“He would... what? Regale you with war stories? Bore you to tears? Perhaps... cook you breakfast and then forget and burn it?” Rassilon offered with an odd, stiff little bounce of his shoulders, not wanting her to notice the seething anger he felt at the man’s sheer neglect of his feelings with regards to his wife.
“Oh papa, are you trying to be cheerful? It doesn’t suit you very well at all!” Flamina laughs and pats his cheek again. She rises from her chair, and goes to the window of her Citadel apartment once more, releasing a deep breath as she leans and presses her thin nose against the cold glass.
“Winter on Gallifrey... I’ve never seen it. I imagine you have. What is it like? Is it like this? The Doctor always showed me fantastic things, and he was always cooking me something or babbling on about a book he wanted me to read. He got them mixed up, sometimes. There was this one about a unicorn... but he got it confused with the one about the two bears and the ladder made of stars... but you, papa...” she murmurs, heaving another great breath, so heavily that her small bosom rises two hands off the windowsill. “You would never tell me the truth, like he did. He is a kind man. I... oh!”
Rassilon’s hands slip around her neck, dangling a cold metal object down her white lace bodice. His fingers fasten a clasp, rest on her back for a moment, and then remove themselves, almost like letting go.