The Flesh pool of 8th Doctor on the floor of the TARDIS console room rises up in the form of heavy, cream-like steam and clings to the underside of the main center column of panels, preparing to retake society from the floor, where it sank and waited after the TARDIS rode the violin to freedom.
“Well that was an engaging side trip…” it murmurs, manifesting a bubbly mouth, “…and this must be the way Shub Niggurath felt after the hjunottsmanathr. How lovely for good old Shubby!”
“Ahem…”a clearing of silvery throat arises from the now-open passage, bearing to mind the name of only one man unto its only less than star-struck other resident.
“Hello, Rassilon,” sighs the Flesh as it attempts to form hands again, to haul itself up from the goo it became.
Rassilon, who once was mere enterprising Dallyrasse, comes round the console with only the vaguest of subtle flourishes and kneels beside the industrious white pool of gluey wonder, leaning back on heels squatted and booted to engage in a bit of the idle theatre.
Slowly, slowly, it becomes a him again, and he attains the console top with two melty hands and a look of attenuate grace as two naked feet form under him.