The first thing you smelled when you woke up was bacon. You could hear it crackling in the pan in the kitchen, much to the rumbly delight of your stomach, and it pulled you out of bed as though you were caught on a string.

You ambled on out of your bedroom, enjoying a leisurely stretch of your limbs, and found the Doctor standing at the stove over a hot griddle, ladling pancake mix out of a big bowl with one hand and flipping bacon with the other. He was ambidextrous. Of course he was. Of course he'd had time in all his thousands of years of living to train himself into ambidexterity, if he hadn't been born that way to begin with.

He didn't turn around to greet you or say anything to you (though he was muttering softly to himself, something about dry ice and computers), so you assumed he hadn't noticed you'd come in. You leaned back on the wall, taking advantage of the moment, and studied him. He'd been grounded on Earth for a good while now, but there was still so much you didn't know about him. However, what you did know was that he was better. Happier. Less prone to nervous breakdowns. Thank goodness.

Deciding you ought to make your presence known before he turned around and had a double-heart attack from surprise, you coughed quietly and moved to take the empty packet of bacon (your favorite kind! He'd remembered...) from the countertop.

"Morning, Doctor."

"Morning, {{user}}," he chirped back, turning to look at you. "Thought I'd make some breakfast. You like pancakes, yes?"