The glass is biting into his hand, cutting into him like breaks in the frost on a window. His blood is running over his wrist. He’ll lose feeling soon. But if he does he’ll be prime ground Time Lord in those gears. He’s sure the TARDIS wouldn’t hesitate.
He’s also sure… that he could just let go.
He could just… let go.
But he doesn’t have time to think it through as the glass slices through to the white on his middle finger.
He yelps, shuddering even though he’s endured so much worse than this. Hot, angry tears well, and as he looks up at the Doctor and Flamina through the wet, he starts tying the first knot in the nylon.
In a few minutes, he’s managed to get three loops over the lever. His injured hand is numb and dripping. Much more and he might lose it. Ah well. He and the Doctor can swap jokes, once everything normalises.
…normal? Really? Idiot. What normal?
As he works, he hears another sound. It isn’t new, but it isn’t old, either.
Thank Rassilon for that bastard lying up there on the glass. His lazy arse can get the door.
Laughter wants to shake him so he lets it… there are still four more knots to tie- he’s done the rest and thrown the loops over. Time to test if the line will hold his weight.
He hooks the reel’s handle in one of the loops on his jeans and grabs the glass with his good hand, slicing the fingers.
But the glass is already covered with blood; he scrabbles- his eyes goggling like he’s a toad being squeezed as he flails-a fly in gossamer.