The man’s big hand frightens him for an instant, until he realises the gift isn’t German. Or ingestible. Or Greek. So he takes the fingers up in their offer, rising the rest of the way on partial legs. He’ll not be complete again, but at least he will last for the duration until time runs out.
“I was most interested in what your little missive might have said, before the mast. Do you care to enlighten me?” Rassilon quirks, eyeing the newly-recovered Flesh of the 8th Doctor with the spry care of a tafelshrew, willing and patient. Or perhaps a squirrel.
The Flesh then struggles for a moment, concentrating with fists down and eyes closed toward the sky. A pair of teddy bear pyjama bottoms are managed, then a moving picture pirate’s white blouson. He will not tell.
“Hayseed…” Rassilon smirks without a smile to lay it on, tipping his grey-nibbled jet black hair in fiery tribute.
“Inanimate object…” the 8th Doctor Flesh mouths softly, sensual red lips flattening in thorny treason against the icy innocence affixed on his still-translucent face.
“Your hair looks wet, dear Doctor,” adds Rassilon, reaching over to grab a fistful of slightly damp, burned carrot curls and piercing them with those cold, cold eyes of blue ice, “…why did you take this form, out of all of them? I admit to being a bit… intrigued.”
The Flesh turns away, not caring that bits of his hair come out, having not really been all that attached in the first place.