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Summary
Dottore had removed his coat long ago, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows. His gloves had also long since been set aside; absurdly, the Doctor seemed less likely to wear them when he should have needed them most. Such as when he was digging through the guts of his latest specimen - mechanical or otherwise. But as impractical as it was, it was a quality Childe had always admired about Dottore. He was a very hands-on man, despite how prissy he sometimes behaved. At the end of the day, he was not afraid to get his hands dirty. Childe could see the filth on his hands now as he came a bit closer, smeared with centuries-old, scorched oil and flakes of rust sticking to his knuckles.
Childe swallowed, not sure why it felt so difficult to do so.