“You failed before. By the way, have you read the Unabridged History of Gallifrey?” asks the Doctor as he too, rubs something large and important, albeit tangible and through his dressing gown, his stomach perhaps, the slight, slight grimace building on his face calculated to bear a curious lack of nonchalance as his thoughts turn to the bookcase across the room. “I’d rather like to point out a passage to you, but see, well…” the Doctor pats his midsection a little too lightly, rather like a child who’d eaten too many sweets, letting the inevitable scene play out just so far in the impossibly old Gallifreyan’s vulturistic, circling, steel-trap mind.
“I take it you’re not feeling well? A pity…” says Rassilon, and he sweeps over to the bookcase in question, his quick blue eyes scanning the shelves for the required volume. Gods but everything is white in this place. It is becoming quite an irritant to the vision.