The guards blink in confusion as they look from the Doctor to the Master and back to the Doctor again. The Master is simply too angry to get words out, and the Doctor keeps trying to cover a laugh by snorting, which doesn’t work at all. Then he winces and rubs the small of his back. Moment lost.
“What the Master means to say is that he believes me to need the services of a gynecologist or midwife. Or a nurse. Or the requisite doctor. To check me over. I’m growing a time tot in here!” Slowly, for emphasis, he tugs the hem of his trim white clubber shirt up to show them, then pats his exposed bump. “You know, fetus, baby, offspring, infant, spawn? Little thing that crawls, looks cute,” The Doctor pauses, gesticulating in a precisely the size of a four-month-old human toddler with his fingers, “… eats and wails, then grows up to be maximally annoying but inherently useful and sadly, not necessarily endearing but always worthy of second chances out of pity or compassion? Sort of like you lot- only adorable.” He mentions it casually, as if chipping the golf ball into the sand trap on purpose, then looks over to throw a quick wink at the Master before the guards remember themselves enough to pick him off the floor and help him outside into the hallway.