Chapter Seven, Part Four: The Cake is a Lie; Long Live the Jammie DodgerMature

“Happy Birthday, Me we’ll have to leave till later. Face, say hello to the TARDIS grates. SEXY…” He pets the small bit of the console he can reach, the base of an industrial mixer. “SEXY, you know what … to do…follow the presets over the river and… through the woods. To Gallifrey we go.”                                                                             

Funny how the best place for him and his condition during a bumpy ride is the very place he’s fallen, wedged tight-as-you-please between the crash seat –which has mysteriously moved closer- and the console, which hasn’t. “Not my mother, indeed,” he chuckles as he drifts off to sleep. Well, maybe on Sundays. 

On his finger, a golden ring hums as his face smushes against it…

The End

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