[He listens and hangs on the Doctor's every word, because he knows he can't at all trust his own right now. Truth be told, it's hard not to take the Precursor's insults to heart in the aftermath of what's happened; they always did tell him every pitfall in his personality, crippled whatever confidence in himself he'd mustered. But the Doctor? What reason would he have to distrust his answers?

It's like the Time Lord thinks: he's the Doctor, and if he's sure, then that's that.

Breathing a deep breath, he nods.]

Thanks. And.

[A pause.]

I guess while we're here —

[He scoots in and takes the Doctor's shoulders, dragging him close and planting a comically loud smooch to one of his cheeks. When he pulls back, he looks a little less like a wilted flower — and a touch like the doofus who would do such a thing.]

Just returning the favor for the greeting you smacked me with in my own head.

You kiss like an old Italian grandpa, you know that?