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After seventy years stuck in Bristol University, loneliness sits aching in the Doctor’s chest. Lucky then, that his robot assistant has so many spare heads lying around.
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“What do you want?” Nardole snipes.
The Doctor makes an offended noise at the back of his throat. “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“‘Old friend’? I saw you last week!”
“And what a quiet week it’s been,” the Doctor says, and settles the head back down on his desk. His arms were starting to hurt. “Look, I need your help for something. Will you do me a favour?”
Spare Head One, it turns out, has the exact same suspicious squint as Main Head – or perhaps it should be the other way round. Whatever. “It depends what it is,” Nardole says.
Now that he actually has to say it, the Doctor finds himself strangely recalcitrant. He clears his throat. “I find,” he starts, halting, “that I am – in this regeneration, anyway – somewhat… oh, how to put it…” he trails off, runs a hand through his hair. “I am somewhat unaccustomed to intimacy. How’s that?”
“Blisteringly obtuse, as always, sir,” Nardole tells him.
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