He's like fire and ice and rage...

allrightfine:

gallifreyburning:

When they get back to London, one of the first things Rose does is take the Doctor shopping — even the clothes that hadn’t been with him on the island seem to have sand in the pockets, nothing fits quite right, and he needs new pinstripes.

A fresh start, Rose tells herself, tells the Doctor. So they go to the tailor’s.

The Doctor is standing up on a little round stool, seamstresses circling him like piranhas measuring prey. Over the last five minutes, his frown has been deepening. He’s getting restless, it’s plain on his face (still so tan, freckles dark across the bridge of his nose), and he’s not his usual conversational self. He finally reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and pulls out his wallet, tossing it to Rose. 

“Go ahead and settle up the account, would you?”

She’s at the counter, digging around inside the battered leather wallet for a credit card, when she finds them. Two pictures of her, crinkled and creased and folded at the corners. She’s in hoodies, a few of the ones the Doctor gave her during their first tour together. These are pictures from the day of their gig in Thailand.

She remembers these being taken, remembers the way the Doctor had pulled out his phone and started snapping away as they sat outside for lunch. And then started it up all over again after he’d accidentally spilled part of that lunch all over her, forcing her into a change of clothes.

The track jacket, all blue and retro and “This is a classic style, Rose Tyler!” — it’s one of those things that he bought for her, but in a small men’s size, so he can ostensibly wear it, too, if the mood strikes.

(It doesn’t escape her attention that the mood almost never strikes until after she’s worn it, just barely too big, brushing her thighs, but tighter around her chest and the way he wrinkles his nose against the collar weeks later, “I smell like you!” but there’s a smile there, and she always catches that, too.)

His clothes now, the ones they’re fitting him for, she’d watched the tape as the tailors had worked and he’s so thin, measurements like a teenager and some of those hoodies, they’d be baggy on him now.

She pays the bill, making a note of the total for the records the Doctor definitely doesn’t keep and tucks the receipt into his wallet, right next to the photos of her.

There’s pictures of him in her wallet, too, the first two squares of a photostrip from a booth in Los Angeles and a shot of him onstage, caught in a Mick Jagger pose, that she’d torn from a magazine with a laugh, the Doctor watching in horror as she’d tucked it next to her credit cards.

Next to the photos though, is the note he’d written her when he’d gotten her that first hoodie, such a long time ago, the small masculine print — letters she’d traced over a thousand times while he was stuck on that island.

She turns back to the cashier without thinking about it, asking to see the pen again, and with a quick glance over her shoulder, she scribbles out her own note, on the back of the day’s receipt: I love you.

He finds it Provence. 

(Source: a-girlish-silhouette)

karmaplus:

Doctor Who episode posters→ The Unquiet Dead S01E03