Travelling through time and space, one often came across odd rituals and practices that other species may partake in, whilst finding them completely bonkers themselves. Having a morning routine is one of these funny traits and is only found in the human race. The Doctor had, at first, rejected the idea, labelling it as far too domestic for him and his superior Timelord mannerisms. Then Rose Tyler had come soaring into his life like a shooting star, beautiful, innocent and bursting with energy. After that, his views on the odd human ritual changed dramatically. Instead of rejecting it, he came to be intrigued, often questioning Rose as to why she arranged her mornings in such a way. Why did she always insist on having half a teaspoon of sugar in her tea? What made her put the spoon in the bowl before the milk and cereal? How could she stand toast that was, in his opinion, more like warm bread than actual toast? His curiosity grew as he spent more time with her and he found it increasingly difficult to pretend he didn't care. Part of him asked whether he would have shown the same interest had it not been Rose. Another part chastised himself when he realized the answer was no. A rather annoying part of his brain (a part he tended to try and shut out) urged him to take part, to sit with her or to make tea for the both of them when she woke in the morning, but he stubbornly refused, blaming the domesticity of the situation. Really it was because, in joining her routine, he would have to admit to himself how deeply he had fallen for this little human.
Then he regenerated
It took her a few days to accept that he was still the Doctor she knew and loved (though she'd never admit her feelings to him). Then his sweet, kind, trusting Rose had taken him back in entirely, easily falling back into their old routine. But for the Doctor, that wasn't enough. The new (new) him longed to be part of his beautiful human's routine and made the effort to squeeze himself into it where he could. He was surprised to find that he could do domestic for her and he was downright shell-shocked when he realized that he quite enjoyed it. Upon injecting himself into, what would become, 'their' routine, the Doctor saw it evolve in order to include him. Previously, she had stumbled into the TARDIS kitchen every morning to make herself tea and toast (cereal on the weekends). He had sat at the kitchen table opposite her, tea in hand, and observed his companion's half-conscious struggle through breakfast (Rose was not a morning person). Now, every morning he found himself making two cups of tea (strong with 3 sugars for him and milky with half a teaspoon for her) and taking them to her room (a necessary peace offering if he had to wake her up). Then he'd wake her up she'd shuffle over on her bed to make room for him to sit next to her. They'd stay in her room while they had their tea and they'd chat about the plans for the day or a previous adventure or sometimes something as normal as what they needed to pick up next time they stopped on Earth (and he said he didn't do domestic). Then she'd kick him out so she could shower and get dressed and he'd head back to the control room, where she'd stroll in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, after about half an hour. The Doctor had decided long ago that this was the best way to start a day of running for their lives and he couldn't really remember how he'd managed to cope pre-Rose.
Then came the battle at Canary Warf.
The following morning, the Doctor (who had actually gone to bed for a change) left his room and headed towards the kitchen. Like every other morning he boiled the kettle and made two teas (strong with three sugars for him and milky with half a teaspoon for her) to take to her room. Then, like every other morning, he sat on her bed and he talked to her about the day's plan, how he intended to find or create a Supernova or something similar (he didn't think she ever really paid attention when he was rambling). He emerged from her room an hour later and, like every other morning, took their mugs back to the kitchen to be washed. This ritual was both familiar and comforting; to him, same old breakfast, same old morning routine, he could almost pretend that nothing had changed, that was until he saw her mug of tea, untouched.
