He slipped the apron over his head and tied the strings around his waist, making sure the knot was secure. Nothing worse than having your apron fall off, mid-stir. Rose was sitting at the kitchen table, a mug of tea in one hand and some sloppy 51st century romance in the other. He could smell the steam from her drink, could smell how its warmth picked up Rose's perfume and her own earthy, human-y scent and carried it over to him, even across the room. Books and tea and Rose, and was that butter on her fingers, from her toast?

The Doctor put the stew pot on the hob with perhaps a tad more force than necessary.

Rose jumped and twisted in her chair, facing him. She laughed. 'What on earth are you wearin'?'

'Not on Earth,' he reminded her, mildly. 'It's an apron.' The Doctor walked over to one of the large, industrial – well, Rose would call them industrial – refrigerator drawers and sorted through the identical looking packages. Plain white paper, neat labels with weights and species printed in clear Gallifreyan. He considered, for a moment, using Omphalos lamb, but quickly went with good, old Devon beef. Rose wouldn't be able to tell the difference and she got a little weird sometimes about "alien" meats. 'Dead useful, you know,' he continued, flashing her a bright grin. 'Keeps your jumper nice and clean, it does.'

'I know what an apron is, Doctor,' Rose told him slowly, as if he were being particularly thick. 'I was wonderin' why you were wearin' one.' The lovers in her book were forgotten now that she was focusing all her attention on him.

'Well, that's a different question entirely!' From the vegetable drawer he pulled out celery and onion and carrots and potatoes, piling them up on the counter until they threatened to roll off on to the floor. They didn't though, of course, because he stacked them just so.

With his head in the cupboard he only just caught Rose's exasperated sigh. 'Why are you wearin' an apron?'

He frowned. 'I told you – keeps your jumper tidy.'

'You are impossible!'

'Nah, you're too simple.' Relenting, finally, he put down the cans of Guinness and tomato paste. 'I'm going to teach you how to make stew.'

It was obviously not what she was expecting. Rose scrunched her nose in confusion. 'Isn't that a bit, you know – domestic?' She said the word carefully, practically italicising it.

'Stew's not domestic. Stew's stew. Domestic is mothers and fightin' about laundry and worryin' about how you're going to get to work on Monday since the car's in the shop.' He grabbed a head of garlic and too much parley and added them to the collection.

Rose took her mug of tea and wandered over to where he stood, leaning back against the counter. 'I'm going to have to start makin' a list,' she teased, shaking her head. ''Cause I reckon "domestic" just happens to be anything you don't like.' She sipped her drink and looked at him over the rim, her eyes laughing.

''Course it isn't,' he said, hiding his grin by ducking down to get out a bottle of olive oil. 'Not as if I said that blue hoodie of yours is domestic.'

'Oi, what's wrong with my hoodie?'

He gave her a withering look. 'That hoodie, Rose Tyler, is a menace. Moulting angora everywhere. I'll be lucky if the TARDIS doesn't cough up a furball.' The Doctor handed her a chopping board and waved towards the knife block. 'Now, make yourself useful and start cutting up those carrots.'

Rose gave him a lazy salute and set to work slicing the vegetables. He allowed himself to watch her for a moment, appreciating how open she was to whatever task or adventure he presented her with – she threw herself into everything, even something as mundane (not domestic) as preparing dinner. Shaking his head to clear it of the fuzzy-edged, pink-tinged thoughts, the Doctor began the process of cubing the meat into perfect, equal chunks.

As they worked, he explained the reason behind the flour coating ("Thickens up the stew a real treat"), the evenness of the pieces ("Makes sure things don't get overdone before other bits have had a chance to cook – oi, stop eating the celery, you!") and the addition of tomato paste ("Depth of flavour. Wouldn't want a bland stew after all this work, now would we?"). Rose was hardly a natural in the kitchen – he had to show her the best way to hold the knife so she had better control and wasn't likely to slice off a finger – but she could anticipate what he needed before he asked and would be there, at his elbow, offering the onions or opening up a can of Guinness.

Soon the kitchen was full of humid, fragrant air, the smell of beef and vegetables and beer. He put the lid on the pot and took off his apron, throwing it across the chair for later. Rose was smiling up at him, that look on her face – the one she had when he'd done something mad and wonderful and had probably saved hundreds of lives. The Doctor felt a familiar prickle of warmth at the back of his neck: part embarrassment, part obscene pleasure. 'What?'

She shook her head, the look still there. 'S'nothing. Just, you're brilliant, you know that? Is there anything you can't do?'

Uncomfortable, he just shrugged. 'I can't say I've ever done my taxes. I'd probably be rubbish at it. Hate forms, me.'

Rose laughed and refilled their mugs with fresh tea. When she had handed him a cup and was seated back at the table, opposite him, she grew more serious. 'We've been travelling together for months now – it has been months, yeah? Hard to keep track.' At his nod, she continued. 'Anyway, this is the first time I've seen you make a meal. Like, a proper, eat-with-cutlery meal. Usually it's just cheese toasties and Weetabix.' She met his eyes and asked: 'Why'd you want to do this today?'

He crossed his arms over his chest and leant back in the chair, knowing, even as he did so, that the actions would come across as defensive or evasive. She'd asked him the question he hadn't wanted to answer – hadn't even wanted to think about, really. In the last few years of the War simple things like having a proper sleep, or a hot shower, or a sit-down meal had been precious commodities. He'd learnt to live on very little, and when he'd regenerated, this leanness had followed him. To make a meal and let it simmer for hours, and then share it with someone? That was a lavish use of time and resources and company – something you only did for someone you cared about. Someone important. Someone who meant far too much to you.

'Rose Tyler,' he began, because he liked saying her name and it gave him time to come up with a response, 'do you honestly think I need a reason to make stew? 'Sides, I don't want your mother accusing me of not feeding you properly. They'd hear the slap in the Andromeda Galaxy.'

He saw her roll her eyes, her mouth turning down slightly at his flippant answer. She let it lie, though; after months with him, she'd become an expert at knowing when to press and when to withdraw. It made his palms itch and his hearts race with anxiety, the fact she knew him so well, but the thought of taking her home made him physically ill. It was getting to the point where he – the Doctor, the Last of the Time Lords, The Oncoming Storm – needed a nineteen-year-old shopgirl from 21st Century London just so he could breathe. And didn't that just scare him to death?

'The stew needs bread,' he said, abruptly. 'How do you feel about France?'

Rose's eyes lit up. 'Oh, oui! I feel très bien about France!'

They spent the day in 1957 Paris. Rose was a dreadful tourist and the Doctor complained loudly about her need to see the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe (even if she couldn't remember the name). She wore a beret and it looked pretentious, but after their coffee and pastry, when she licked the chocolate off her fingers, he found it hard to care. A bakery, cramped and blisteringly hot, sold them bread and the Doctor carried the loaves under his arm, his other hand holding Rose's as they walked along the winding, crooked streets. When they got back to the TARDIS the stew was done and they ate bowls of it standing at the stove, fishing out bits of beef and carrot to eat on buttered chunks of crusty baguette. She laughed and beamed at him and told him it was the best meal she'd ever had.

And that was the first time the Doctor and Rose made dinner.