“…oh that hurt. But on the upside, I got a kink out!” says the Doctor, happy to roll his shoulders as something in his spine cracks disturbingly. Then he blinks and cranes his neck to gaze at the Master, who, obviously, is fretting his dark eyes out. “You know, Kos’…” he says, the words jovial and gentle and profound, the voice so soft, so precisely adequate it could have spent a lifetime under his breath, “…you look like Rassilon when you do that. The middle year students will be calling you the Spit Lord, next.”
“So I’m one-upping Rassilon already? Good to know. Hrm… should I be bothered enough to afford our usual fans a field trip to the cells?” the Master queries, letting his breathing ease up at the sound of so much of the Doctor’s voice.
“Meh. I don’t know… have they really been so terrible, Koschei? Most of them are just brilliant kids, being stupid. There are a few kinks in the linen that have nothing to with my fall, though…” The Doctor pats the broken bits of chair, then rolls himself over onto his side, propped up by a scuffed elbow. “One of them being that if a guard doesn’t come soon, I’ll have to take my tea on the floor.” He inclines his head toward the robin’s egg blue teacup and saucer sitting on the small table just out of his free arm’s reach.
“And the other point?” asks the Master, as the sound of heavy boots come close. Finally, some help for the accident-prone prawn.