Sometimes, on blissful nights in the vortex, when the cosmos was settled and the TARDIS’ voice was dulled to a lyrical hum, the Doctor and his Rose could be found in the library. Rose, with a cuppa in her hand, welcoming the steam rise up and soothe her face, tired from a day’s adventure, would sink onto the couch with him. He’d be reading aloud through his brainy specs, about some far away planet in some time that had not happened yet. And Rose wouldn’t understand a thing, but she could be lulled to sleep in his arms just by the comfort of his voice, rising high and low and sounding like the universe itself. When she was finally asleep, he’d cradle her and watch her, smelling in her hair’s scent of strawberries, wanderlust, and void stuff. And in the morning, when she’d find herself back in her own bed with his forgotten book on her stand, she’d smile into her pillow, knowing he had carried her home.

art by aimee.