The Flesh Valeyard raises his hand farther up in front of his face.
His fingers flutter in tandem, flapping like butterfly beats against the abrupt weight of the air evacuating his lungs.
So heavy... that air.
It’s getting hard to...
“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! This has to STOP NOW!” the Flesh Valeyard screams in a throat-scraping blood-hoarse tenor; his fist smacks into the frame of the door, bending the wood until little cracks and splinters shoot out across it, from it, cornering the side of his palm with sharply peppered bites of once-pithy shard.
He blinks and takes his hand away, lowering his fingers until Rassilon is at the soup again, and the odd buzzing in his ears has ceased to an ignorable whisper.
“Did you... did you say something just now, Dallyrasse?” he murmurs to the man, who is humming to himself and swinging strong hips slightly to the musical scent of his handiwork.
“Hrm?” Rassilon asks, holding up a ladle dripping hot stock the color of pale heaven precariously back into the pot. “... the TARDIS might have mentioned something about you owing some lascivious lothario a chicken... shall we invite him too? I daresay this is an improvement on my previous recipe.”
“Huh? Oh, oh yes, of course, Dallyrasse; do what you like.” The Flesh Valeyard waves the offending hand at the cook, then ambles into the sudden and inviting breakfast nook magickally inherent in a previously unoccupied corner, complete with an old diner-style pop-out table and a champagne flute chair, his widening eyes watering for the soup as he adds, “... but we get Jack after breakfast.”
Rassilon nods, then sets a bowl of the soup down in front of him. The word is unnecessary, but the ancient Time Lord speaks it anyway.