The Doctor feels his lips turn away from his mouth in that bad way they have again, as more gold pours from between his teeth. (It reminds him of Glamour, really, only without the…) His stomach is rebelling too, judging by the nasty little arrangement they have with his lips. And his throat. In fact it feels as though everything is peeling off him, one annoying nuclei at a time.
His skin goes first, shedding outward like a banana at a Roman bath. His toes curl with the force of it, and his nerves shake in their sheaths of fat, imagining they’re next. His bones curve like hot cakes after syrup, leaning into the golden glow of newness melting the snow beneath his prostrate body in indulgent rivulets.
It all ends eventually.
Soon, the glow withdraws like the dusk sun of so many Earth-like planets, leaving him cold and unclothed.
“Huh. You weren’t this quick when Rory and I were around, Doctor.”
Pond? Pond. Pond!
His bleary eyes clear with a bit of a rub, and he finds himself standing again, having a staring match with a red headed woman who once made a serious claim on the family fortune.
Her body is just as he remembers it, soft thin curves, long red hair, black skirt, checkers. Police hat. Baton. White shirt. Two legs like blessed chopsticks, finely turned and elegant. Off-limits. Mother-In-Law. Little girl with big dreams.