Jack Harkness falls through the dark.
It is dark, because he can’t see.
His eyes are open; his hand scrabbles out away from him.
His body is dead weight in what feels… soft… he feels like a rasher of bacon, wrapped in the exquisite texture of scrambled eggs in a place that should have nothing like that at all.
For he is on Gallifrey.
He remembers that much.
When a hand reaches down, he flinches as the fingers touch; he cannot help it. They are squarish, but long. They are cold, like all of them here.