"So?" he questions, and it's obvious that he's on the edge of his seat waiting for her response because, Rose notices, his entire body is leaning precariously off, well, the edge of his seat.

"What?" she responds nonchalantly, quite sure that this sort of answer will most likely cause him to topple from his chair. She has tried this tactic often, this understated kind of response, and he hasn't yet realized that she only does it to see his face explode with emotion.

"What? Is that all? No 'Thank you Doctor for this amazing brew of ancient calming liquid' ? No 'Goodness, the vestige of rest is already upon me, how on earth can I thank you' ? Nothing like that? I just get a.. A What?"

She waits another second before a grin spreads across her face and laughter flows effortlessly past her lips. For a moment she almost doubles over, crippled with mirth, when she glances again at his almost blank but thoroughly questioning face. It soon subsides into giggles, however, as she tries to regain control of herself and slowly the giggles transform into a broad, knowing smile. There's a slight pause before his eyebrows raise, as if asking her what on earth she was going on about. He's not sure if this sort of question is actually communicable through the use of eyebrows, so his lips part with a very bewildered, "What?"

Rose ignores the questions and says, "So, this was made from potatoes?"

Unsure about the turn of subject but accepting it as the strange workings of the female mind, the Doctor stares at the cup for a moment before saying, "Yes. Well, not quite. Exactly. Very much."

She looks down at the tea again, her hands still curled perfectly around the cup. She brings her gaze back up to the Doctor and doesn't say anything. He sighs, and his hand involuntarily reaches up towards his head as his fingers slide themselves through his already disastrous hair.

"It started out with potatoes, yes, but it didn't end with them, exactly. Well, the recipe did, but it's really very.." he sighs again, with exasperation coloring it this time, before just beginning again with, "Quite honestly they're an odd sort of people, almost reminds me of you lot, actually," Rose hmphs as he continues, "and the mechanics of their cooking defy most explanation. Mind you, I helped their head chef with the actual recipe, told him potatoes would be an awful choice, considering their sordid past, what with causing revolutions and the like, and thankfully he agreed. Can't imagine the devastation a mistake like that would have caused. Would've tasted awful."

Disbelief was written clearly across Rose's face. For all intents and purposes, the word disbelief was scrawled in huge blocked-in letters over her features and could possibly be seen from eight or so kilometers away, though anything over ten would be seriously pushing it.

"Err.. The potato? Caused a revolution? What, did it refuse to be made into chips and pack it's things?" The laugh that chased the questions from her mouth was one of, dare it be said, disbelief.

"It's like I said, France is a different planet."

Rose doesn't respond immediately and instead raises the tea to her lips again, relishing the tastes across her tongue and the warm calm that reverberates through her chest after each swallow. She gently places it back onto the table and says, "France?"

"France," he replies again, smugness slipping into his smile.

"What about them? They had a revolution because that one King Louis spent all their money and there was practically no food, not because they liked chips."

"It was the sixteenth Louis, and it was because they didn't like chips."

The Doctor sat back in his chair and crossed both arms upon his chest, as if daring her to challenge his logic. Which is mostly a silly thing to do, because Rose is always up for a challenge, and, she thinks, Vegetables don't go around overthrowing governments. Even after visiting a (very respectable, in her opinion) number of planets and civilizations, the Doctor has never once mentioned anything along the lines of potatoes gaining the upper hand.

Unless they can eat you, she mentally amends, silently recalling a certain man-devouring plant on board. She settles into her chair and mirrors the Doctor's posture.

They're both sitting in silence, staring at one another, and she imagines how they would look in one of those American western films, all squinting eyes and arching brows and fingers inching towards their weapons. The TARDIS kitchen is a less than thrilling place to hold a duel, though she's quite sure it's entirely more dangerous than outside a saloon in the middle of the desert.

Her fingers sway towards the imaginary gun belt on her hip with, "I don't believe you."

"Don't believe me?" An eyebrow raises.

"Yeah, I don't believe you. Are you going to repeat everything I say?" Her eyes squint.

The Doctor's eyelids slowly move downwards until he thinks he's squinting like one of the pro's. If there were Olympics for squinting, he's pretty certain he would be a gold medalist (maybe even a three-time winner, considering how well he does it), and even considers visiting Blaosk to test this theory out.

Rose thinks he might have something in his eye.

"Maybe," he answers, re-opening his eyelids (his orbicularis muscles need a bit of strengthening if he's going to be squinting for such a long while), and Rose just assumes he got the eyelash or whatever it was irritating him out of his eyes.

"Well we won't get very far if you continue doing so."

"Surely not."

Rose un-crosses her arms and wraps her hands around the cup of tea once again. The Doctor does almost the same, though since he has no tea to occupy his hands, he instead leans forward to spread them across the wood of the table.

"Right," he says. "French Revolution."

"Earth, throughout it's history, has had little tiny ice ages, where the temperature drops a few degrees," he explains. "The fact of the matter is, even if it doesn't seem like much, a few degrees has an enormous impact when it comes to your agriculture."

To further explain to her, or perhaps because his hands weren't terribly fond of remaining idle, the Doctor accompanies his speech with his arms outstretched, his hands curving to form what Rose assumes is a representation of the planet and the wiggling of his fingers as air currents. She drinks the tea as she listens, watching his motions, and for a moment or two her vision swims, apparently deciding to take a short holiday. It doesn't take long for her world to right itself again, and her ears continue to pick up the rise and fall of the Doctor's historical monologue.

"Now, the French were traditionalists. While everyone else was enjoying the amazing versatility of the potato, particularly the Irish you'll find, the French just said 'We'll stick to our wheat, thanks. We don't mind that we've had terrible crops and the masses are starving, we'd just like to stay with what we know.' Not their finest moment."

Rose begins wondering if he enjoys the history of produce slightly more than he does the actual revolution, remembering in particular his unusual attachment to the banana. She continues sipping the tea regardless.

"Now, King Louis, the sixteenth that is, is an all right bloke. He's perfectly fine eating your lumpy, odd-looking vegetable, and even tries to get some of the people to start eating it as well."

The Doctor's tone is becoming both entirely more serious and infinitely excitable, and he's talking about the clergy and how they thought the potato was evil since they grow underground. His features blur, and she blinks, hard, to make her eyes focus properly on his face again. She feels cold suddenly, and brings the tea to her lips, intent on feeling the warmth that spreads through her system upon drinking, only to find the cup empty; a few shimmering leaves reflecting the white light of the kitchen.

She stares at the shape of them, the color oscillating between deep red and muted violet, and comes to the conclusion that the left crinkled leaf most resembles a Florlkian nose.

An uncertain "Rose?" reaches her ears. There's a second or two of silence before she thinks, Oh. I'm supposed to respond.

"Doctor," she says. Her mouth seems to take its time forming the syllables, and she returns her attention to the Doctor. Her eyes relay that everything is in slow-motion, and Rose is almost certain that the air has become thicker, that simply moving is impossible and swimming might be the better idea.

"I don't know if I like swimming," she hears herself saying. The Doctor is grinning and his hands have returned to their splayed position on the table. Too cheeky by a half, she mentally tells him.

He grins wider.

"I think, Rose Tyler, that you need some sleep."

She responds by lying her head on the table. "Just another minute, please," she replies slowly.

"Another minute of what?"

Rose can feel herself drifting off, and the will to move into a bed seems to have packed it's belongings and left for an indefinite period of time.

She registers a far off squeak of the chair sliding against the floor, and a few seconds later can feel hands gripping her by the shoulders.

"C'mon you," a voice says. "Off to bed."

The Doctor lifts her off the chair, quickly placing an arm around both her shoulders and stoops to swing up her legs with the other. Rose's arms are tucked against her chest, and the Doctor adjusts his footing to evenly distribute her weight for easier carrying.

Rose can feel herself moving and grips part of the Doctor's jacket sleepily so she won't slip from his grasp. She's almost completely asleep when she hears his voice, vibrating from his chest, traveling from lungs to larynx to cool air.

"Rose?"

"Mmh?"

"I'm rather fond of this jacket."

"Mmmhm?" She presses her face closer into his chest, absorbing the heat his body unknowingly provides. Perhaps he really doubles as a space heater, and all the Time Lord business is just a cover-up. Like an oven. Or one of those kitchen things. There's a pause in her thoughts as she feels the grip around her tighten. He's a toaster!, she thinks idly.

The Doctor looks down at the nearly sleeping human in his arms, loosely clutching the fabric, and he can see a smile in the folds of the pinstripes. Her mouth falls open slightly, and her breath is warm against the cloth, seeping into his skin.

"Took me a good while to find, you know." She presses her face deeper into his body, feeling the double beat resounding inside.

"Rose?" he says again.

He thinks she answers with a murmur or whisper of something.

"Try not to drool, okay?"

The only response he receives are small, even breaths.

"Right," he sighs. He arrives at her door and looks down again. "Dream about the plains of Emii," he tells her, "Dream about the skies of Ploria. Think about tea and chips and those ridiculous pair of socks you always wear when you think we'll need the luck. Stop worrying me about the next time we can go shopping, and if I'm really making the right decisions."

He steps inside her room, maneuvers around a pair of running shoes, and tucks her into the bed. "That last one is particularly irritating," he tells her. He stands watching her for a moment before slipping out the door and carefully closing it behind him.