Rose likes to leave sticky notes about the TARDIS; little pink slips of paper with small scribbled notes to remind the Doctor to do things, think of things.
“There’s some tea in the kettle!”
“Don’t spend all night tinkering Doctor! Go to sleep!”
“I got leftovers from my night out with mum, help yourself!”
And each time, without fail, she signs them off with a “xoxo, Rose.”
The Doctor tries not to think about it, the way his hearts flutter in his chest when he sees it. That xoxo. Hugs and kisses.
“After we drop this laundry off at Mum’s and have tea, we’re havin’ a movie night, yeah?” Rose asks as they’re preparing to leave the TARDIS. Her orange duffel bag, stuffed with dirty clothes, is on her back and she holds the straps. She’s endearing and perfect and the Doctor takes a moment to stare. Just a brief one, a small indulgence. Then he’s in action with a jolt, flipping switches to put the TARDIS in park.
“Yep! Movie night! Even though, technically, there’s no night in the vortex…” he trails off and looks at her with a wry smile. She sticks her tongue out at him and his wry smile turns wide and uncontrollable. “Just have to make a few repairs to the TARDIS first; something’s upset her.”
Rose walks behind him and leans her head over his shoulder. She’s very close, and very warm, and very perfect.
But it’s platonic, what they have. It’s platonic and that’s all it’ll ever be. That’s all it ever can be.
It’ll hurt too much otherwise.
“Jus’ don’t forget like you did last time, Doctor,” she says, her breath in his ear.
“I’d never forget!” the Doctor, exclaims, affronted, “I remember everything, me.”
"You said that exact same thing last time,“ she singsonged while dropping her duffel to his feet. She walks out of the console room. “I’ll be right back, gonna put a sticky note down so you don’t forget about me while you’re doin’ your repairs,” she calls behind her.
His face turns mushy and blurred around the edges, his eyes soften as he watches her go, so very fond. “I could never forget about you,” he says, voice low so she can’t hear, as he watches her retreat down the hall.
He never makes the repairs.
It’s been years, centuries, a millennia, since the Doctor had run around with Rose, laughing and carefree and so very happy. His hair is just as out of control as it was in his two regenerations ago, only gray. And his forehead is wrought with frown lines that he didn’t frown, his cheeks creased with laugh lines that he didn’t laugh.
He’s doing repairs, hunched over in some room that the TARDIS had brought to him, rewiring some circuitry, blowing off dust. They’re both old, the old girl and him, both dusty and worn.
Something crinkles under his feet as he shifts on his haunches, and he looks.
It’s a pink sticky note, highlighted against the steel gray of the floor. And he recognizes it immediately, despite how long it’s been. Hot pink with a curlicue scrawl.
It must’ve fallen from where she’d stuck it on the wall.
He doesn’t want to read it. He does. The paper trembles like a leaf in his shaking hand.
“Don’t forget about me, Doctor! xoxo, Rose”
“I could never forget about you,” he says, voice low.
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