His body flips- it’s sort of funny, but he’s not laughing now. All the blood is rushing to his head because he’s hanging upside down.
Oddly enough, he feels calm, like an amoeba.
It’s a struggle to look up, but when he does, he notices a pair of boots and dark grey trousers staring down at him. These, of course, are topped by that ridiculous tweed jacket. The tinted dress shirt. The bowtie. Floppy hair follows, then a strong chin and peridot eyes that hold half the world.
“Are you busy?” the Doctor says with suspect softness, edging himself away from the mountain range of glass. His squarish, long fingers unconsciously scratch his stomach for a half-second, then retreat into the air and waggle limply. He must look little more than a neurotic knot of nerves as he peers into the depths, the way he’s standing so still and yet not. But he adds another sentence or four as though he owns a shoehorn, affecting just a snatch of plaintiveness with thin lips and a trifle less melanin. “No? Good, because, um… I have something to tell you, before I help you right yourself. But you’re not going to like it very much, which is why I have to tell you now, while you’re tied up… you know, because… it’s sort of, ah, um, well-this thing I’ve done, it has to settle in, so to speak.”