He walks to it, wrapping his arms around its shivering frame.
The ice of compassion is melting them both now.
The Flesh reaches up with swaying loops of white doughy arms and clings wet fingers like paint to the base of his wings, clutching at shoulder muscles thickened by a few moments’ clarity.
He lets it claw at him. He allows this, because… it is still the Doctor, albeit a small sliver of him.
The brook-babble of red-orange fluid flows between them as the Flesh rips off his wings.
He falls, and bleeds, while the Flesh spills away, up the rest of the crystal path, dragging bits behind stained with vermillion.
He imagines, as his numb-muscled, borrowed body falls limp into unconsciousness, that the same happy smile is now plastered on both their faces.