The delightful scent of ginger beer pervades the console room.
It drips down the walls, slopping in the gears and circuitry somewhere.
His face is with her. His snores echo through her halls.
Her telepathic interface has been open for hours, cushioning his drool-dotted wrinkly face.
If she could giggle, still, oh, she might well do it.
The squishy bits of the interface smush slightly; he’ll be waking up soon.
The TARDIS dims the lights.
He’ll sleep a little longer, with her, maybe?