The TARDIS is so large she is unsure she will ever be able to completely explore it; the always animated console room, with its gold walls and blinking lights, levers to be pulled, buttons to be pressed, displays with massive piles of data she will never understand; the sound of the
engine that tells her their speed by either frantic whir or gentle hum—the soothing rumble that lulls her to sleep, because he always runs the TARDIS slower when she sleeps, unless there is an emergency, even though she has never specifically asked for this; a massive library, with oak shelves stacked from the floor to the ceiling two stories above, full of dusty tomes with well worn, well loved leather binding, most written in tongues she does not understand, although she's sure if she tried to read them, the TARDIS would translate for her; clean, soft towels, warm baths that smell of lavender, turned down cotton sheets and hot meals that make her mouth water, all there when she needs them, and she sometimes wonders if he employs faeries to tend to them; day trips that turn into week-long adventures on some planet whose name she can't remember, as they find some person in trouble, a tribe in need, a people in despair; sleepless nights in Hell and Paradise alike, spent in hiding or running since they have inadvertently offended a culture he though he knew; the feel of his calloused hand in hers as with her thumb she traces the labyrinth of fine scars across his knuckles and feels the thick and jagged scar on his palm, a memory of a defensive wound and a battle he won, press into her smoother palm as he leads her as fast as they can run away from danger—the eccentric, ancient, new, mad, lonely Doctor and his devoted, loving human Companion.