The Doctor blinks.
His Flesh body is bared... in all its lines and space... to the glass of the dressing room mirror. Outside, he can hear the sounds of swimming in the pool- River, also wearing a Flesh, splashing softly as she waits for him.
He finds his naked feet tingling with the need to join her now.
So he lets them, tromping back out of the little powder cubby into the main swimming pool room.
A towel covers him below the waist, just a fluffy white thing of little import.
He discards it to the floor, shoving its softness aside with his foot.
He feels River staring, like a crawling of lilies up over the tips of his spinal column.
Without the towel, the girth added to his middle by Flamina’s weight is a visible effigy in skin and sinew, a hard half-ball of undercooked baby-flavoured gelatin sticking out ever so slightly from under his navel.
He walks; the cement of the pool surround floor is rough on his softened feet.
The first of his toes dip under the cold blue surface of the pool.
He goes to her, and her blue green grey eyes watch him descend the hard stairs into the water, transfixed by the sway of his sturdy hips, the pale peridot of his own eyes braying a donkey’s hair-curling cry of indignation. How dare she look like that heavenly!
The form of him fords the liquid around and behind himself, nearing her.
She is standing there, her hair flowing o’er, cascading down the skin of her back. It covers her shoulders like bits of ripe pollen, waving in wheat-streams.