The Lord President-who-is-the-Master feels his lips trembling. He scrubs a hand through his dirty blonde hair, realizing only after he does it that his hand was full of dust, the still-breathing remains of a man who so often before had slipped through his fingers in a different way.
But this time is more vexing, somehow.
“And door number three, Mister Warhol?”
The laugh in his old friend’s one good eye stretches to eternity, in that moment.
He laughs, too.