“First it was ash,” the Doctor complains as they re-enter the TARDIS. “Then soap-flakes, then foam — and goodness knows what that’s going to do to the old girl’s engines! I haven’t seen real snow in — oh, ages!”
“There was snow when we met Charles Dickens in London,” points out Rose.
“Oh,” the Doctor brightens visibly, “I’d forgotten about that. Very true. Still,” he adds, drawing out the word as he removes his coat, which is flecked in salt, “that was a while ago — and I haven’t seen snow with these eyes yet.”
“Well, there’s always tomorrow,” Rose says, stifling a yawn, heading down the ramp in the direction of the kitchen. The Doctor sends his ship into the vortex and follows her.
The TARDIS hums quietly to herself for a while before engaging sleep mode.
Rose and the Doctor enter the console room the next morning to find the air distinctly chilly and every surface heaped with fluffy piles of white coldness. The Doctor’s eyes gleam and he runs over to lick up a small heap of snowflakes with his tongue.
“Snow!” he exclaims in delight. “Proper snow at last! Brilliant!”
Rose decides not to bother asking how it can possibly be snowing inside the TARDIS. After all, this magic blue box seems to be able to manage anything, and surely the Doctor would know more about it than she does. Instead she busies herself with piling together heaps of the frozen flakes to begin making a snowman.
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