The Doctor stared forlornly at the longtime companion he held in his hands, the one who kept him going during his many years of isolation on Trenzalore, working quietly but diligently to make things bearable, the loyalist of them all.
“Handle,” he whispered, shaking the handle of Bacardi softly, listening to the slosh of that final thimbleful of liquor as if he could will it to be more. “Handle,” he whispered again, not wanting it to be true.
Sighing, he closed his eyes and drained the last meager drops of rum before holding the now empty bottle in front of his face. He could see the sun rising through it, distorted by the glass. “Thank you, handle,” he proclaimed, his voice breaking with emotion, “and well done.”