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"Rose..."
The distant voice pulls Rose's attention away from her book; reluctantly, she sets it aside, and the cat curled in her lap makes a discontented noise at the movement. "What?" she calls back. There's no response. Well, it was worth a try.
She transfers the cat to the sofa in her place, rumpling a furry ear, and heads off in search of the Doctor. He's not in the kitchen, a quick check reveals. Or the bedroom. There are only so many places one can hide in a non-dimensionally-transcendental flat; she finally pokes her head into the bathroom and finds him leaning over the counter, eyeing himself critically in the mirror. He's wet from the shower, beads of water on his bare shoulders, towel tucked haphazardly around his waist. She leans on the door frame and takes a moment to enjoy the view.
"What is it?" she finally asks, and he jumps.
"How long have you been there? Never mind." He hands her a pair of tweezers. Her tweezers. "Help me get this grey hair."
He ducks his head so she can see where he's pointing. It's grey, no doubt about that, but she hesitates. "Just how many hairs do you want me to pull out?"
"Just the grey—oh. Oh, no. How many are there?"
She ruffles his wet hair, ignoring his indignant squawk. "Don't worry about it. I can't even find them now."
He turns back to the mirror, squinting to make the fine lines around his eyes crinkle. "I'm not ready to be old."
Rose hitches her hip up on the counter and examines his reflection with him. "Yes, forty-one is the verge of decrepitude. I'm getting you a Zimmer frame for your birthday."
"We should have said I was thirty, not thirty-five, when Pete set up my identity," he grumbles.
She jostles him with her elbow. "Come on. It's just a number. In your case, it's a fake number."
"I'm getting creaky, too. I threw my back out last week!"
"I told you that position would get uncomfortable," she says, and he can't help grinning with her at the shared memory.
She touches his arm. "A few grey hairs are no big deal. Really."
"How would you know?" He flicks her bleach-blonde hair where it falls to her shoulder. "You can't even tell if you've got grey hairs."
"Mum's roots are half grey," she says without thinking. "She says she'll never grow them out now." Oh, bugger, that's not going to help. "Er, not that I think you should dye yours. Grey looks good on you. It's… distinguished."
He sniffs with exaggerated distaste. "Distinguished. Mature. Old."
"Now, now. I never called you mature."
He smiles, as she hoped he would, but it's a little sad. "Rose, I want to grow old with you. I just didn't think it would happen so fast."
"You are not old." She runs her fingers lightly over his chest hair. "No grey here."
"Mmm," he says, apparently willing to concede the point.
She moves on, teasing at the trail of dark hair below his navel, following it down to the enticingly low edge of the towel. "Or here."
"Rose Tyler. Are you trying to placate me?"
"I'm investigating this claim you've made about being old." She slides one finger beneath the towel, tugging until it loosens. Neither of them tries to stop it from falling. "So far, I have to say I'm not seeing much evidence." She goes to her knees, feigning academic interest in what the towel was hiding. He's half hard already. There isn't a grey hair in sight.
"Well?" he asks, arching an eyebrow.
She moves closer, lets her breath brush over his cock. "I may need a closer look."
He leans back, gripping the countertop with both hands as she takes him in her mouth. He goes from half hard to really, really hard in a matter of moments; a few lavish licks to slick things up and then she's sucking gently, savouring the faint muskiness, the stronger scent of soap and clean skin.
She wraps her hand around the base of his cock, keeping him from going too deep as she moves back and forth, following the rhythm of his breathing, the subtle shift of his hips. Years of this, and somehow it never gets old—the sharp inhalation when she hits a particularly good spot, the trembling in his stomach that tells her he's getting closer. She knows just where to flutter her tongue, holding him steady despite his sudden gasp and jerk; she tastes salt and sucks harder, wet and sloppy, twisting her hand around him. She loves to watch him like this, loves everything about him, his bony knees and his grey hairs and his smile lines. She loves the long fingers clutching at the countertop and the way his body curls forward when he's about to come. Like now.
He nudges the discarded towel with his foot and she snatches it up, drawing her mouth off him and using her hand to follow through. All it takes is a few more quick, tight strokes; she readies the towel just in time. He's quiet, as always, nothing more than a muffled grunt escaping as he throbs in her hand. She keeps stroking until he's spent, slowing down when he does, finally folding the towel in on itself and wiping her hand on a clean spot.
He slumps back against the counter as she gets to her feet. His silly smile makes her want to kiss him, so she does; he returns it lazily, eyes half-lidded with afterglow. His hand brushes the tweezers, lying abandoned on the countertop, and he picks them up again, looking at them thoughtfully.
She closes her hand around his. "Don't. I like your hair the way it is."
"Really?"
"Yeah." Even after all these years, she still likes the little signs that he's human. Ish. That they're in this together.
"You weren't just saying that to get in my pants?"
She grins. "That's hardly necessary."
"True." He pulls her close and kisses the top of her head. "Rose?"
"Hmm?"
"If I'm letting myself go grey, what about you? Can we be old and grey together when we're old and grey?"
She rests her head on his shoulder, and smiles. "I'd love to."