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The Doctor isn't jealous of a soft toy, he isn't.
He turns onto his other side for the umpteenth time that night. It's only been a little over a week since he's slept, which is not exactly bad by his standards, he's gone without for much longer before, but well. It makes him a bit cranky and he doesn't want to be cranky towards Rose.
Rose, who bought herself (well, with his credit stick) a nearly body length stuffed wolf at an intergalactic bazaar. It is an admittedly gorgeous example of toy-making - golden-coloured, almost realistic without compromising it's cuteness factor, equipped with soulful glass eyes, covered in long, silky faux-fur.
It is also squishy and perfect for hugging. And so, it stands to reason, that Rose is probably hugging it right now. Asleep wrapped all around it like an octopus, most likely. Cozy under her blankets with her blonde hair fanning out onto her pillow and blending with the golden fur of the toy wolf in her arms.
The Doctor curls into a tight ball, hugging himself involuntarily. He needs- He wants- He wishes Rose would hold him. The longing is an excruciating itch under his skin and he knows he can't scratch it himself.
Rose's bedroom is just down the hall. But she's asleep, he shouldn't wake her. He's just being ridiculous. The Doctor channels the burst of nervous energy into flopping onto his back, instead of jumping up out of bed.
He really should just fall asleep. He's tired, so tired. It's making him unreasonable, yes, that's it. If he can just get a good five hours of sleep he'll be back to being reasonable and not compulsively imagining what it might feel like to have Rose's human body heat pressed all along his back with her arms around his waist, the Doctor is sure.
At least it's better than thinking about other things and oh no now he's jinxed it and there's a familiar hollow ache building in his chest. The Doctor rolls onto his front but it predictably doesn't help. His temples are starting to throb and that is familiar, too.
The Doctor's eyes sting with the threat of frustrated tears. All he wants is to get some sleep. Why can't he just fall asleep? If Rose was here at least he'd have something to focus on. If Rose was here at least he wouldn't be so alone.
The TARDIS hums in his mind, concerned, and it's something, but it's not enough. Grateful as he always is for it, it could never be enough.
A door appears in the wall of his room and the Doctor knows without asking that it leads to Rose's room. But she deserves her beauty sleep. Humans, sleeping away half their lives, because they need it. He couldn't disturb it over something as stupid as desperately wishing to replace her soft toy, what would Rose think?
With a defeated sigh, the Doctor gets out of bed and heads out of his room's regular exit. Maybe if he tinkers some more he can eventually tire himself out enough to fall asleep.
The door of Rose's bedroom creaks open as he passes it. Despite himself, the Doctor peers inside. Rose is indeed curled securely around her wolf, sleeping on her side facing the door. Somehow even more beautiful and tempting than he'd imagined. And great, now he's watching her sleep like the creep that he is.
Because he wants it so very badly. He wants to gently extricate the wolf from Rose's arms and slip into the place it occupied, taking what wasn't meant for him like the thief he always has been. But it would be a violation, to steal into Rose's bed while she isn't awake to protest, and he can't wake her, he can't.
Oh Rassilion, he's envious of a soft toy, there's no denying it anymore. As if the cat wasn't bad enough. The Doctor had practically admitted that he styles his hair just waiting for her to notice and there Rose was, too busy petting a cat to hear him. Perfect soft hands slipping through ginger fur like he had always wished they would slip through his hair.
The Doctor could almost justify that spike of jealousy to himself, but this? The wolf is inanimate, for the stars' sake. How much more pathetic can he get? How much lower will he sink?
The Doctor leans heavily on the doorframe for support, fighting to regain his bearings. This body was made for Rose, created from her kiss, so of course it would ache for her touch, always. The hugs and handholding keep him afloat, but the yearning is an insatiable pit in the centre of his being. Harder to ignore than real hunger, and constant.
Still, he's almost used to it. To denying that need, because he'd always just want more, too much, more than Rose could possibly be willing to give. And the Doctor will always choose her comfort over his own.
It's torture to turn and walk away, his battered hearts protesting each step even louder than his exhausted body does. But he's a Time Lord and Time Lords have minds stronger than their hearts and bodies put together. He needs to keep it true, more than ever now that he's the only one.
Slipping under the console, the Doctor pleads with his beloved ship: I know you mean well, but don't. Please just don't. And privately, it hurts enough as it is.