Work Text:
“Doctor!” Rose cried.
By the time he finally heard her — or acknowledged her — she was shaking with worry. Loud music from a live album was blaring through the speakers and the Doctor was singing along as he reduced a mixture of some kind to a soft spread. All available surfaces in the kitchen were covered with utensils and plates and bowls filled with antipasti, mezze and tapas of every description.
“Rose.”
He dropped the hand blender and made a helpless gesture.
It was a really bad day for him.
Rose went to him and embraced him, holding him tight.