“I do indeed, precious. Do you want some ice cream?” he muses, shuffling in his pockets. “Daddy’s got some in here somewhere…”
“No you should eat it. So I guess the glamour you put on the Flesh is wearing off? Is that why you woke up, Daddy?”
The Doctor reaches out for her snowy head, and sets a hand on her hair. It curls a bit underneath and around him, floating about like a water-vine.
“Did he tell you to come in here, Flamme? I bet he did. Did he say anything strange?”
Flamina thinks for a moment, plonking down on a cracked block of marble diagonal to him on the floor.
“Well, uh, Daddy, he… really wanted me to come in here. I could tell, because he kept telling me not to. And he took your heart away from me. It turned into a rabbit. I think. He’s silly. But you haven’t been hiding from him. You’ve been waiting.”
“… oh yes. For you, my Flamme,” he sighs, then gets up from the chair, weakly puffing white dust off himself like a crochety old feeble dog shaking out drooping cheeks. His hands grasp the chair back, and feel the dry wood heave under him, the wide grains flying apart under the sudden fullness of his weight. “I’m tired of sitting here, anyway. It’s time for you to be Born. Again!” His fingers light in her hair, but tousle her all over. “But don’t tell the Christians. They got a bit excitable last time…”