The Doctor settles himself onto the sofa with more decorum, though that's more a sign of continued wariness than any innate sense of dignity, as he promptly entrenches himself in the corner. He is equally fastidious in his blanket usage, pulling it absurdly high, like a large grey-haired child watching a scary movie. When was the last time he even sat on a sofa like a person. Sitting down is for losers. Comfort, too. What is the point of this dream.

"After, well after." A long span in years, of course, but the span in experience is exceptionally greater than even that. "The twelfth. Did you meet the other one that was here? Seems the rift favours even numbers." He rather hopes it's had enough of those, and odd numbers too, as useful as it might be to have the help.