He's probably made it look worse than it is. The little Andrew had been in so much pain by the time they merged that he couldn't do more than lay there and look pitiful, but now he feels quite able to at least sit up. Or he would, if he didn't feel like all the blood has just rushed out of his head, and if he wasn't wincing and squinting at the ceiling as he struggles to integrate a third set of memories.

He squeezes his eyes shut as memories of flying lay themselves over top of memories of faffing about in the TARDIS while he waited for himself, his mind trying and failing to condense it into a single narrative. Willing himself to compartmentalize the experiences and temporarily file them away under 'things that happened to other people,' which usually seems to help him get past this stage, he finally opens his eyes to find a concerned wolf staring down at him.

"Ah," he says, reaching a hand up to pat the side of her face (really, he's never going to get out of the habit of treating her at least a little like an animal in these forms of hers). "Sorry about that."