“Rassilon, long time no sea salt!” cries the Doctor as he clutches the side of the bed and throws back the covers, slipping out of the bright white soft sheet and blanket in only a dressing gown and pyjama bottoms, which are also white.
Rassilon, First Lord President of Gallifrey, runs a hand through his obsidian hair and manages, somehow, not to goggle his eyes at the idiot descendant who is indeed a trifle too happily engaged in the business of making a fool of him. Him! No one made a fool of Rassilon. Not Her, and certainly not his two brothers in arms on that fateful day he’d done for both of them and grabbed the prize of Power for himself.
“I’ll do for you, Doctor,” the ancient Gallifreyan spits under his breath, absently rubbing his hand up and down across the Great Key he’s hung around his neck, like a mindless trinket. A dangled finding.
Of course they both know what the Key really is. And they both know they know it.
Then, the Doctor smiles. His green eyes ice over, the gaze they hold becoming suddenly the very picture of a frosty morning on Ansypporus 6, a planet of granite trees and jewel-stone oceans whose waters were not water at all, but wave after wave of moving, writhing piles of polished chalcedonies of just that shade and hue, brought to life by the sudden winds that oftentimes caressed the planet’s surface.
How appropriate, thinks Rassilon, that the eyes of the descendant should contain the same worlds as the Other himself.