"What's it for?"

"Never mind." Turlough found the small roundness of Tegan's left nipple and pressed it rhythmically between his lips. Her fingers -- short, practical nails -- ploughed through his hair.

"Is it like a tattoo?"

"Do you never stop talking?"

"No."

He cried out when he moved against her hip. She could just see the outline of his features in the dark, and she wondered how he had ever passed as a schoolboy.

When the Doctor finally returned (from where?) with his smudged face and strange eyes, Turlough's hand was there -- steadying and gentle at the small of her back.