Carrying her oversized hiking pack, the Doctor led Rose down the TARDIS corridor. He’d said hardly a word since they left London ten minutes ago. Rose had a pretty good idea why he was so quiet: she was moving into his TARDIS. He’d invited her to travel with him, there was no question about that. But she had the distinct feeling he didn’t mean to invite her hairbrush and her lip gloss and her underwear — or anything about her that bore the hint of domesticity.
The Doctor stopped in front of the room where she’d taken a nap after Platform One and Cassandra and the end of the world. “Did you like this one? There are plenty of others. You might as well pick one you like.”
Rose peered down the corridor, which stretched out of sight. “Well, this is pretty close to the kitchen and the media room, yeah?”
The Doctor shrugged. “It is today. Might not be tomorrow.” He glanced at the ceiling with a fond half-smile. “Depends on how the old girl’s feeling.”
“What about your room? Are you somewhere down there?” she asked, nodding at the seemingly infinite corridor.
Wrinkling his forehead, the Doctor shifted from one foot to another. “This room or not?” he snapped, his words impatient, an ineffective attempt to hide his discomfort.
“This one’s great,” Rose replied with a shrug. Fine. Let him be embarrassed.
“Right, in you go,” he said, nudging open the door with his shoulder and stepping across the threshold to drop her backpack on the floor.
Rose followed him inside and came to a dead stop, mouth agape. “Are you sure this is the same room?”
“I think I know my own ship, thanks,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “You not happy with it now?”
“No,” she said, a grin breaking over her face. “No, I love it!”
Before, the space had been comfortable enough, but much like a hotel room. Generic. Unremarkable. Plain furniture, plainly colored, plainly arranged.
Now, the room was lush with details, every one of them exactly what Rose would have chosen if she’d been given the choice: a pale pink comforter instead of white, a four-poster bed, a dressing table with nooks and crannies for her makeup and ponytail holders. The closet door was cracked just enough to reveal clothes, each item looking as though it had been plucked off the rack of her favorite store.
“Did you do this?” she gasped, throwing open the closet door and touching the hoodies inside.
“Do what?” The Doctor stared at Rose in genuine puzzlement.
“Everything’s different. Everything’s perfect!” she said, dashing to the bed, flinging herself onto the comforter.
The Doctor leaned against the bedpost and crossed his arms, watching her as she experimentally squished feather pillows. “The TARDIS wanted you to feel welcome, I suppose.” He paused. “The old girl likes you. She’s glad you’re here, Rose.”
His accent had deepened a little and he was staring at her, eyes very dark and very blue at the same time. Suddenly conscious of the fact that she was wallowing on a bed in front of the Doctor, she sat up and stared back. Her cheeks were burning, but she didn’t look away – she was flustered, but more than anything, she was curious.
The Doctor blinked and cleared his throat, the corners of his mouth turning up into a too-wide smile. “Welcome aboard, Rose.”
With that, he left the room.
