I think it goes without saying that ownership of Doctor Who is something that will forever elude me. Damn you BBC and respective-creators-depending-on-series.
If you value your sanity, don't ask what possessed me to write this.
Staring the TARDIS, the 11th Doctor, Amy Pond and Rory Pond/Williams. Takes place any time in Season 6 while the Ponds were still on the TARDIS.
The TARDIS wasn't a being of flesh, and as such didn't speak in words like flesh-creatures did. She didn't use words at all. What were words to a being who could see all of time and space everywhere and everywhen?
Even through her telepathic link with her Thief, she couldn't use words or a form of communication that any creatures of flesh could understand (even her Time Lord didn't always fully understand her, the beautiful idiot.).
There were times however, when even without words or in ways of communication that a being of flesh would understand, that the TARDIS made her opinion very clear.
Times like this one, for instance, where her Thief approached her controls with that thing on his head.
That horrible red thing. What did they call it? Names were confusing. It was (apparently) a hat. A bright red bucket shaped thing, and it had a tassel on the top and she could have sworn she installed an incinerator in his wardrobe just to be rid of the horrid things. Or hadn't she done that yet? It was hard to keep track of those tense things. Hmm... well, whether she'd installed the incinerator or not, she definitely was now!
She waited until her Thief was standing directly in front of her before she shifted her angle slightly, sending everything inside of her sprawling across her floor. Somewhere in a different part of her, she noticed the Orange one and the Pretty one falling off of the bunk beds that she and her Time Lord had installed just in case, after the Handsome one had travelled with them, before she and the Yellow one made him Wrong. (The TARDIS was rather chagrined to discover that the bunk beds did nothing to deter the messy and very noisy mating habits of flesh creatures.)
But more importantly the manoeuvre effectively knocking that awful thing off of her Time Lord's head and sent it flying away from him.
If a TARDIS could look smug, then the Doctor's Type 40 looked like she'd just won the multiverse.
'What was that for?' came the reproachful protest, as her Thief picked himself up off the floor, already trying to get back to the abominable thing.
Emitting a technological wheeze that was probably the closest equivalent she could get to a snort, the TARDIS shifted again, sending the thing skittering further from her Time Lord's reach.
Elsewhere there was a duet of screams followed by a loud splash, as the Orange one and the Pretty one accidentally rediscovered the pool on their journey to the control room.
'Stop it!' The TARDIS regarded her Doctor in amusement as he sent her what was probably meant to be a glare, yet turned out as a pout. 'Leave my Fez alone! Fezzes are cool!'
'DOCTOR!' a momentary distraction arrived in the form of the Orange one, who was currently dripping water all over the TARDIS' control room floor. Normally the TARDIS may have been annoyed, but currently she had more important things to worry about. 'What's going on?' bellowed the Orange one, glaring furiously at the Time Lord, who much to the TARDIS' annoyance had finally recovered the blasted thing.
'The TARDIS is trying to take my Fez away!' complained the Doctor, as he placed it on his head once again, earning himself the equivalent of an irritated growl from the TARDIS
'Good, you-! ...where did you even get that?' the Orange one trailed off as she leered suspiciously at the thing. 'I could have sworn I threw all the ones I could find into the vortex...'
'You did,' agreed the Pretty one, standing behind her, holding onto a nearby railing tightly, just in case the TARDIS moved again. 'Three times. You even called River down to shoot them for good measure.'
'What does everybody have against my Fez?' complained the Doctor, one hand adjusting the horrid abomination on his head and the other straightening the thing around his neck. 'I like my Fez! Fezzes. Are. Cool,' he repeated with emphasis, a smug expression settling on his features.
And as soon as he finished speaking, the TARDIS gave one final lurch, her doors swinging open as the horrid thing flew through them and she watched with immense satisfaction as the thing went hurtling into the time vortex: never to be seen again.
Through the years the TARDIS had been amused by, been baffled by and had tolerated her Thief's many quirks.
She tolerated the edible baby-things, and the bananas, and the marmalade, and now she was putting up with fish fingers and custard.
She had tolerated the nigh endless string of girls her Thief had brought with them, that ignorantly believed that she was just a lifeless machine, and hadn't given in to the urge to toss them into the vortex at the first chance she got. (Yet.)
She'd even put up with the annoying tin dog. ("Stupid machine" indeed!)
She had tolerated the long list of bizarre apparel; including the long woollen thing he had worn around his neck during that strange period that was his fourth form, and the strange little green plant he'd worn (that she knew for a fact he didn't even like), followed by that horrifying, seizure-inducing, eye-burning clash of colours he'd called a jacket. She'd tolerated the question mark jumper and she'd tolerated the bizarre mix of those shoes with the suit that he'd worn last time, and the fact that he insisted on wearing those silly little lenses that he didn't need - twice.
She even tolerated the silly thing he wore around his neck at the moment.
She'd put up with hostile environments, being kidnapped, manhandled, blown up, erased from existence, shot and even turned into a paradox machine. And she would gladly suffer them all again for the sake of her Thief.
But not even the TARDIS would tolerate the Fez.