The Doctor sighs.
“Ah, you’re not going to tell us, are you sir?” the Time Lord Academy student at his right asks, holding up a black object similar to a pen that vibrates around and follows the young man’s fingers like globules of water in zero gravity as he waggles them at the Boekind human in the antiquated medical bed.
The Doctor grips the side of the silvery slab upon which Jack Harkness sleeps. He blinks hard, crushing his eyelids down onto their moorings once, twice, as if rebooting his system from a crashed hard drive. Finally his lips move apart… they feel like two strange deer crossing a road in the night. There is a sensation in the air, as though nothing is going to get said. So he speaks as if from tick-ridden lips, giving the student a piece of his mind on a platter of silver, au tartare.
“Tell you what, Hainishtymion?”
The golden-haired boy smirks at the tiny dismissal, his whole face quirking in a line like a plaster mold of some impish little god on some impish little planet.
“Yes Doctor, tell me what indeed!” the boy says, looking up, hopeful, with pretty blue eyes like curls of swirling sky. “You know what I want to know. The other students want to know, as well. But you picked me.”