Chapter Eighteen, Part Four: We Bake a Likely Lussebulle, For Saint Lucia’s DayMature

The Master groans, because flailing will do no good with an obviously affected person. “Oh no, you shit! You shit! Angels and Ministers of Grace preserve-” 

There is that signature <bamf!> sound; the Master disappears. 

“Have a good time wherever it takes you, Kos,” the Doctor breathes as he turns to straighten Rassilon’s purple robes on his shoulders. “Now you have been a very naughty boy haven’t you, Dallyrasse? I wish I could stay and help you, but I can’t. I have to protect her from him. Which means you’ll have to improvise. Just know this- that man, your former pet, is coming to give us our medication, so you’d better snap out of it or I will be very cross. Now wakey-wakey!” He flattens his palm and smacks Rassilon twice, once for each cheek. “Think of Tzipporahkozceskatilya, of Cossie, your wife. And remember to breathe, there’s a good bloke!” 

Rassilon whispers something, but the Doctor clicks the Rose on his own ring, and goes. 


The End

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