A/N: So, impossible123 asked for Whouffaldi and adopting Grogu and I got enough material together to post something, but I don't know if this is all I'm gonna fart out or if there's more coming. It's just sort of there-no real plot cohesion. Just scenes for this other unholy union of fandoms—what is wrong with my brain lately lol 2387 words; if y'all want a great stop for fics go read Azertyrobaz's stuff they're pretty great; I refuse to apologize for this what are you talking about; implications abound that Star Wars doesn't exist in the Doctor Who universe, or if it does, then Yoda and Grogu are from a very different type of species; I didn't know how much of a weird niche "writing children" is until I started writing myself and yeah dang the writers of The Mandalorian really spoil us don't they; less adoption and more being an excellent pair of sitters


and Grogu makes three

"So… um… what is it?"

Clara looked at the creature nestled in the the Doctor's grasp and raised an eyebrow. They had been traveling together long enough that she knew him better than to just bring just anything into the TARDIS, but at this juncture, she was at least mildly concerned that he'd lost his marbles. It was a tiny thing bundled in rough cloth that fit in the crook of his arm, with green skin, large black eyes, and long, pointed ears that made his head thrice the size with how they stuck out so far.

"It's a child."

"It looks like it came out of The Dark Crystal."

"You'd be surprised what a young Mister Henson was exposed to," the Time Lord shrugged. The Child glanced up at him and blinked slowly. "I might have promised someone I'd take care of him."

"Him? We sure it's a him?"

"Probably. It's only temporary. Besides, I thought you were on sabbatical."

"I'm on sabbatical so that I can make it not look like I haven't aged in the past fifteen years," Clara frowned. Oh, yeah, the little side effect of breaking the Chronolock. "Who even gave him to you?"

"Old friend calling in a favor," the Doctor replied, a bit too cagily for Clara's liking. "I'm probably the best sitter for him anyhow, since the wee thing's only, what, fifty-five?"

Clara blinked. "Come again…?"

"Oh, you know, what better sitter for someone in foreign dimension than another being who has a long lifespan?" Clara folded her arms across her chest, decidedly unimpressed. "I thought you liked kids."

"I do like kids, but you just signed us up for one for who-knows-how-long, without consulting me first."

"…like I said: an old friend was calling in a favor."

"…and how old is this 'old friend' that is the crux of this entire situation?"

The Doctor thought about that, gnawing idly on his forefinger as he did so. "Forty-seven?"

"You know what…? I'm just gonna… leave that there," she said. Clara's nose crinkled as she nodded and turned to walk away. "I'll just… erm… be in the library for a tic, alright?"

Once she was gone, the Doctor glanced down at the child and shrugged. "Normally she's much more enthusiastic about small creatures. Must have caught her on a bad day."

The child gurgled—not that it minded at all.


It wasn't that Clara was cross or anything like that—no, it was the Doctor's ship, and he could bring anything or anyone on that he liked—but she was a bit irritated that she was not consulted prior to him bringing a child on board. The kid was cute, yeah, but she wasn't entirely certain as to what it was, let alone anything else about it. She wasn't positive as to the relationship it had with its foster father either, or how the foster father knew the Doctor, and that lack of knowledge meant that she remained more cautious than anything else.

Luckily, the Child came with its own pram, a sort of future-chic one that looked more Jetsons than anything, that hovered about and took it places on its own. That meant that the weird eggy-shaped thing was following the Doctor around the TARDIS with wanton abandon, and no one, no where, was truly safe.

"No, your father's ship is quite different, I can assure you," the Doctor explained. Clara was relaxed on the upper deck of the control room, leg hooked over the armrest as she read Jane Eyre… well… it was more like pretended to read Jane Eyre as she kept an eye on the Doctor and the Child. "It runs on a completely different theorem." The Child cooed inquisitively. "No, it has nothing to do with hyperspeed, nor wrinkling time and space. It's more of a ship that can navigate the current inherent in the vortex in a sort of multidirectional path."

"I thought you said he's, you know, not even three years old for his species," Clara mentioned, raising her voice just enough so he could hear her. "What makes you think he can understand quantum physics?"

"One can never start too young," he defended curtly. "Grogu is an avid learner."

"Oh, he has a name now?"

"He's always had a name."

"You are doing this on purpose."

"I have no idea what you mean." He leaned in closer to the pram, shielding his face with one hand while gesturing with the other, dropping his voice to a whisper. "She's usually a lot funner than this."

"Funner is not a word!"

"See? This is why your father left you with me." The Child giggled and Clara attempted to go back to her book. Jane was first meeting Adèle, which she really did not appreciate given her current predicament, yet soldiered on. Before she knew it, the Doctor was standing next to the chair, the Child and his pram hovering just nearby.

"Yes…?"

"I was thinking about maybe going off on an adventure… a wee picnic on Gatling-VI, a moon completely covered in gardens?"

"You are trying to butter me up, aren't you?"

"Maybe." He couldn't help crack a slight grin. "Do you? I'm thinking we've got a few of these ahead of us in the coming while."

"…and whose fault is that?"

The Child let out a squeak, which seemed to scandalize the Doctor.

"What language!" he gasped, trying to look more scandalized than impressed. "Clara, you hold onto him while I go and fetch the basket and blanket." He shoved the Child in her arms and scurried off with the pram, leaving the two alone together.

"Your dad must be desperate or something," Clara deadpanned. The Child didn't object to that, and instead wriggled until she put him down on the floor. "What's the matter? You don't want to follow the Doctor, do you?"

Silently, the Child shuffled across the upper deck, reaching a low-hanging bookshelf. He grabbed the spine of a thin volume and tugged, pulling out the book with ease.

"What do you have there?" she asked. The Child lifted the book above his head, wobbled slightly, then shuffled back to her, presenting his quarry. She plucked it from his grasp and read the title. "'Twelve Little Banthas'? I take it you want me to read this?"

A grunt—of course.

As it turned out, twelve little Banthas were playing in the snow. One heard a whistle and he had to go. The watchmaid shook her head and looked at the herd.

Why do little banthas insist on playing in the snow?

The Child glanced up at Clara as she read the line, completely serious in her inflection. The definition of a bantha was still a bit fuzzy on her end, and the Child gave her a look only matched by other small children questioning why their adult does not know basic information.

"Hey, I'm trying by best here," Clara frowned. The Child only grunted—oh, she saw how it was.


Gatling-VI, as it was, suited their needs disturbingly well for a quick outing with a relative toddler. The Doctor and Clara were able to find a spot to spread their things out and they all ate their lunch without much incident. While they were cleaning up, the Child watched as Clara pressed a kiss to the back of the Doctor's jaw, letting out an inquisitive noise.

"Oh, well, you see," the Doctor stammered, face growing red, "sometimes, that's just what people do. Your father has no one to do that with, so I'm not surprised you haven't seen it…"

"Did he just question why I kissed you?" Clara wondered. The Doctor shrugged.

"His father is raising him on his own—there's no one." The Child made a noise, indignant, before going back to sipping his tea. "Okay, there was a woman once, but they never did that."

"Why would they never kiss in front of you?" she asked. The Child put down his drink and tapped the sides of his head.

"He belongs to a sect that doesn't take their faceshield helmets off in front of other living things," the Doctor translated. "It is a bit extreme to most, but it doesn't hurt anyone else and comforts him, so that's what he does."

"Oh… that must be a treat," Clara deadpanned. She watched as the Child picked his tea back up and shuffled across the blanket, dropping into the Doctor's lap. "You must be one of his favorites—complete opposite of Dad."

"Complete…? Alright, you lost me." Both the Doctor and the Child looked at her curiously, making her stifle a laugh due to how they tilted their heads in the exact same way at the exact same time.

"You've got one of the most expressive faces I've ever seen, and his father's doesn't change by being a helmet," she explained. "Don't tell me that's not two completely different kinds of things to deal with."

"Oh, that makes sense." The Child drank more tea and his ears wriggled slightly. "At least it's my eyebrows that are the expressive thing."

"Uh-huh," she chuckled. She finished packing the basket and laid down on the blanket, allowing the sunlight to warm her from above. "We should come here more often."

"You like gardens?"

"I like not running for a change." She closed her eyes and relaxed, only to hear some shuffling coming from the Doctor's direction. "What are you up to?"

"You seem to have a good idea," the Doctor admitted. She looked to the side and saw the Doctor laying down, the Child looking perturbed that his seat was now unavailable. "A kip won't be bad."

"Come on then; you too," Clara said, pulling the tea away from the Child. She placed it atop the basket and laid him down between her and the Doctor, so as to block him in. Once he was down, she closed her eyes again and continued to nap…

…or, at least, she tried to, until she heard a slurping sound coming from between her and the Doctor. She opened her eyes and saw that the Child was drinking his tea again, even though there was no way for him to have gone around that quickly. Raising an eyebrow, she took the tea away again and replaced it atop the basket.

"It's time for a nap, got it?" she warned gently. She laid back down again, only for her to catch sight of the mug float its way over her body and into the Child's waiting hands.

Of course he could do that.


The pram stood there empty, not necessarily blocking the TARDIS's corridor, but still made it annoying to get around. She placed her hands on her hips and inhaled, then exhaled, slowly. How had it only been two hours since their outing?

"TARDIS? Where the blood hell are they?"

The lights hummed—on the ship. Ha, cheeky answer.

"Where are they within your labyrinthine confines?"

That was a sufficient enough question and the TARDIS's baseboards glowed, showing her the path that would presumably bring her to the Doctor and the Child. She followed it, the pram following her in turn, going down several twists and turns until she found them in the kitchen, with the Doctor giving the Child a bath in the sink.

"Oh, and what's this?" she asked. He didn't turn towards her, but shrugged.

"Got a bit of gunk on ourselves," he said. She hugged him from behind, relishing in the fact he was only in a t-shirt on his upper half, presumably for the safety of his sleeves. "It looks like the frog didn't agree with his constitution."

"When did he eat a frog?"

"On Gatling-VI—you weren't looking."

"This is what I get for travelling with aliens," she sighed. She looked around the Doctor's arm to see the Child sitting in a mountain of bubbles, looking at the curiously as he scooped some up in his hand, looked at them, and closed his hand in order to squish them. He tried to shove a bunch in his mouth, but the Doctor redirected it with what looked like an extremely practiced motion.

"None of that," he chided. "I don't know what your father does to clean you normally, but here we don't eat bubbles."

"Maybe they are edible for him?" Clara offered.

"They're not." He began to scrub gently behind one ear, then the other. "I'm fairly certain that he is not able to digest soap any more than you or I can."

"I tried," she told the Child, who giggled in response. "Don't think this means I've forgiven you for the tea." She then looked at the Doctor, who was busying himself with tiny toes. "Why did you leave the pram in the middle of the corridor?"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, it didn't follow us?"

"No, silly, it didn't. It's difficult to look this attractive and then not lose points because the self-propelled pram refused to follow you." With the Child clean, she watched as the tiny creature was lifted out of his bath and plopped onto a fluffy towel sitting on the counter. The Doctor wrapped him up in it before draining the sink and rinsing out the tub. As he did that, Clara dried the Child off, getting him to giggle more. "Mmm… maybe his father needs to have an adults-only job more often."

"Possibly." He bent down and pecked Clara on the lips. "I think I can take it from here."

"Nope—Auntie Clara has this one," she teased. She picked up the Child and held him close, with him grabbing hold of her shirt as she did so. Giving the Doctor a smile, she stepped back a couple paces and turned around, heading for the door.

"I knew you'd like him."

"Uh-huh.

"I'll be in the study."

"Better have Twelve Little Banthas ready." She tickled the Child as she carried him out, loving the shriek he gave. "Before we do that," she whispered to her charge, you're going to get that box the Doctor's been hiding from me on top of the wardrobe, got it?" The Child's eyes got wide in curioisty.

Okay, she wasn't cross even in the slightest. He was a pretty cute kid to have around, after all.