I wish you'd write a fic where Rose discovers the Doctor's sock drawer and teases him about his 2342523 pairs of socks. (The drawers are bigger on the inside)
Rose shut the dryer with her hip and picked up the laundry basket. Despite the Doctor’s occasional invectives against domestics, they still had to do some of the mundane chores that were just part of life.
A smile crept across her face as she pushed open the door to their room and dumped the clean clothes onto the bed. He’d been far more willing to indulge in domestics since he discovered washing up together usually ended with her damp hands in his hair as they snogged in front of the kitchen sink.
As she folded his socks, her imagination wandered to all the other ways their life had improved since they’d agreed after the Wire to stop pretending they were just friends. Saying it had been nice would be putting it mildly. As much as she’d wanted this with him, part of her had doubted it would ever happen.
“And now here I am, putting away his laundry. Just like last week, he took care of mine.”
Rose gathered an armful of folded socks and carried them to the bureau. He kept his socks and pants in the top drawer, but when she tried to open it, the drawer remained stubbornly closed. She huffed in exasperation and set down his socks on top of the bureau, then grasped both handles and pulled, hard.
A loud swoosh echoed in the room as the drawer slid open. And slid... and slid...
Rose stared down at the expanse of socks, then did the only thing she could. “Doctor!”
A moment later, she heard him running towards her. “What’s wrong?” he asked as he pushed the door open. “I heard...”
The Doctor stopped and blinked when he saw the sock drawer. “Oh. I don’t usually open it that far.”
Rose put her hand on her hip, and he winced. “Is your bureau bigger on the inside, Doctor?”
“Well, of course it is. I’m 1200 years old; I have a lot of clothes.”
She stared down at the open drawer. “There better not be any pants in here that you’ve had that long,” she warned.
“Nope. Of course not.” The Doctor made a mental note to get rid of the sacred pants of Rassilon that he’d gotten when he’d been made Lord President the first time.
She raised an eyebrow, then shook her head. “Why do you have this many pairs of socks?” She picked up a striped pair. “Do these even go with your suit?”
The Doctor snatched them from her and put them back in the drawer. “Those are festive,” he insisted. “If we went to the Callefair Festival on Pretis, I’d be at the height of fashion, wearing those.”
She pulled out a pair of plain black socks with a hot pink band at the toe and heel. “Doctor... These have the day of the week printed on them.”
“Yes! Because it’s impossible to match up black socks otherwise!”
“Doctor... We live in a time machine. Clothing with the day of the week... that’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it?”
The Doctor sniffed. “Rose, you don’t see me commenting on all of your personal items, do you?”
For a moment, Rose pursed her lips, and the Doctor knew she was holding back a laugh. Then she licked her lips and looked up at him through her eyelashes. “I don’t know, Doctor. You had plenty to say about what I was wearing last night.”
His throat went dry when he remembered the scandalously skimpy matching nightgown and knickers she’d worn the previous night. “Yep!” He tugged on his tie and swallowed, hoping to get rid of the squeak in his voice. “But that’s... you know... that’s different.”
Rose slid the drawer shut and sauntered over to him. “Maybe we could change the conversation? Less about your socks, and more about what I’m wearing tonight?”
“That is an excellent idea, Rose Tyler.”
