The Flesh Valeyard’s bare feet scuttle over a kitchen floor well-steeped in flour.
He leans, carefully propping himself in the cherry doorframe, to amuse himself and steady his nerves against the strange life wiggling inside him.
He leans, too, because within the kitchen, near some upper level cupboards, strong fingers are wrangling a packet of dry herbs and minding a large pot, out of which the thin, porous length of a sizeable avian bone is dangling by a bit of tough gristle.
Still taken by that idle sense of fascination, he scratches his stomach, then smiles at the other Time Lord in his element, who doesn’t look up from the sizeable steam emanating from the big pot as he states, “... what’s eating you?”
“... funny. That smells good.” the Flesh Valeyard murmurs, slipping into the kitchen proper and bending slightly over the pot to catch a proper whiff. “... I still remember the first time I saw you make that stew... we were...”
His wrapped and fractured hand seems out of place against his shirt. He raises it, feeling that it may fly away if he doesn’t keep his eyes just so, just there, right on the... ball of his wrist.
There seem to be so many of his hand, all at once, echoing across his vision like an installation of modern art.
Rassilon takes a step closer, his hand out, reaching.