So you’re River Song. Good gods there’s two of you.” says the Master as he sticks his fingers under the Doctor’s shirt to lift it, looks, pats the slightly pointed bit of belly-bump, then turns back to the woman in black. “Did he make like a yeast and divide? Again?”
River Song smiles as a hand snakes over her hip and grips her bottom. “Mmm. Hello Sweetie. Are we back where we belong?”
The Doctor, laid out on the bed under a sheet, is not asleep. He opens his green eyes like stealthy windows on the day, and his lips quirk by themselves into a right-sided line. “Oh I don’t know, Missus Robinson… it’s rather like choosing a good orange. They’ve got to have good color, and firmness. And plumpness!” He swallows, looking wistful. His eyebrows raise in appreciation. “And all the right curves, too. I’m a lucky boy, to be such a good judge of erm… exotic fruits.”
The Master snorts, through his hand, because it’s covering his face now. “You are an exotic fruit, dipthong-for-brains.”
River Song smiles and slides one finger along the hem of the black silk cloak, swishing the material about. “Oh! You think I’m exotic. The Master’s exactly right. You, my love, are a thing to be praised. What exactly did we just do to that poor man, to make him freeze like that?” Her eyes flutter over Rassilon’s still form.