You didn’t mean to poison the TARDIS. Really, you didn’t.

It started innocent enough — just one little bottle of nail polish. Then another. Then glitter. Then that dangerous metallic one called Lustberry Inferno (which sounds like a weaponized perfume). You sat cross-legged on the console room floor, painting careful stars on your thumb and basking in the chemical joy of fruity solvents and questionable life choices. The air was... thicker than usual. Heavy, sweet, sharp around the edges.

You don't notice the high at first. Just a little lightheadedness. The room does a wobbly thing, like it's breathing through syrup. You giggle. That’s weird — you don’t giggle.

The TARDIS hums like she’s judging you.

Then the Doctor walks in. He takes two steps into the haze and stops dead, sniffing the air like a suspicious bloodhound.

“…What is that smell? Is that Melon Mayhem?”

You hold up your pinkie. “It might also be Tangerine Rebellion.”

He crouches next to you, eyes narrowing. “Did you open all the bottles?”

“Define ‘open.’”

He waves a hand in front of his face. “Oh no. No no no. Do you even realize how many toxins are in here? You’ve turned the console room into a beauty salon from hell.”

“I’m making art,” you say. “Smelly, sparkly art.”

And then, without warning, the Doctor sits down beside you.

The Doctor.

Sits. Down.

He’s blinking a lot. Like the air’s got static in it.

“Are you… okay?” you ask.

He snorts. “I’m Time Lord okay.”

“Which means?”

“Floating slightly to the left but otherwise fabulous.”

You watch him closely. His pupils are bigger than usual. He’s smiling like he forgot how frowns work.

“You’re inhaling the fumes.”

“No I’m not. Gallifreyan biology. Respiratory bypass system. I—” He pauses, tilts his head. “Why is the TARDIS humming in F-sharp minor?”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Then you both burst out laughing.

He flops onto the floor with all the grace of a tranquilized marionette. “Do you ever think about the fact that planets are just eggs that never hatched?”

“Stop.”

“No, listen, I think I married a moon once. Or maybe it was a really round man in a tuxedo. Either way, it had great taste in cheese.”

You lie back beside him, nail polish fumes twinkling in the air like invisible chaos confetti. You’re both wrecked. Absolutely lacquered. Somewhere, an alarm is beeping, but neither of you move.

“You think the TARDIS gets high too?” you mumble.

“She’s grooving,” the Doctor says, dead serious. “That’s why the lights look like disco ball tears.”

You both stare up at the spinning ceiling, falling into a silence only pierced by the hum of the TARDIS, as if it were judging you.