The Doctor shrugs his bony body back against the white wall, trying to find just the right spot for his spine, like a squirmy little boy. He says, “You know, Rassilon, how is it that whenever you and I meet, you always feel the need to be a prude? And here I am, still a slim whistler at five months pregnant, and at your mercy. Oh for shame!” He scratches his floppy rabbit hair, grins with a mouth full of teeth reminiscent of his fourth body, then adds, with a twitchy little tic to his lips that makes him almost seem to snarl, “Have you found it yet? I really feel the need to show you that passage. It might prove useful.” He wiggles his fingers once for effect as he watches the Lord President search the bottom shelves. “Did I ever say? You have a rather large bum. …don’t think I ever did, actually.” A pause. That singular curl of lip. A sniff. Then, “Well there it is.”
Rassilon could feel the heat rising on his face, a haze of crimson burn on cheeks and chin and everywhere. He’d always been one to blush red when he was in a rage, and this body was no exception. Was the Doctor looking? Let the bastard look. Let him taunt while he could. He is annoying. A mere insect. Yes. Let the little worm crawl with anticipation as he… just then his fingers, tracing the edge of the tall bookstand’s bottom ledge, find the thick requested volume. He pulls it out, feeling a tinge of wet surprise after centuries of dry, parched knowing. What was the Lord Doctor, the insect, planning? Or more importantly, why did he feel the need to gloat? And is he truly gloating, or is it another act? Infuriating gnat. Well, no matter. They both know one of them has to die. It was the way of things.