He sinks back, then forward, curving into a ball against the next contractive event- his womb’s version of an awkward office Christmas party.
As he flails ineffectually against the slushing of his nerves, the Doctor stares at Kenny, lying where he tossed him.
Kenny’s long hair is gone, replaced by a silvery, hawkish man-pixie styled page boy cut, dusted, of course, by a great many particles of ancient collapsed dock. He stays where the Doctor flung him, against the cracked column.
The column topples backward, away from them both, with the force of Kenny’s weight. A perfect toss.
Definitely a ten. Possibly an eleven.
“Anime will rot your brain, Kenny; it’s obviously where you got that pretty hair- I should really stop watching it.” People might think I’m cool or something- OW!”
The unconscious Time Lord’s lungs are working, at least- his chest is moving in the normal fashion, his fingers aren’t twitching... and the coup de grace- every so often, thank something, that reassuring twist of gold splashes from between his lips and skirts off to someplace other than... this.
“I should find the altar now, Kenny,” the Doctor murmurs, numbly maneuvering his somewhat unfelt hand into a tight pocket.
Dust specks play their silent operatic harmonies in the moonlight like fairy globes, reflecting off each other as they fall.
The Doctor looks about with almost an eagerness, wondering at the mounds of dust positioned higher in the moon’s rays then the rest of the fallen structure.