A part of him, the part that has always been secretly a masochist — throughout most of his regenerations — would have loved a copy of their fight. A DVD, a 23rd Century Data Transfer Chip, or even a VHS would suffice. Anything that would allow him to slow down, zoom in, pause and rewind the two hours they spent circling each other, ripping open wounds poorly healed. Without a time machine, it would be the easiest way to see if Rose's face had registered shock or resignation when he tossed half a dozen good-bye letters at her, the ones she left in the filing cabinet for after her final dimension hop. In a freeze frame, he could analyse the set of her mouth. See if she flinched when he said, "You thought you were going to die", or if he was the one to falter when she countered with, "No, I thought I wasn't coming back."

It would also tell him the exact moment the fighting had moved on to kissing, then on to pressing her against the wall, her fingers tearing at his shirt and his mouth latched on to her neck.

Because, thinking back on it, the Doctor was really, truly, at a loss. He didn't know what he might have said that pushed them from shouting to snogging, but if there was some magic word or key phrase that did it, he would very much like to know what it was. That would be something to write down and keep in his wallet next to his driver's license and a reminder from Rose about pears (even pear schnapps was out of the question, something he had a tendency to forget after a few drinks).

The hypothetical recording had one flaw, and it was that it couldn't tell him what Rose was thinking, or how she felt about him after their blazing row. And that, above all else, was what had made him itchy with panic as he waited for her to come home from work the next day. She'd left for Torchwood as usual — quietly, efficiently, half-way down the street by 7.30 — with no indication that the night before they had done anything more interesting than watch television and have a curry. The unfinished business gave him the impossible urge to visit an adjacent galaxy and, when he couldn't scratch that itch, a churning stomach no amount of Tums could cure.

He had no work to do, no books to read. All his friends were her friends, and all Torchwood personnel besides; he couldn't pop by without running into Rose and making things more awkward than they already were. The TARDIS made an unimpressed noise in the back of his head when he tried to lavish some attention on it — clearly the growing stages of a time ship included the requisite adolescent embarrassment at its parents. All he could do was putter about her flat.

And the Doctor hated her flat.

It was odd, the feeling, because it wasn't hate how he remembered it — huge, consuming; as intense as a black hole and twice as ancient as the universe. It was a slow, grinding hate. It crept up on him as he whiled away hours, days and weeks, penned in by the thin walls marking off Rose Tyler's property from those of her neighbours. It was entirely domestic.

Two weeks after arriving in Pete's World he'd stumbled across the listing for her flat, printed out and stuffed in one of the drawers in her work desk. One bedroom, the real estate agent had written, open plan living space; amenities; great views; close to business district and zeppelin station. The slip of paper didn't mention the furniture thrown together carelessly from what she'd found in an IKEA showroom, or the way her 'fridge stopped humming around 3AM, groaned to itself, then resumed. There was absolutely nothing about her couch, and how it was comfortable so long as you were 5'5 and weren't sleeping on it night after night. It did say there were fine parquet floors and stainless steel appliances.

After spending an hour staring at the ceiling (lofty, with gorgeous decorative moulding, the breathless voice of an imaginary real-estate agent said in his mind), listening to his single heartbeat and thinking of all the things he'd given up to be with Rose Tyler, the Doctor realised that human relationships were far trickier than he'd originally thought. He also realised that he was probably being a bit of an arse. A sulking arse. Could arses sulk? Rather than ponder that particular question, he grabbed his coat, ruffled a hand through his hair, then got the hell out of her flat.

Walking down the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets, he tried to figure out what would make him happy. He'd tried making Rose happy and that had failed a bit — she was so independent, this Rose who had travelled through dimensions; she'd forgotten what it was like to rely on someone else, or even how to take something for granted. She didn't need him to bring her tea at her desk, or to pick up her keys when they missed the hook. She didn't even need him to turn off the TV if she fell asleep on the couch (she said the low hum of voices and music was soothing!). The Doctor worried, and probably with good reason, that she didn't, in fact, need him. For once in his very, very long life, he felt completely extraneous.

His musings were interrupted by him passing a corner store. A quick glance at the display in the window reminded him of exactly what he needed to cheer himself up.

Thirty minutes — and four shops — later, he was on the phone to Pete.

'Jelly Babies,' he said, holding the mobile up to his ear with one hand and pressing the crosswalk button with the other. Times like these made him wish he'd stolen the sonic screwdriver.

'Doctor, I don't know if that is a code word, or what, but if you're in trouble I'll have to call down to -,'

'No! It's not a code word — though, definitely a good one. I'll have to remember it for next time.' The lights changed and he set off across the street. 'Do you have Jelly Babies in your world?'

'Jellied babies? What? I'm actually in the middle of something -,'

He sighed into the phone. 'Jelly Babies. Come on, keep up, Pete. It's a sweet they had in Rose's universe. In the shape of a baby. Not a whole baby. A miniature baby. I haven't been able to find them. I've tried two supermarkets, a petrol station and a convenience store. They started making them to celebrate the end of World War I, and I...' the Doctor trailed off, rubbing at his mouth. He was very close to telling Pete that he a) had had a fight with his daughter and b) was about the lose the plot entirely. 'Look, I just want to buy a packet of lollies.'

The other man was quiet for a few moments, obviously trying to wrap his head around the bizarre phone call. 'Doctor, this universe didn't have a World War I, or a World War II. Just the Great War of 1923.'

'Oh,' the Doctor said, shoulders slumping. 'Right. Probably didn't take off, then. If they were ever made to begin with.' He sniffed and slowed down, moving out of the wave of pedestrians. He was lost, about six blocks from Rose's flat, but that didn't matter. Not really. 'Bit silly of me to be disappointed there there wasn't another war. All those people not dying, and all.'

'Are you all right?' Pete's voice was small on the phone, tinny. The Doctor thought about the narrow band of frequencies used in telecommunications, and not about an impending panic attack. 'Should I get Rose?'

'No,' he mumbled automatically, then, louder: 'No! I'm all right. Fit as a fiddle. Right as rain. Cool as a cucumber. All right as alliteration, you could say. Though, probably shouldn't - not very punchy, is it? OK then, Pete,' the Doctor winced at how strained he sounded. 'I'll let you go. Thanks for your help.'

'Doctor...'

'See you next Sunday! Love to Jackie and Tony.'

The Doctor ended the call and slipped the phone back in his pocket. It was cold on the street, and it was only made worse by the fact he remembered he hadn't been able to take his coat with him to the parallel universe. So. There was another con in the "Pete's World" column right there. Along with a general dearth of Jelly Babies, apparently.

He wandered for a while longer, then squared his shoulders and tried to recall a recipe he never thought he'd have to use.

Rose came home at 4PM. Really 4PM — Greenwich Mean Time and everything. He could check on the clock and in a minute's time it would be 4.01. He wouldn't be able to go back to 3.59. Not until the TARDIS grew larger, at least. The Doctor was so used to her coming home late, after 6PM at the earliest, later on days when her team were particularly useless, and so he... well... he sort of flailed when he heard the door open and her voice calling out: "Doctor?"

His arm hit the handle of the saucepan; the saucepan wobbled wildly, then gave up the fight with gravity and tipped; the bowl insert he'd been stirring toppled out and suddenly he was covered from mid-chest to mid-thigh in simmering water and sludgy melted gum arabic and sugar.

Almost immediately — allowing a few nanoseconds for nerves to kick in — he was grateful for his predilection for layers. The mixture spread across his jacket and trousers, trying to soak through to skin. The moment he felt the heat, he gasped, but Rose was already there, her hand tugging his to keep him from touching the mess and dragging him out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.

She shoved him into the bath, shoes and tie and trousers and all, and he landed hard on his backside, the jolt travelling all the way to the back of his skull. Her hand twisted the tap of the shower-head and then water was pouring down on to him; the patch of liquid, sugar and jelly on his shirt hissed once, then went silent. He gaped up at her through the spray.

'Are you all right?' Rose asked, toeing off her leather heels and shrugging out of her coat. 'Are you burnt?' Rather than wait for his answer, she entered the shower as well, bending down to tug his shirt out of his waistband and begin on his buttons.

'What?' His voice was sharp, loud in the small space of her bathroom. 'What are you doing?'

With her kneeling in front of him, he could see that her face was a blank mask of Torchwood professionalism. Her eyebrows were not drawn together in concern; her teeth did not gnaw at her bottom lip; she didn't even call his name in a shrill, panicked voice. All that gave away her worry was her eyes, level with his own, darting, assessing; continually flicking back to his face. 'You spilt — what is this? edible napalm? - all over yourself. I'm trying to cool the residual heat.'

She finished unbuttoning his shirt, opening the material and moving his t-shirt out of the way to reveal the tender skin of his stomach and chest. The Doctor glanced down and saw a spreading stain of pink where the super-heated sugar had landed on his clothes; even through three layers, he'd caused himself damage.

'Oh,' he said, stupidly. He sat up and pushed off the sodden weight of his clothing, glad Rose was there to help when his jacket caught around his elbow. 'It doesn't look too serious.'

She hummed noncommittally and nudged him so he laid back, legs stretched awkwardly in the tub, the faucet for the bath pressing into his back. Like this, the water hit the burned area directly, hurting at first, but soon soothing the pain. Rose hadn't mucked around with comfort — only cold, icy cold, water came out of the shower head, making him shiver and his flesh go thankfully numb. His trousers were soaked, and he could tell that the red dye of his canvas shoes would bleed into his socks, but it was hard to care when Rose was there, her shirt going see-through as it grew wetter and wetter.

'You came home early. I wasn't... I thought you were still angry,' he told her, some minutes later. The Doctor hoped it would be enough to explain his surprise, non sequitur though it was.

Rose's hair had turned dark blonde, almost to her natural brown, as it got soaked, and it was slicked down against her head. Tendrils of it latched on to her chin, her neck and shoulder, pasted on to damp skin. She looked like she'd been washed ashore; a nymph in laddered stockings.

Her mouth twitched and she almost smiled. 'No,' she said, slowly, carefully. 'I'm not angry.' She pretended to give his stomach a closer examination. 'Why would you think I was still angry?'

He let out a puff of air. 'We had a fight, Rose.'

'Yeah, and then we had sex,' she shrugged, as if that was any kind of response. As if it was self-explanatory. When he didn't reply, she continued: 'We're gonna have fights, Doctor,' she looked up, her eyelashes spiked and dusted with water droplets. 'And afterwards we'll have make-up sex, and then what we were fightin' about? It doesn't matter any more.'

'Oh,' the Doctor breathed. 'Make-up sex. Right.'

Rose smirked. 'Were you still angry with me?'

'No!' He said at once. 'Not really.' Well, not now that she said she wasn't angry... 'Maybe.'

'It's OK if you are.' She brushed back his hair, combing it so it was tucked behind his ears. If he didn't put it to rights before it dried she'd probably make fun of him for hours — which hardly seemed fair, given that she was the one messing up his hairstyle in the first place. 'It's not like the problems went away. I just...' Rose shrugged, looking younger, but also more tired, 'I can't be too angry, 'cause we finally got that stuff out in the open, yeah? And we couldn't keep goin' with it all bottled up.' Her hands framed his face, curving around his jaw; her thumbs brushed his cheekbones, warm against the coolness of his skin, despite the shower they were sharing. Rose's eyes lit up with humour as she added: 'Besides, it was givin' me terrible heartburn.'

'Me too,' the Doctor confided. He felt very humble, in the face of her maturity, but also very thankful. Navigating time and space? Easy. Working his way through the intricacies of human relationships? He didn't stand a chance, not without Rose Tyler. 'I should have realised. About you tying up loose ends before you jumped.'

'Yeah, didn't want another 12-hours/12-months fiasco,' she said wryly. Rose scrubbed at her face unselfconsciously with the back of her hand, wiping away some of her running mascara. 'I'm glad, though. I don't know if I told you, but I am. Glad to be back with my mum. And dad and Tony.' She paused and nudged the sloppy leg of his trousers with her foot. 'And you. Of course.'

His heart felt fit to burst with all the emotions he kept having. All she'd said were words, ones she used almost every day. How could it be that, when rearranged in that order, it could make him feel amazing; content; home, even in a freezing cold shower? The Doctor had no where else to put them, the feelings, didn't know what else to do, so he tried to show her by surging forward suddenly, capturing her lips with his own. He clutched her close and kissed her, desperately.

Rose melted against him, trailing one hand along his throat until it rested on his shoulder. Her lips moved against his, opening, deepening the kiss and introducing marvellous things like tongues and teeth and the little flick against his lower lip that had him gasping and bucking his hips underneath her — somehow she'd fallen into his lap, and, well, he certainly wasn't going to let her go, not now, so he yanked at her silk blouse (utterly ruined, he realised with the small portion of his brain left to cognitive thought) and fumbled for the zip of her skirt.

Rose pushed at his shoulders, breaking free of their kiss. One look at his face had her giggling, and he was almost tempted to stand up and find a mirror — he couldn't understand what was so funny about his expression. Surely it wasn't that ridiculous. 'Oh, don't give me those puppy dog eyes,' she said, shaking her head. 'I'm not shagging you in the bathtub.' She paused, then added: 'Well, not without a lot more hot water and some bubbles.'

For a moment he considered taking her up on the challenge — it must have been a challenge, why else would would she have said it? - but then he realised he was literally having a cold shower, and it was having the advertised effect on his ardour. Instead of something devastatingly witty, he said, 'Are you shagging me in the bed?', trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

She rolled her eyes, but didn't say "no", which was practically encouragement. Rose set about turning off the water and helping him out of the tub. Dripping together on the bathmat, they shucked off their clothes with numb fingers, letting the garments go splat on the tiled floor. He tried to focus on unknotting the lace of his trainer, perching his bum on the side of the bath, but there were goosebumps on the back of Rose's thigh, and she was blushing, just a little, enough to make the top of her chest go a pale pink.

'Miss Tyler,' he drawled, looking up at her, 'are you embarrassed?'

'Shut up,' she laughed, grabbing a towel — he loved those towels, the ones she'd stolen from the Tyler Mansion by accident, all soft and expensive and big enough for two — and wrapping it around her waist. 'I've only seen you naked six times. Still gettin' used to it.'

'Well, I think it does improve with further — hang on, six times?' He tossed his shoe into the corner of the bathroom and gave her a steely glare. 'I've only taken my kit off for you five times.'

Rose rubbed a towel through her hair and grinned. 'If you can't keep track of how often you're naked, I'm certainly not going to do it for you.' She bundled the second towel around her head so her hair was contained; he rather missed the anemone quality it had going, even if it wasn't practical. 'Go lie down on the bed. I've got to find the burn cream.'

The Doctor finished taking off his shoes, and the rest of his clothes for that matter, and dried himself briskly with the remaining towel from the rack. Knotting it around his waist, he walked into the bedroom, feeling, as always, the strange mixture of giddiness, excitement and disbelief that he should actually be there, looking at Rose Tyler's queen bed, and her bra slung over the top of the closet door, and the pool of his navy shirt, still crumpled on the floor where he left it the night before. Rose returned, first aid kit open and balanced in her arms, head bowed as she searched through it for some tube or tub of ointment. She glanced up and gave him a pointed look, so he laid on the bed with as much dignity as he could muster — not an awful lot, unfortunately, since he was only in a towel.

'What's the prognosis, Doctor?' He asked, treating the title with as much reverence as he usually gave "Rose Tyler".

He was rewarded with a smile of recognition — it tugged at the left side of her mouth and curled upwards. 'Oh, I think you'll pull through.' Rose put the box of bandages and painkillers to the side and sat next to him on the bed, taking out a tube of something he knew couldn't be bought over the counter. He'd have to do something about all the hospital-grade medicine she had kicking about her flat. 'Looks like a first degree burn — like you said, not too serious. We stopped the heat transference pretty quickly, but it's still a bit larger than I would've liked.' She uncapped the tube of burn cream and applied some to his chest; he winced at the coolness of it, and at the irritation he felt when she began to rub it in. 'You are such a baby.'

'Am not,' he muttered. It was a reflex at this stage.

Rose extended her arm, smoothing the cream into the skin on his belly. The initial iciness of the ointment had turned into a not unpleasant coolness, an almost-but-not-quite numb feeling that was really rather nice. Whatever Torchwood put in its medical supplies, it was good and fast and maybe it would be worth keeping around after all. Rose tilted her head to get a better look at him. 'I have to ask: what on earth were you making?'

The Doctor closed his eyes. He was still getting used to being open with her, just letting his thoughts and secrets come spilling out. He didn't need to actually see her as he did so. 'Do you remember Jelly Babies? From your universe?'

'Hmm,' she murmured, her hand pausing in its movements as she thought. 'I think so. Chewy, sort of fruit flavoured but not that much. Dusty. I think Shareen used to bite their heads off.'

'They weren't dusty,' he groused. 'They were starchy.'

Rose made a tsk noise. He heard her sorting through the first aid kit again. 'They left a dust on your fingers and your clothes. They were dusty.'

'Moving on,' the Doctor said, making his tone sharp. She prodded him in his uninjured ribs, then placed a contrite kiss where her finger had poked. He opened his eyes and watched as she began to attach gauze on his burn to keep the cream from rubbing off. 'I tried to find them at the store,' the Doctor continued, 'but they don't make them in this universe.'

'So you thought you'd give it a go? In my poky kitchen?' She bit off a length of medical tape and smoothed it across his skin.

'It's not "poky". It's "cozy". That's what the real estate agent said.'

Rose rolled her eyes. She grinned, though, her tongue catching between her teeth. 'Either way, it's not suitable for industrial candy-making.' Her fingers secured down the last of the gauze and she batted his knee, making him shift over on the bed and give her space. 'That's you done.' She settled herself on her side, propping up her head with her hand. 'Dad called me, by the way.'

'And what did Papa Tyler have to say?' The Doctor knew she wouldn't fall for the lightness of his tone, but it was expected of him, he was sure of it.

'Said you were on the verge of a meltdown,' she raised her eyebrows, daring him to contradict her father. 'Called me back to Torchwood and everything.' Rose scrunched up her nose. 'I should get you to do that on Friday when I'm meant to have that meeting with -,'

'Don't,' he said, a hot feeling squirming in his stomach. He realised, with a grimace, that it was shame and embarrassment. 'I had a bad day, Rose. That's all it was.'

She was silent for a moment, then nodded, seeming to accept it. 'Yeah, all right.' Her hand crept across the mattress until it found his own; she entwined their fingers, squeezing briefly. 'I'm here, Doctor. I don't believe what the other Doctor said, about you bein' broken and full of fire and all the other rubbish. You might be a bit dented 'round the edges, but I think you're mostly good.' He laughed at her comparing him to some dinner service she could flog on eBay. 'But if you need me, I'm here, OK? I love you.'

'Ohhh,' he murmured, involuntarily, finally hearing what she was saying. Rose gave him a questioning look but he waved her off, preferring to move closer so he could kiss her.

He'd been so stubborn and stupid — mostly stupid, really — dismissing the other Doctor's parting words; anger and self-loathing made suddenly far more corporeal had made him deaf to the truth in what he'd said. And then, after the TARDIS had dematerialised and after they'd journeyed back to London, he'd been so caught up in what he'd lost, and what he couldn't give Rose that he'd forgotten that she just wanted him. Wanted to help him, too, if he needed it. And he did need Rose, always had; it didn't change just because he couldn't take her to the stars or back to the dawn of civilisation. The hot feeling came back as he thought about what a miserable git he'd been, hung up on the idea he was only good to Rose as a full Time Lord.

Against her mouth, he murmured: 'I love you, and I just realised something and now I feel like a space — no — a cosmic dunce.'

Rose pursed her lips in the way she did when she was amused and trying desperately hard not to smile. 'How's that?'

'Doesn't matter. What matters,' he said, tugging at the knot securing her towel in place, 'is that I don't think we had make-up sex last night.' The Doctor kissed her neck, licking her damp skin which tasted, somehow, even more like Rose.

'Oh?' She asked, and he was rather pleased at the breathy quality her voice had attained.

'Nope. Doesn't count if one partner doesn't know it's make-up sex.'

'Ah. Clever loop-hole.'

Afterwards she spooned him, her breasts pressed against his back and her hands stroking down his sides in idle, wonderful motions that were comforting and possessive in equal measure. Her fingers counted the ridges of his ribs, then tapped a nonsense rhythm on his hipbones.

It came to him then, and he glanced over his shoulder at her. 'Christmas day!'

Her hand went flat on his hip. 'What?'

'The sixth time — well, first time — you saw me naked. Christmas Day, wasn't it? After I regenerated.'

To his amazement, and delight, she blushed. 'Yeah, well, it was better than mum or Mickey seein' you, and those were the two choices.' Rose looked archly at him. 'Mum was right eager, too. Had to slap her hands away to keep her from having a peek.'

He groaned into the pillow. 'That — that — I did not need to know.'

Much later, when it was dark in their bedroom and they had brushed their teeth, the Doctor confessed his horrible secret.

'I hate your flat.'

Rose flopped on to her stomach. 'All right.'

'Is that it? "All right"?' He screwed his face up, though she couldn't see. He couldn't see her either, and his brain had to sketch in the details — he imagined her eyes bleary, her mouth slightly curved down as she listened to him. 'Aren't you humans meant to be obsessed with your homes? I'm disrespecting the House of Tyler - hang on, wait a minute, I'm getting my Shakespeare mixed up.'

She laughed. 'No, s'fine,' her voice was less polished, her original accent bleeding through with tiredness. 'I was thinking of movin' anyway. Where d'you want to live? S'gotta have doors, though. I'm negotiable on the carpets for the most part.'

The next morning they woke up late to sun shining through the extravagant plate windows. Neither felt inclined to cook, not with the congealed Jelly Baby experiment on the floor, so the Doctor threw on some jeans and a t-shirt (his suit lamentably still dripping water, hung over the curtain rod in the bathroom). Rose insisted he wear a jacket, even though it didn't seem that cold; when the first gust of wind ruffled his hair, he ignored her smug smile and just took her hand, making her yelp from his freezing fingers wrapping around hers.

Hand-in-hand they walked along the street outside their building, stopping at the cafe Rose passed every day. Here they ordered coffee, and bought fresh bacon and egg rolls, wrapped in wax paper. The Doctor looked at the dessert display case and Rose sighed, and bought an apple tart to share, as well. They ate their meal in a nearby park, lying on the lawn and getting grass stains on their clothes. The Doctor bought a newspaper and read the real estate section. He licked the brown sauce from his wrist and read out particularly effusive praise to Rose, who laughed and threw bits of paper at him, aiming for the mess of his hair. Later, she divided up the apple tart, the pastry crisp and sweet, and this time, finally, he was the one who licked her fingers, making her giggle hopelessly at the ticklish sensation.

And that was the first time Rose bought her Doctor brunch.