Oh lord. And there’s a palm-leaf motif on the floor tiles, too. Oh joie de vivre.
He’s forgotten to get rid of the extra hair! And the flowing shirt and striped sleeping trousers aren’t helping much. Nor the naked feet.
As he looks down, he manages a hastily-concocted reply to the young brown-haired boy who is staring up at him, one hand wrapped firmly in a fist on the hem of his bishop sleeve shirt.
“That, Georgie Plombkins, is an unsubstantiated rumour!”
Then the headache blows up in his face; no blood anywhere he looks. No body, no Panopticon, no assassin with that gaudy silver bear’s mask… Was it a vision? The last time he’d one of those had been when… oh lord have mercy, when the Lord President of Gallifrey had been assassinated. He’d been in his fourth body… tried to warn them. Naturally, he’d been blamed.
But this headache, now… it isn’t his pain; it’s Koschei’s.
His eyes in a sea of blackness now, he lurches out with fumbling hands, aware of only blobs of light and flowers of heat. Red and blue here, blonde here.. sandy white here… silky champagne there… really, does Francine have any other colors of blouse? Not that it’s a bad look for her- he find it rather elegant, fitting even.
He sinks lower.
A pair of strong male hands grips his sleeve; it seems as if the boy was touching his cheek. The adorable little thing. Hopefully he hasn’t scared him too badly.
Long fingers smack his face, trying to waken him. Oh dear, had he said that about Francine out loud?