Her clean hands cease their dabbling with the corners of his slightly sweaty shirt; instantly, their precious little moment is lost forever as she rises from the bed, and his sense of smell leaves him, like a child off to school for the first time.
“Oh, of all the! Theta Sigma, you are the most… AGH. I’m going back to the gardens. And if you try to follow me, I’ll tell Rassilon to chain you to the bed.”
When she has padded softly out the way, and the door has slipped closed, the Doctor takes up a few of the thick pillows and bats at them, stuffing his fist over and over and over again in the casing full of fluffy down like the time lapse of a ricocheting bullet. Then he arranges the pillows across his lap and knees so he can lie on his stomach without juicing his displaced innards like an olive press.
A smile like delicate porcelain rests on his face as he considers his handiwork, as well as some blue flecks of paint from overhead. After wiping his eyes free of the paint chips and some sudden, unexpected hot tears, he lies down, easing himself into the wedge of pillows with his back to the chipped and peeling sky painted on the ceiling.
“I wonder,” he says, holding his breath against the pillow under his cheek, “... how they’re dealing with Jack in Research and Development? I did shoot him, after all.”