“Come onnnnn, then!” the Flesh Valeyard calls from outside. “Oh, look, there he is.”
His footsteps thud across the icy floor of the frozen museum.
Rassilon takes his time, striding through the TARDIS entry just as a hard thunk settles over the white landscape of silence pervading the area, and is rewarded by a unique supplication of head, fingers, knees and toes- the amusingly prayerful position of one Flesh Avatar of a Time Lord, stuck fast to the frozen trousers of Jack Harkness.
“My bum hurts.” The Flesh Valeyard says softly, rubbing his behind, one reddening hand affixed to a man-sized block of cloudy ice and flesh. “And my hand is frozen to Jack’s... leg.”
“Hahahahah. I’ll take it from here. Back to the TARDIS with you, and thaw out your backside.” Rassilon laughs as he raises a hand and waves his fingers as if spreading cards.
The vaguely man-shaped block of ice with Jack in it levitates, pulling the Flesh Valeyard up onto the top as it glides through the TARDIS’ doors and into the safety of the Old Girl’s interior.
“You could have done this, you know!” Rassilon muses, grinning a small grin as he crosses the vestibule himself now.
From somewhere toasty in the TARDIS, the Flesh Valeyard’s full-lipped whinge emerges. “I’m hungry again. And Rassilon? It’s not as hard as it was before, and it’s dripping, it must be! Oh god. Oh God. Oh god, I can’t... unsee it... Rassilooooon!”