Rassilon shifts on his cot.
The swimming waves of people walking several floors overhead trickle on and off, in relaxing tedium, like a tea ceremony.
But when footsteps arrive far closer to his door, he does not feign surprise. He merely waits, mourning the rise and fall he wants to hear, and delighting in the feet that instead cross the threshold to his tiny infested gaol apartment like two thudding sprites in the half dark, half light of the dimly lit prison dungeon hallway.
“They’ve even given me my old cell back, how thoughtful of them,” he calls out to his visitor, crunching an empty bag once full of jelly babies under his foot.
“I’ve talked them into letting you out…” a familiar voice muses from behind two blue eyes crunched into nothing by long-spent years. The man’s gaze mirrors his own in those subtle, simple ways of forgotten men meeting over a friendly game of stakes. “… not only because they seem to require our combined presence, but for the small fact you make the best coffee.”
“They were bound to need me at some point, these little hypocrites of ours,” Rassilon quips to the guard, reaching down to pick up the empty jelly baby bag as the clink of keys resounds through his musty little space.
He hands the bag to the obscured face of the guard, whose long hands are on the door handle, and says, “Might I have a refill? It was a pleasure to find that someone had a stash of these… I must thank whosoever it was, when this latest crisis is over.”
A nod of yes from the wiry spindle of a guard, and then…
Jack Harkness laughs as Rassilon takes his arm and worms up the steps with him. For some reason, an image of the guard dancing about like a mad rabbit comes to mind.
The slim guard follows, a peek of light brown curls peering from under his helmet as he ascends behind them, his long, mad, heart-shaped lips pinned up by corners given only to the wall.