Once Rassilon has, typically, stormed off, the Doctor huffs, letting out a long-held breath, then lifts his dressing gown to check the bloody slash. His fingers probe near the cotton-like fabric, left hand holding back a hem which would still hang to his knees even if he wasn’t pregnant, right hand smoothly palpating the line of orange-ish blood the razor pages of the book thrown at him have cut into his stomach.
Quick as the wink on a fly, the screech of a stool’s metal feet near his dressing table made itself obvious, and, suddenly enough, he could smell the crispy, porky smell of bacon.
“… I Brought you a Buttered Bacon Sarnie. In person. ‘assilon doesn’t get any Because he’s a smarmy elitist Bastard,” growls the crumpled figure on the stool, taking special, gritted care to enunciate the B’s.
Well, it’s rather more a pile -namely a pile of grey hoodie over dark jeans and naked ankles stuffed in red Converse- than a person at that point, but it was holding out a nice plateful of yummy big sandwich…
Mmm… smoky red bacon… juicy green tomato and crisp butter lettuce… thick sliced sharp yellow cheddar... Red, green, and yellow. Ah, it reminds of his first regeneration’s time amongst the Maya… or had it been the Inca? The Aztec? Olmec? Toltec? Mixtec? KitchenAid? In any case, the Doctor feels genuinely touched. As for which numbered definition applied in the official galactic dictionary, he’ll leave that up to the Master.