The colors are bleeding back into the universe.
He's standing barefoot in the observation gallery; a wide, plush-carpeted room with one wall completely transparent and open to the vastness of space. Outside, the nebula looks like he feels; a bright slash of color bleeding into the twinkling black sky, blue and purple melting into glittering reds and deep sea greens. It's a vanity the TARDIS has provided them with, a sort of homecoming gift, he expects, for Rose.
His ship has been doing all sorts of little things like that, since she's returned - the console room positively sparkles these days, and new rooms keep appearing: ballrooms, and rooms with gardens full of wildflowers, an entire wing devoted to chips and salt and vinegar. A whole new section of the wardrobe has opened up filled with the sorts of clothes Rose wears now - not hoodies and jeans but soft warm jumpers and smart leather jackets. What's more she's taken to smartening him up, even (and most especially) when he hasn't given any thought to it - she's hidden his usual ensemble in favor of a long jacket and waistcoat, new bow tie, new shoes. The hair is his doing (it had been getting a bit - unruly) but the rest is entirely the fault of his ship.
Rose is a long-lost queen, and the TARDIS is her steward, leading the whole kingdom in celebration at her homecoming.
"S'just like Krop Tor," says Her Majesty, her head on his shoulder, her hand sliding underneath his loose, unbuttoned shirt to scrape her fingernails lightly down his back. His flesh immediately puckers with goosebumps; he shudders, just a bit, tries to hang on to the question he was trying to form.
"Not much between us and space, I mean," she says. "And the hugging, too," she presses a kiss to his jaw. "S'nice, the hugging."
It's more of an apt metaphor than it appeared at first, he thinks as her mouth skims down his neck. An interminable separation from Rose Tyler, a breathless reunion, and then a room in the depths of his ship filled with their gasps and sighs as he relearns everything precious about his one and only faith.
"And the…dancing?" he says, his eyes full of her and oh bother but this body can blush.
He forgets himself soon after, though, because her arms are winding around his neck and her tongue is poking through her teeth and oh oh oh he hasn't seen that for two hundred years. Her mouth is under his before he stops to think about it first.
"Definitely," she says when he releases her, gasping a bit. "Definitely the dancing."
In a fit of whimsy he seizes her by the waist and they're properly dancing around the observatory, him barefoot in his trousers and unbuttoned shirt, her in her vest and pants and precious little else. But they might've been wearing leather and union jacks for all the attention they paid the outside world. He twirls her once, twice, and Rose falls laughing into his chest where his hearts haven't stopped beating just a little too rapidly.
"Despite it's flaws," he says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "That, was a wonderful day. King of them, in fact, and let me tell you, Rose Tyler, that I have discovered entire civilizations that weren't nearly as fascinating as learning that you have a birthmark," he pinched a soft, sensitive spot just beneath her breast, and she squeaks. "Just here."
He breathes in lungfuls of her scent, shifts his mouth just a little and tastes the salt of her skin. Moves it further still, and hears her gasp. "The best day I can remember, except one other."
"Yeah? An' what's that?"
She's the first blazing sunrise seen by a blind man; she's lemon drops and frosty snow-days and a painting by Van Gogh. Right now, she's the shivery anticipating that begins low in his stomach, the gooseflesh that rises on his body in waves with each passing swipe of her fingernails. Rose Tyler is the blissful silence in his head as every jittery thought is replaced by the rushing of his blood in response to her touch.
The hand scratching down his back slides around his waist, and the other slips to his bare chest, learning new planes, the odd freckle, a scar here and there. His hands, where she is concerned, have always been inclined to wander, and so he lets them map out familiar paths as he tries not to dwell too much on her rumpled hair, her swollen lips, or the blatant mark left by his mouth on her neck.
"Oh, don't you remember? Of course I was being rather impressive; I suppose it was distracting."
"Git," she laughs, smacking him lightly on the arm. "Tell me."
"It was a very important day, you see. I woke up, and it was just ordinary just, the boringest boring Thursday afternoon you can think of."
"And then?"
"Oh, you know this part, Rose Tyler. Just five hours ago," he brushed a kiss across her mouth. "The boringest boring Thursday became the day you came back to me."