Life is Like a Box of Chocolate... Bunnies
“That’s the Indso Tys...it looks like something Omega coughed up after he fell down the rabbit hole...” says the Flesh Valeyard, his neck craning painfully upward at the rise of brick and crystalline structure draped in ice now flickering like a ghostly rock candy on the TARDIS view screen.
Rassilon touches the Flesh Valeyard’s shoulder a moment, then clicks the button, shutting off the view.
“I believe,” he mutters demurely as he eyes the double doors at the entrance to the TARDIS, “... that the Captain is somewhere inside? Frozen, like one of those dairy treats with the stick in you ate a box of last night. I’ve never been here before; are you coming?”
But the space the Flesh Valeyard had been occupying near the console is empty.
A door to the right opens, and a mess of tan and grey fur traipses out and into the console room, bouncing jaggedly, like a dying balloon. Two pink fuzzy boots, one of which bears a large pom pom, poke out from the tall and swaying mass.
“What?” the Flesh Valeyard gripes from inside the hairy covering, “I’m not going out there again unless I’m reasonably assured that my toes won’t fall off.”
He goes to the doors, knocks once; the double entrance glides open and out, catching slightly as if the Old Girl is an old office lift instead of a time machine.
“Come onnnnn, then!” the Flesh Valeyard calls from outside. “Oh, look, there he is.”
His footsteps thud across the icy floor of the frozen museum.
Rassilon takes his time, striding through the TARDIS entry just as a hard thunk settles over the white landscape of silence pervading the area, and is rewarded by a unique supplication of head, fingers, knees and toes- the amusingly prayerful position of one Flesh Avatar of a Time Lord, stuck fast to the frozen trousers of Jack Harkness.
“My bum hurts.” The Flesh Valeyard says softly, rubbing his behind, one reddening hand affixed to a man-sized block of cloudy ice and flesh. “And my hand is frozen to Jack’s... leg.”
“Hahahahah. I’ll take it from here. Back to the TARDIS with you, and thaw out your backside.” Rassilon laughs as he raises a hand and waves his fingers as if spreading cards.
The vaguely man-shaped block of ice with Jack in it levitates, pulling the Flesh Valeyard up onto the top as it glides through the TARDIS’ doors and into the safety of the Old Girl’s interior.
“You could have done this, you know!” Rassilon muses, grinning a small grin as he crosses the vestibule himself now.
From somewhere toasty in the TARDIS, the Flesh Valeyard’s full-lipped whinge emerges. “I’m hungry again. And Rassilon? It’s not as hard as it was before, and it’s dripping, it must be! Oh god. Oh God. Oh god, I can’t... unsee it... Rassilooooon!”