“FINE! You’re better than I am at being a manipulative, Othering twat! NOW STOP SMIRKING AND EAT THE BLOODY SARNIE!”
The Doctor grins, and his soft call-out of, “If you really can’t stand the sight of me, next time bring an apple with a face on! .. and maybe some ngona oil to shoehorn yourself out of the oven!” follows the Master out of the room like a cloak of bad luck, courtesy of the empty hall corridor’s acoustic arches and sidewalls. When he can no longer hear the sound of the Master’s relieved bickering, he wraps his fingers around the nice heavy sandwich and takes his first big scandalous bite. Then, with the delicious tall sarnie in his mouth, he balances the plate on one arm, picks up his coat in the other, and strides off out of his own door in bare feet.