Quoth The Raven

The TARDIS was still, the lights dimmed low. The central column of the time rotor stood still and unwanted for the moment. All was peaceful and quiet.

Logs crackled merrily in the hearth as P-90 rested against the arm of the love-seat and read by the light of the fire. The library sparkled in soft colours around him. Gently, he lowered a hand and brought a glass tumbler to his lips before replacing it on the end table.

Soft footsteps and the swish of her silk gown announced her arrival. Delicately, she folded herself into the chair and leaned into him.

Her hair smelled of Vanilla, her skin of Coconut. He raised his arm and allowed her to become comfortable before he lowered it. The silk burned with heat under his fingers, the material soft.

'Did you enjoy your bath?' He asked softly, his eyes roamed over more text.

'Yeah.' She smiled into his jacket. 'It seems like forever since I felt so good.'

He savored another sniff of the odd mixture, the scent that had completely become her. He could no longer deny that the smell of Coconut or Vanilla would instantly bring his mind to her.

P-90 had never really appreciated the subject of smell. A smell could bring you back to a time, a place or a person.

He would always affiliate these smells with someone he loved fiercely.

'What're you reading?' She whispered, the beginning of a yawn on the very end.

'Edgar Allen Poe.' He replied and reached for his glass.

'Read me a poem.' She smiled at him. He felt his stomach clench tightly, which had nothing to do with the alcohol now slipping it's way down his throat.

'You want me to read you a poem? They're very dark...' He uttered.

'They're beautiful masterpieces. Read the most popular one.' She snuggled into him again as he laid down his glass.

'Alright.' He chose The Raven, one of is most prolific poems and began to read.

'Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' '

He looked over to see her head bowed, her arms limp, her dreams of Ravens and velvet curtains. Gently he stood up and guided her head onto the cushions. From underneath the love-seat he pulled a blanket and carefully laid it over her sleeping frame, he took a few minutes to tuck her in, ensuring she would be warm.

Taking his tumbler an book he retreated to the bedroom door but paused on the threshold. P-90 lovingly watched the silhouette as her chest rose and fell, lighted by the fire.

'Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'

He whispered it softly, not to wake her, a slow smile spread across is face as he retreated to the shadows.

'Oh my beautiful Lenore.'