“I am not repeating myself like one of your little pets. Make a decision.”
“No, I didn’t mean you. I thought I heard it talking to me. Nevermind. Did you call River Song a whore? How invigorating. I was waiting for someone to do it. That bum alone... she has to be some kind of exotic evil. That hair... it’s like...”
“...it’s the hormones, you know, making you curse like that. That shard of Zagreus must have been sub-dimensionally attached to you for –some- time, long enough to plant suggestions and then carry them out once you were trapped in this Flesh. Perhaps the Doctor knew this would happen.”
“Of course he did, he’s ME!” the Valeyard squeals, rubbing himself as a sudden twinge cramps its way up his spine by way of his stomach, “...Um, Rassilon? I think I’ll go with the shirt I liked a few minutes ago. I... feel weird. Like mini Cthulhu is trying to make my guts into sausage suddenly.” He turns, and places a hand on the edge of the doorway, ignoring the sharp slice of the door as it bites a tiny chunk of his hand away in a flurry of blood drops. “This place is cold. I want to get away from here.”
“All right,” Rassilon agrees smoothly, “...put your clothes on; we’ll go when you’re ready. I’ll ask the ship to build a small, heated zero room for you.”
He comes out fifteen minutes later, grey trousers, grey suit, grey vest, grey patterned shirt with tiny plaid. Pale grey stockings. Nice laced grey shoes on his heels and a tidy grey derby sticking between his fingers. One hand holds an umbrella instead of a stick, also grey. All to match the dark circles puffing like honeypot ants under his eyes.