Domestic

By Kate Carter

Disclaimer: Right. Yeah. Sure. If "Doctor Who" was mine, I would not currently have a grand total of $2.26 in my bank account (that's roughly ₤1.13 for you Brits). If you want to believe I own it, go right ahead and delude yourself. In which case, you should send me money to contribute to the budget costs.

A/N: Well, after my first DW fic (which I didn't think was that good) managed eight reviews and two favorite stories in less than a day, I decided I liked the genre! So here's my second contribution; not sure if it's any good either, because my poor brain has just suffered through two chapters of an incredibly boring textbook (wouldn't have to read it if I didn't fall asleep in class, though…) so I don't know what sort of quality it'll churn out tonight.

Ten/Rose. Basically a given with me, because I've fallen in love with that ship.

Pre-"Doomsday"

When had things become so…so…domestic?!

He was never domestic. He was a Time Lord. He traveled through space and time, never staying in the same place for longer than a couple days, always moving on to the next planet, the next era, the next adventure, the next near-death situation. That was life, always on the go. No time – no desire – for this oh-so-very-human housekeeping domesticity.

Why was it something he found himself craving now? Why was he so upset when something interrupted his comfortable – dare he say, domestic – lifestyle?

Yes, he was still on the move. Still traveling through space and time. Ancient Egypt one day, a billion light years and fifteen thousand years in the future the next. Saving the universe from dictators, despots, and Daleks. Avoiding death on a weekly – sometimes daily – basis. Every bit of it with Rose at his side.

He could come to only one conclusion.

It was all her fault.

It had started shortly before he regenerated. When you and one other person are all there is in the TARDIS, of course you'll talk a lot. But it was the breakfast that did it.

She would eat breakfast every morning, and even though he wasn't much of a breakfast person, he'd come in and watch. That progressed to sitting down. He'd just begun to nibble on some toast when he regenerated.

His latest regeneration was easily one of the more inquisitive ones. Oh, they all were inquisitive; you can't be a professional time traveler without an inquisitive streak. This one was just downright nosy at times, though.

Conveniently enough, this regeneration was a breakfast eater as well.

Breakfast had progressed to lunch and dinner. Oh, they had eaten meals together before; they would grab whatever the local specialty was on whatever planet they were on. Fast food was a universal invention. Flian tubers from Therian were nasty; onero cakes from Reala were excellent, but they couldn't be stored very long. The Doctor had fallen in love with chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream from good old Earth. Whenever they didn't get the local specialty, they scrounged for whatever was in the TARDIS cupboards. But Rose had requested they get some raw ingredients, and eventually, whenever they couldn't get the local specialty (which seemed to happen a lot more often now, strangely enough), they cooked their own meal. Or rather, attempted to. The hamburgers were nearly raw or else burnt; the spaghetti noodles somehow managed to form a solid lump. The cake, they agreed, had been rather good, although that may have also been because they had gotten into a fight with the flour while it baked.

This progressed to quiet nights sitting in front of the fireplace in the TARDIS library. Occasionally, they roasted marshmallows. This didn't quite have the same flavor as those roasted over a campfire, but they enjoyed them. Eventually, they sat on the couch – the loveseat, actually, but they both avoided that word – and watched the flames, his arm around her shoulders, her head on his shoulder. Occasionally, if it had been a really stressful day, her hand would creep over and grasp his free hand.

He came to enjoy the stressful days more than usual.

This progressed to sleeping in the same bed. It started off purely platonic; he had been passing her door one night while she was asleep, and he heard her crying out from a nightmare. He had immediately gone in, sat on the edge of her bed, and gripped her hand, stroking her forehead with his other hand while he spoke soft words of reassurance. She had awoken, and, still panicked, grabbed him and buried her head in his shoulder. He had rubbed her back until she'd fallen back to sleep, but when he tried to leave, she'd woken up and asked him to stay. So he'd kicked off his shoes and laid down with her. She buried her face in his chest and fell back to sleep, and while he held her, he realized how much he enjoyed it. He hadn't known how much he craved the contact, the feeling of holding another person in his arms. He hadn't realized how alone he was until he wasn't anymore.

And life fell into a comfortable pattern. Wake up together, eat breakfast, have adventure, make dinner, discuss the day in front of the fire before eventually falling silent and simply enjoying each other's company, go to bed together. So very domestic.

So very much what he had craved.

And then she suggested going back to London to visit her mother, and do the laundry. And his universe was never domestic again.