“Yeah. Should work,” The Doctor reached up to rub self-consciously at his chin. He hadn’t quite grown a beard as impressive as Jamie’s scruff, but it was getting there. He’d forgotten it was there after a moment. Torture did do that to you. “There we are.”

His voice was quiet, eyes on the symbiote in Vala’s hand. The thing had gone stiff after a pained squeal, those fleshly little fins on the side of its body flaring out angrily like it wanted to make a final stand and it was realizing it couldn’t. After what felt like far too long the alien suddenly drooped over, limp, against Vala’s arm. The Doctor leaned forward to peer at it, ready to jump backward in case it was faking. A few minutes passed. He waved the sonic over the symbiote, and, with one of those flicks of his wrist, consulted the scan’s results, hemmig and hawing and making “Oh, I see”’s under his breath. After a moment he looked up at Vala, meeting her eyes. The human looked older than she really was, all those long months under Sobek’s rule drawing those lines in her face deep. He had to wonder when she had a good night’s sleep.

If they pulled this off – and survived. That was the important part – he hoped she could still sleep. Humans were some of the most resilient aliens he’d come across. She would survive. She’d find a way. Vala, like Eva, had gotten this far.

“It works,” the Doctor said. He didn’t sound pleased or triumphant. Not this time. “I’ll have some ready to deal with Sobek.”