100 Stills of Doctor Who

#the experimentation phase #of ten’s hair #post regeneration #is a thing i would like to read thousands of words about #or see some sort of sitcom montage #of him doing different things to it #every morning #or rose doing different things to it #or coaching from the sidelines#as she perches on his bathroom counter #and hands him hair products #as he asks #really any of those things would be great #i’m not fussy (via allrightfine)

The alien clerk at the front of the store keeps glaring at them, squinting as though it expects them to make a dash for it, ditch the wheeled shopping cart and leave it to re-stock all the things they’ve pulled off the shelf.

Rose was enthusiastic about this process for the first hour, but now, well into the second, she’s getting impatient.

“Sixty-three,” she says, diving to catch the bottle of pomade the Doctor tosses over his shoulder, and put it into the cart alongside the other sixty-two bottles of hair product. “Doctor, I’m getting hungry. We’ve got enough for now, don’t you think?”

“Not remotely,” the Doctor retorts. It was just after the incident in New New York, after a long walk from the hospital back to the TARDIS across a windswept cliff, when the Doctor had caught a glimpse of himself reflected back in the time rotor. His hair, flat as a board, sticking in a dozen different directions, like a Beatle’s mop-top put through a blender.

After staring at himself in horrified shock, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and muttering something in a language the TARDIS refused to translate, he’d starting slamming buttons and flipping levers with a vengeance. 

Seconds later, they landed here on Barberea Prime, homeworld of seven-foot-tall aliens covered from head to toe in hair. Also home to the finest, most extensive collection of hair products available in the universe.

A dozen bottles later — bringing them to a grand total of seventy-five various sorts of mousse, gel, shampoo, conditioner, hairspray, serum, and substances Rose doesn’t even begin to know the name of — the Doctor shoves the cart and hops aboard as it rolls up to the check-out counter. The pile of hair behind the counter glares at them skeptically — at least, Rose has the distinct feeling it’s glaring at them skeptically, even though its eyes are now hidden behind elaborately coiffed locks —  curls on the right half of its body and some sort of crimping situation on the left, bows and a live bird-creature housed in a cage made of hair on top. 

Jauntily hopping off of the rolling cart, the Doctor begins piling the jars, cans, canisters, and jet-applicators onto the counter.

Checking out is an ordeal.

Carrying everything back to the TARDIS is even trickier.

Hefting four bulging bags on his long, skinny arms, the Doctor marches right through the console room and disappears down the corridor without a word.

Rose watches him go, shutting the TARDIS doors and leaning against them. She has a vague recollection of touching this new new Doctor’s hair in the hospital — a memory that’s hazy, like it happened a very long time ago, except it’s actually hazy because her consciousness was stuffed in the corner of her brain while Cassandra controlled her like a marionette. She has a vague recollection of lips, and this new new Doctor’s long lean body arching into hers as she snogged him breathless. 

Rose is feeling a bit unsure of her footing. Unsure around the Doctor, how exactly she’s supposed to relate to him. Because it’s only been a few days, and sometimes she turns around still expecting to see a leather jacket and big ears and bright blue eyes staring back at her.

Sure, he’s the Doctor. She doesn’t doubt that (really, Rose? Slitheen? That moment slinks through her memory, dragging embarrassment in its wake, makes her want to squirm and apologize and never open her mouth again; the fact that he’d been so understanding and never teased her about it, never told her she was a “stupid ape” for thinking so, only made it worse). And hand-holding is absolutely still on the table, that’s been made clear enough. Hugging, in certain circumstances, has been demonstrated as acceptable. Trying to parse through the details of what’s normal, for this new Doctor, and what isn’t, Rose slowly walks up the ramp, her footsteps loud on the grating of the otherwise empty console room.

“Oi! You coming?”

Her gaze snaps up and there the Doctor is, his head sticking around the corner, eyebrows lifted like she’s missing something completely obvious. 

Rose’s heart thumps. “Yeah, okay.”

He hands her half of the bags, and she follows him through the corridors of the TARDIS, to a room she’s never been in before. It’s an enormous bathroom, cavernously large, all fancy stone surfaces. There’s a bathtub long enough to do laps in, and a shower that looks like it turns into a rainforest halfway through, grown thick with vines and leaves. 

The Doctor dumps the bags out on the counter beside one of the dozen sinks, cans and canisters and jars skittering everywhere with thumps and pings. He’s wearing the same look of focused determination he had when he was holding a broadsword and facing down the Sycorax war-lord a few days ago, at Christmas. Except this time instead of staring at a skull-helmeted alien, he’s staring in the mirror at the wild shock of chestnut atop his head. 

He unbuttons his jacket and strips it off, then goes to work on his sleeves, rolling them up to the elbow. 

Rose hops up to sit the counter facing him, trying not to let her eyes boggle, trying to ignore the way the back of her neck prickles hot at the sight of brown hair dusting across his forearms. At the way it seems like so much skin, he looks practically naked. 

“If it’s this much trouble,” she says, picking up a jar of rainbow-colored pomade, “you could cut it short, like it was before.” 

His bustling stops with a suddenness that makes her stomach clench. She looks up at him, at the way his eyes have locked onto her face. “Oh. Well. Where’s the fun in that?” he says, his confidence wobbling and then picking up speed as more words come out. “Where’s the challenge? This is science, Rose Tyler! Now hand me that jar!”

She does, and he spins the top so it comes right off, flings it across the room and thrusts his fingers into the goop inside.

Thirty sticky seconds later, both his hands gooey and his hair plastered to his head like he’s slathered it in concrete, he turns to her with a befuddled expression on his face. “Um, help?”

“Science,” she snorts, beckoning him closer. He leans forward so she can inspect the mess. “I’m no expert, but I’d say that you’ve used too much, for starters. And secondly, this is not the hair product for you. Y’know, my mum’s a hairdresser.”

The Doctor bolts upright so quickly, Rose is splattered with goo. She sputters, wiping at the glob on her cheek. He has the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. ”Sorry, I thought you were going to suggest I let your mother have a crack at my hair.”

“No, I was just saying, I have some idea of what I’m doing!” Rose says, flinging the goo into the sink next to her.

Grinning, the Doctor reaches out with his own goo-covered hand, uses one finger to swipe off a bit that landed on her forehead, and sticks it in his mouth. ”Mmm, like cantaloupe! With undertones of oak and xenon!” 

Rose’s face begins to heat up. “Right then, we can’t try another one until you get that washed out,” she says, gesturing to his head. 

Still licking the hair product from his fingers, the Doctor wanders off into the enormous shower, fully-clothed. He disappears amongst the vines and leaves, and within a matter of seconds, his distinctly off-key voice comes from the depths: “Lo-o-o-vely Rita, meter maid, nothing can come betwe-e-e-en us! When it gets dark I tow your heart awa-a-a-a-ay!”

Rose finds a hand towel and wipes goo off of her face. When he comes back a few minutes later, he’s still fully clothed, and he’s completely clean and dry, from his hair to his Chucks.  

Rose has a thousand questions. She doesn’t ask a single one. Instead, she holds up a can of something that looks like mousse, squirts a healthy palm-full into her hand. “Right then.”

“Onward,” the Doctor replies, eyes twinkling excitedly. He comes to stand in front of her, so close his thighs bump against her knees, and leans forward again. 

Trying to breathe normally, Rose lifts her hands and slides her mousse-covered fingers into his hair. A soft clicking noise come from the back of his throat — he’s swallowing. His head moves toward her hands, his back arching a little bit, like a cat arching into someone’s touch. 

His hair is incredibly soft, almost shockingly thick. It’s not completely foreign, as far as hair goes, but it’s something more than human. Rose takes her time working the mousse in, her fingernails brushing against his scalp, chestnut locks slipping across the thin, sensitive skin between her fingers and down the length of her palm. It’s hypnotic, the feel of it, the way it responds to her touch; she nearly loses track of what’s actually supposed to be happening.

The Doctor eventually makes a noise, his body shifting forward, his long arms darting out to the countertop beside her hips. Like he was trying to catch himself before he fell down — fell asleep — collapsed. Except now he’s got her pinned, his forehead practically resting on her shoulder. 

Rose’s cheeks feel like they’re on fire, his face is so close, right there in her peripheral vision. Freckles and his eyes, so bright and brown, and that bottom lip, oh god the bottom lip.

Her fingers slide around the back of his ears, fingertips rubbing his scalp, tracing downward to where his hair ends and his neck begins, stretched long and straining toward her touch. Dropping her hands to her own jean-covered thighs, she clears her throat.  

The Doctor’s head snaps up, inches away from her face, his breath cool on her cheek. 

“Oh,” he says.

“All done,” she squeaks.

His eyes suddenly seem to focus, like he’s coming back from someplace else entirely. Standing up, his thighs still bumping her knees, he looks in the mirror behind her head. Sticks his fingers into his hair, swivels left and right to get a good look at the stiff peaks she’s worked his locks into.

“Well, that won’t do at all,” he says with a frown.

Body buzzing, trying to catch her breath, Rose reaches to the side and picks up a canister of something else. “Two down, seventy-three to go. Shall we try again, d’you think?”

“Once more into the breach,” he replies with a wink, sauntering off into the shower again. 

And there’s a follow-up (of sorts).

(Source: starksons, via allrightfine)