He still keeps the phone in his jacket pocket, even though it hasn’t rung in years.
It didn’t ring when all the children stopped in their tracks.
It didn’t even ring when people stopped dying.
But it’s ringing now - and he doesn’t want to answer it, but he has to.
It’s Martha. Of course it’s Martha.
“Doctor,” she says, “She remembered.”
His hearts catch in his chest.
No - he thinks - no, the defense mechanism was supposed to keep her safe. And now it’s one more thing he won’t be able to forgive himself for.
“Is she - ?” He chokes on the next word.
“Oh no. No. Doctor, she’s fine,” Martha quickly assures him, “I don’t know what happened but she’s fine. Her brain hasn’t exploded. She’s okay.”
He doesn’t know what to say, except to repeat to himself, She’s okay. Donna’s okay. She’s okay.
“She’s waiting for you, Doctor,” Martha tells him, and adds, after a few moments, with that quiet, uncanny intelligence he always wishes he’d been more openly appreciative about, “You can come back now. You can stop running.”
His fingers tremble as he sets the TARDIS controls for Chiswick.
dancing lessons in the streets of seattle
These are around the corner from the shop I work at, it’s always funny seeing people occasionally trying out the steps in the sidewalk
AHHH I literally walk over all of these when I’m at school c:
No one before Bernini had managed to make marble so carnal. In his nimble hands it would flatter and stream, quiver and sweat. His figures weep and shout, their torses twist and run, and arch themselves in spasms of intense sensation. He could, like an alchemist, change one material into another - marble into trees, leaves, hair, and, of course, flesh.
- Simon Schama’s Power of Art. Bernini