The Time Agent is standing half-shadowed behind one of the chocolate granite trees; he steps out into the light, barefoot, dusty. Just as dusty as the man he’s come to find, the sea having chewed and swallowed his shoes for his ignorance.
The Doctor turns once, just once, and sets eyes upon Jack Harkness’ eyes. There comes a quick silence, and then…
“You might still see that face, Roda Palfour,” the Time Lord says, covering himself again as he messes with a flash of gold near his finger and leans on Roda, while the smaller hands of another younger monk remove his black boots, undoing the laces carefully. “You might still indeed… in fact, I think… oh that hurts. Ow.”
His hands grasp at his stomach in the tall bird-man’s arms, dragging them both down in a mess of tan and taupe and greenish cloak.
Roda’s gasp breaks Jack out of it.
“Brothers and Sisters, get him inside! I don’t care what he’s done!” Roda calls, his face and voice etched with new lines like a burst balloon as he struggles under the Doctor’s weight, his eyes narrow and wide at once s he looks down at his charge of the minute.