The Doctor smiles, then slides down the center column like a thrown piece of meat. “The temporary stay against the chaos infection I gained by trapping myself between two bodies is gone, because Nurse Ratchett here pulled me out of limbo. The TARDIS can’t help me, because entropy and time are like apples and oranges; they don’t interact or compare in a way we can resonate with coherently. So… oh dear. Here I go again. Déjà vu.”
He slides down further, and the Master moves to settle him on the floor, gentling him like a sick child.
Dust is flowing from the Doctor’s left tear duct and trickling off into the console room’s self-contained atmosphere.
“I think you... ought to show her…” he murmurs softly, closing his eyes and sinking onto his front. His lips smush against the grates, just up to the point where they meet the thick glass bottom.
“Fine, fine! Just don’t stay like that! You’ll get waffles!”
The Master sounds frightened, and the Doctor wants to smile for him, but all he can manage is to blow the air from his lungs.
“Oh that’s brilliant. We’re fucked and you make farting noises.”