Certainly sounded like something he would do, obsess over the most inane of things, especially when they were his possessions and he was allowed to do with them as he pleased. It was the commonplace that tended to fascinate the Doctor the most and it was little surprise to him that his single hearted counterpart was no different in that respect. The Doctor and Rose Tyler, working at Torchwood with Carpets and Doors, he mused, might even have been convinced of it were it not for the way in which Rose drew into herself and pointedly focused on the napkin, still folded and untouched upon the table.
She might have grown up quite a bit since they last traveled together, but she still wore her heart on her sleeve and the casual, unaffected voice she used to dispel his curiosity about the other Doctor had avoidance written all over it. She was supposed to be happy, getting on with her life and enjoying what was left of it with what he had given her, and yet she seemed sad, evasive even—and he should know, she learned from the best.
“Turned into a bit of a work-o-holic, has he?” he asked carefully, leaning forward against the table and crossing his arms a top its surface. He'd assumed there had been enough human instinct laced into those Time Lord veins of his to make the domestic life more bearable, less of a prison, but maybe—like so many other things—he'd been wrong.