#copperknickershelix

Tell my muse who you ship them with. Be as subtle or as obvious as you like! 

Oh. Well then.

Look, Nonny, Hey-Nonny-Nonny— she’s my best friend.

And. Yeah. The best couples are friends too— some of them are “friends with benefits,” don’t tell me I don’t fit in.

But just because she and I fight like an old married couple doesn’t mean we are one, yeah? 

She held my hand through some of the worst moments of my life— she named my daughter— and I have almost never fallen further than when I lost her.

I actually envy the parallel universe where The DoctorDonna and I are careening about the galaxies with her reading me the riot act at 100 words per minute, but in this universe it just wasn’t meant to be.

He's dying.

He's been dying for a long time, cells bursting with life yet nevertheless bursting, like Icarus.

But he walks in the footsteps of his life and the long long lives that came before, he visits the old favorites, and the new favorites, and the favorites yet to come.

And one place he goes back-- after Donna's wedding to Shaun, but long, long before Rose-- he still hasn't tracked down Jo Grant-- he goes back to The Ood-Sphere.

Not one hundred years since last he'd been there, but 907. A thousand years and more in total since he and Donna'd helped liberate The Ood from their oppressors.

He didn't recognize the architecture, it had moved so far beyond even that massive hundred-year jump. They'd gone on to reshape whole mountains, and the statue had a face he couldn't place. Maybe it was a later him? Or a misremembered him.

But there was still music on the air. That same old song.

A thousand years later, the tune hadn't changed, maybe a fistful of the words had gotten mixed up--

--they were still singing about Donna. 

" Well, would appreciate gettin' to see this in action ... again. "

"...How d'you mean again?"

((WINTER. /LAUGHING SO MUCH THE BEST

7. Is mun a parent?

…

Thank you, Donna.

She’s sweeter than a sour patch, positively batty—some ancient form of beast or other, and still thrice as catty.       The monkey thinks, and he thinks, but the rhymes remain slippy; if he wasn’t so damned knackered, he’d write them in a jiffy.          So he settles for: