“Oh I don’t know… I think I particularly enjoyed this latest tantrum of his,” the Doctor says, tilting his rabbit hair back as he pulls his dressing gown over his head and points to the dresser. Then he says, “Say, Kos’, do you mind finding me something to wear? I’m a growing boy, and too big for bending over at the moment.”
With a forced scowl the Master bends over the Bombay behind him with the plate still in one hand, then begins yanking out drawers as though expertly gutting a fish. His long hands, like a pianist’s, trawl through bits of lace and frilly shirts. He stops, drags a plain one out and holds it up, examining the billowy, surprisingly subtle poet-shirt sleeves in the double sunlight.
“This ought to afford you some movement, should things get messy…” he muses through the childish, permanent frown Lucy had always called charming, licking his lips in the nervous frustration to be somewhere else, anywhere, hitting something. Preferably Rassilon. “…it’s light enough. And you’re only as big as a human five-months gone, so why don’t you wear it, over the pyjama bottoms? You’re going to be riding or hunting something, anyway.” He indicates the stripes on the Doctor’s sleep trousers, which vaguely resembled riding jodhpurs, as they had a slight, elegant rounding out near the middle of the thigh.
The Doctor holds out his hand, his green peridot eyes quirking in quiet pride at the Master’s display of affection. He rubs his neck, pinches his nose, rolls his shoulders a few times before getting completely out of bed.