It’s sort of… soothing, having his head tilted to sip cold water. Almost tender, though that word is a poor fit for Brighella. The chill of it does, actually, make his throat feel better, even though the contrast against the heat of his body and the further inflamed tissue is so sharp he could almost think it was cutting.

“Has to be someone who wants to,” he rasps. “I’m Eleventh. Any other Harbinger can kick me down and we all know it. But il Dottore’s never used me like you, no matter how many times he’s strapped me to a table and cut me open.” He tips his head back to look up at Brighella again. “You’d make me better at fighting, too?”