“I suspect they’ll find the real Pasmo unconscious in the Tomb of Rassilon,” the Doctor says evenly, his pregnant body precariously horizontal across the arms of his favorite chair, a genuine crimson-backed Meeks Stanton Hall, his square face pale with subsumed rage. His angry jaw, however, rocks back and forth infrequently, grinding like the steel in a bear trap as he recounts just exactly what he has been doing since the Master’s injury one month before. “The guards were flabbergasted when I explained how the Terrorist had managed the switch.” He holds up his own golden ring, and the Master’s.
The Master, shirtless and propped in a chair with some elegant yellow silk pillows behind him, is anything but impressed. “Those damn rings again. My brain feels like Swiss cheese. And, switch? Really? You mean, all those bad jokes the old geezer told us… that was… And what did you explain to them, exactly, Theta? Your arse doesn’t look half bad in those skinny black jeans, by the way. Even if it did, you’d be sexy in a plastic bag.”
The Doctor smirks, gets up, rubs his bum, spanks one buttock, then dusts off and drapes himself gingerly back over the chair again. His fingers drift over the buttons near the bottom hem of his long shirt, the fabric straining just enough over his stomach to accentuate rather than detract.