The hat he tosses from his hand as he takes a further step into Rassilon’s line of sight, then adjusts the grey bowtie at his neck.
“Screw the derby,” he mutters, clicking a heel down into the icy ground like a giddy tapper, “... he’s the one with the hat fetish. I just like to watch her shoot at him- why she keeps missing I can never understand.”
Tapping a finger astride of his nose like a gangly, indifferent emo Santa, he adjusts the red boutonniere kerchief at his right breast pocket then follows Rassilon back the way the other Time Lord had come from his landing position.
So there it is. He’s finally on his way to see that annoying junk heap again.
Perhaps if he’s very very good and not remotely horrid, perhaps the Old Girl might grant him a hit of Temporal Grace, a temporary stay of fate before he is transformed into the Nightmare Child’s microwave dinner. How grotesquely boring. And how necessary.
What he wouldn’t have given, had he still cared, for a chance to feel what it was like not to give a damn for or even know what was necessary.
Sometimes a man lives too long.