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rabid1stDISHEVELED
By Rabid1st
Dr. Who...Ten/Rose
Word Count: 7500 - Part 1
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Rose/Ten, Rose/Nine
Warning: Adult situations, not work safe, fun and frolic-y at points and serious at others.
Spoilers: To S2 – Girl in the Fireplace
Summary: This is Ten/Rose smutfic...of a sort...things are done differently and with the tongue...it gets wild...and that's all I'm saying...
Disclaimer: Nope, don’t own a thing. But I’m a nice person and I’m hardly worth suing. All characters and situations belong to the BBC and Dr. Who and Russell Davies, etc. I'm just borrowing them for the moment.
PART ONE
While the Doctor dreamed of 18th Century France, ballroom dancing, stirring music and fantastic gardens full of fragrant blossoms and still reflecting pools, Rose Tyler dreamed of throttling him. She wouldn’t, of course, even if bathwater still beaded on her inner thighs. Even if she was wearing the most ridiculous dressing gown imaginable. Even if he’d gone out of his way lately to impress on her how little she really meant to him and now suddenly demanded her complete attention. He hurt. He mourned. He needed her.
Like Rose, the TARDIS understood what Mickey did not -- the Doctor wasn’t “always alright.” There were times when the world inside his head got very dark indeed and even in his sleep he was dangerous. The nightmares had no doubt returned, along with the burning pain. She’d thought the regeneration had repaired his mind, like it had renewed his body and altered his personality. It had rebooted him, in a way. He’d been better ever since. Better for so long she’d hoped he was cured. Or perhaps, if she was being completely honest, she hadn’t hoped for that at all.
Still, damn the French! Damn that woman for hurting him all over again. Rose checked her anger. Closing her eyes for a moment, she let her ire bleed away. She couldn’t blame Reinette for loving him, not really. It would be like blaming her for loving sunny days. If there was one thing Rose had learned from Sarah Jane it was that the Doctor wasn’t diminished by sharing. There was always enough of him to go around and nobody got cast in the shade. He swept into your life and took over. You went along with whatever happened, like Rose was going along now...to wherever he was leading her.
Experience had gotten her used to being jerked around like a Pekinese on a short leash by the Doctor’s subconscious. The first time it had happened, oh, so long ago, she’d actually screamed. She remembered fighting to keep her place and losing the fight. She’d been afraid of the moving walls, afraid they would crush her or crowd her out into space. She’d resisted their insistent press, pounding on them and shouting until he came to find her. Red-faced, she’d accused the TARDIS of malfunctioning and he’d taken quick offense. There was, he'd growled, nothing wrong with his ship and she was a silly girl besides, unworthy of traveling with him. Recrimination had flown from both sides.
By the second time, she’d learned more trust. Fairly sure of her safety, she’d gone along with the process. Curious about it and wanting to prove she was right and his ship was on the blink. She’d found him on the floor of the console room, slack-jawed and unresponsive. Panic had pulsed through her. Certain he was dead she’d pressed an ear to his chest, discovering his two heartbeats. The dual rhythm had fascinated her and she’d lingered to listen. He woke to find her draped across him. Emitting a strangled cry, he’d jerked upright, shoving her away with both hands and scrambling backward. He'd looked like a virgin desperately evading a masher and she'd simply had to laugh. Their strained silence on the subject lasted three days. On the fourth day, he'd grudgingly admitted there was a problem.
He came to her room, slumping into a chair as far away from her as he could manage. Arms crossed tightly over his chest, he gruffly explained about the war and his nightmares. He couldn’t sleep, hadn’t slept since destroying his world. How was that possible? she asked. Time Lord, he said, giving her his universal answer. It was a strain, though, on all his systems. Even he needed rest from time to time. And somehow she made rest possible. She could tell he didn’t like admitting it. He didn’t like depending on anyone for anything but they grew used to the odd situation.
It was only sleeping after all. He started to find her when he grew tired but he wasn’t always aware of his need. He nodded off unexpectedly from time to time. When that happened the TARDIS intervened and brought Rose to him. She didn't mind. Wandering the halls in her nightshirt was only a minor inconvenience. It didn’t become a problem until Jack came onboard. He reintroduced the sore subject over breakfast one morning.
“Rose tell you she came by my room last night?” He began before shoveling eggs into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed and then said, “Wearing…or I should say…not wearing this filmy little,” the Doctor looked up from his plate, blue eyes steely, and Jack smoothly switching gears, “that is…she had on a lovely sleep ensemble, very tasteful and becoming.”
“Shortest route,” Rose murmured. “Sorry.”
“And I gather she means shortest route to you?” Jack asked the impassively listening Doctor, who shrugged enigmatically. Jack sighed. “Well, you can imagine my disappointment as she twiddles her fingers at me and then rushes out through the magically appearing door.” He pointed his fork at the Doctor’s nose. “I call that inconsiderate of another man’s needs.”
“Far be it from me to be inconsiderate,” the Doctor said, smiling faintly as he buttered a slice of toast. Setting the knife down, he looked up and said, “Alright then, might as well stop fighting it. We’ll keep it simple.”
“Everyone sleeps together?” Jack suggested, hopefully.
“Not that simple,” the Doctor said. “Rose, move your things to the larger bedroom. We’ll share it from now on.”
Rose opened her mouth to protest but closed it again without commenting and just like that it was settled.
Until her Doctor sent her away and nearly died and then just like that it was over. It ended with his regeneration. He woke up a changed man, no longer troubled by bad dreams. As far as she could tell, he was no longer troubled by anything. She kept the larger bedroom. He stopped coming by. The TARDIS stopped moving her around like a chess piece. The Doctor didn’t appear to need her anymore.
Or so she thought. And then, only minutes ago, the familiar disorientation hit as she climbed out of her bath. She'd been running a towel over her skin, imagining his long fingered hands following its route when the walls inched forward as if in response. Hair tickled her cheek when she spun around. A few wet strands had escaped from the clips she used to keep it dry. After such a long hiatus, the morphing room caught her momentarily off guard. But it hadn’t taken her long to adjust. She’d been through this often enough. Dropping the towel, she raced to her closet, grabbing something before the closet disappeared. Clutching the filmy and completely unfamiliar robe to her chest, she moved with the floor and found herself in the corridor. Walls shifted. Staircases spiraled upward. She put on the dressing gown and walked and climbed, as directed.
Eventually, the scenery stopped changing. Holding onto an unwavering doorframe, Rose took a moment to free her mind of escalator equilibrium before focusing on her surroundings. She stood at the door of a vast and obviously multipurpose room. It was part library, part garden and part boudoir, definitely a work in progress. The ceiling rolled back as she watched, exposing stars. The Doctor was in. Sleeping, as she’d expected. Knowing he had levels of awareness and might sense her if she moved, Rose stood very still, mesmerized by the beauty around her and by him.
He’d fallen asleep reading. She could see the book, tottering on his knee but braced by one relaxed hand. He was reclined in a non-reclining chair. Feet propped up on his desk. Ankles crossed. He looked very young and charmingly disheveled. More so than usual because he always looked as if he’d slept in his clothes. He went about rumpled. Ties loosened. Their knots askew. Shirts insufficiently tucked. His suit jacket partially unbuttoned. These days, anyone who saw them step out of the police box would have no question about what they’d been doing in the very confined space.
The funny thing, for Rose, was the effect his disarray had on her. It pulled her in, closer and closer. She wanted to remedy it. Her fingers itched to tidy him, to button and tuck. Or alternatively, she longed to break through all pretenses and start undressing him. She had an abiding desire to comb through his hair with her fingers and tug off his tie. She wanted to get to his skin.
Seeing him sleeping, vulnerable and unguarded, sent a hot swirl of longing through her. She thought she must love him because nothing else could possibly feel like this. Ever since the regeneration, her body seemed primed to ignite whenever he got too close. She studied him. His suit was crumpled. His hair mussed. His lower lip pouted just a little. She wanted to straddle him in the chair. Wake him with kisses. Would he respond in kind or laugh and gently set her aside? She didn’t know. He kept confounding her. There was something about his new persona, something captivating yet remote. He flirted with everyone. It meant nothing. But a careless gesture, a sidelong look, could spike her temperature. Send her pulse into overdrive. She dreamed of him, dreamed of his touch, his voice. And now, he was dreaming of her again.
He shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. His chair creaked, rocking a little on its perilous fulcrum. And his book started its inevitable slide to the floor. Rose took a tentative step toward him and then another.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Doctor woke in stages. A score of senses reported in early to orient him to his exact position in time and space. They assessed his surroundings. A new room, he was in a new room. So different from the one he remembered reading in a few hours ago. He discovered a person in close proximity and named her Rose as she leaned across his knee.
He must have dropped his book. Rose was retrieving it. She’d braced her hand, ever so lightly, against the arm of his chair. He absently adjusted his tilt to accommodate her added pressure. Information poured into his brain. She needed a haircut. She’d eaten Chinese food recently. She wanted to straddle him and kiss him but for some reason he didn’t quite understand wouldn’t be doing that. She smelled like a day at the beach. He breathed in cocoa butter, aromatic oils, salt and wet heat. The clean, provocative scent combined with the input of his other senses and sated him. Everything said Rose. Everything comforted.
In the midst of all this cerebral activity, it took a disorienting moment for him to recall nodding off. He remembered choosing a book and tipping his chair back to read. He’d found a comfortable point between the inevitability of gravity and his own sense of defiance after he’d propped his feet up on the desk. Some time later he must have dozed. He’d dreamed of happy things: cotillions and bananas and Rose. They’d danced for hours. She’d taken him into a garden and left him reeling with hot sweet kisses.
His conscience prodded him. He’d dreamed of Rose and Rose was here. It had happened again. The TARDIS had fulfilled his unconscious wish and brought him a present. Rose was here against her will…and his. He wondered if Timmy ever had this sort of muddle with Lassie. Did she occasionally bring him beautiful women when all he wanted was a way out of the well? ‘Get me a rope, girl, R.O.P. (notice the difference) E.,’ he mentally yelled at the TARDIS. The ship gave no sign she'd heard, let alone understood him.
The Doctor sighed. He couldn’t believe he was still doing this. It was embarrassing to lose control of his own mind, his own ship. He’d hoped he was cured. Or perhaps, if he was being completely honest, he hadn’t hoped for that at all.
He opened his eyes. Above him, where his library’s ceiling had been, starry nebula swirled. He’d created an observatory in his sleep. It delighted him. He almost grinned at the night sky winking overhead. A window on a fixed point in time perhaps, or a hologram, he wasn’t sure. Part of him wanted to climb up a ladder and find out but he kept the urge in check. He didn’t want to get distracted just now by minutia.
He took a moment to admire the celestial beauty and then transferred the rest of his attention to his companion. Her diaphanous dressing gown seemed completely out of character and was ill fitting besides. ‘French,’ the Doctor thought. He chewed the inside of his lip in consternation. Not the right period but certainly not modern, and therefore, probably his fault. His unconscious mind had a mind of its own. And it had been very naughty, indeed.
Though he doubted he could be blamed for the state of her hair. She had it clipped on top of her head but strands of it spilled onto her neck, creating a halo around her face. Improperly restrained hair could not be laid at his doorstep. He would have it all down, free for his fingers to explore. He could get tangled up in her. Did she know? Did she have any idea the magnitude of it...what he felt for her? Her need multiplied ten-fold in him. But she didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem to notice the changes in him that were so apparent to French courtesans and cat-faced nurses and tea-shop girls with dimples.
She straightened with his book in her hands and as she came up her gown slipped down, exposing too much satin-smooth skin. The Doctor, who had in 900 years taken no interest at all in the human breast, found the vast room suddenly very close. He couldn’t breathe. The walls seemed to press him into Rose. He gave the architecture a quick reprimand just in case the effect wasn’t strictly hormonal. Gravity took advantage of his momentarily loss of concentration. The front legs of his chair hit the floor with a bang.
Rose flinched. Trying to step backward she bumped into the desk and then self-consciously adjusted her gown, yanking the sleeve up her shoulder with an impatient tug. He tried to blink her out of soft-focus but she stayed stubbornly fuzzy. It puzzled him for a moment before he remembered he was wearing his reading glasses. He fumbled a hand up and dragged the spectacles down his nose. Rose met his eye.
Peering over the tortoise-shell frames, he smiled ingenuously. “Hello,” he murmured, infusing the word with sunshine. “I was, quite coincidentally, just dreaming of roses.”
“I can tell,” she informed him in a tone as tenderly indulgent as his own. They stared at one another speechless and enrapt for a moment. The Doctor felt like he was floating up out of his body until Rose broke the connection. Drawing in a sharp breath, she turned her head away. “You’re doing it again,” she said, brusquely. “I thought since you’d changed…you didn’t need…I mean…you’ve been better ever since. You haven’t been to see me…”
“Miss me?” he asked, in such a wickedly suggestive way it brought her gaze back to his. He took his glasses completely off, folding them away into an inside coat pocket. “Because you just say the word and I'm there. I’ll snuggle up next to you every…”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to... Look, I’m…confused, is all. And a little put out, yeah? You can’t just bounce me around like this. It’s…it’s inconvenient.”
He nodded sympathetically but went on smiling until Rose lost most of her bristle. She couldn’t stay angry with him and he took merciless advantage of this weakness. He watched her gradually become aware of how close he was. He’d trapped her between his knee and the edge of the desk. She would have to slide around him to escape. To cover her embarrassment, she glanced at the book she was clutching to her chest, truly, seeing the title for the first time. The Doctor waited for her reaction. He saw her read the title to herself, “The Lesbian Kama Sutra.” Her eyes grew rounder, more luminescent. The concept took her to the right frame of mind. All sorts of sexual signals flared for his senses to catalog. Rose turned an even deeper shade of crimson.
He pretended not to notice as he gently tugged the book from her folded arms. She’d have to get over her uncharacteristic shyness if they were going to move forward but he didn’t want to introduce the central topic just yet. He didn’t really know where to begin. If only he could have spent a little more time with Reinette. She’d taught him so much, in such a short time. He settled the book in his lap and tipped his chair back again, staring at the ceiling as he answered Rose’s implied question.
“New neurons. All firing at once. Brain working on every cylinder post-regeneration. I’m bursting with energy. I’ll need less sleep for...oh,” He pursed his lips and his gaze flitted like a butterfly along the wall to the door as he calculated. “Let’s say...the next decade or so.” His wandering eye returned to settle on her again as he asked, “Did I wake you?”
She shook her head, her gaze on the floor. “But I was taking a bath.”
“Ah…that explains the…” He wafted a hand by her chest, catching a bit of her robe’s gauzy material between his fingers, “Damp,” he finished, in a very small voice.
“This,” she plucked at her attire, “this is you, right? First thing that came to hand but I don’t recognize it. Better than naked, ‘o course, but it’s not really me.” She almost asked if it reminded him of Reinette. But she really didn’t want to know.
“Mmhhhmmm…” he hummed, pleasant thoughts lifting the corners of his mouth. It could have been agreement but he wasn’t going to admit to the sin of dressing her in negligees.
He had other sins in mind. His chair rocked on its two legs as he considered where to begin with the sinning. Rose yearned for him. He continued to search her face for several long seconds until finally she lifted her chin to meet his eye. Her gaze caught in the web of his. Something sparked under his skin. They both swallowed convulsively.
It gave him a slight pang to tear his gaze from hers. His head turned but his eyes stayed fixed on her face for the longest time until finally he managed to break the hold she had on him. Tipping his head, he peered around her to admire the room. What he saw brought a huge grin to his face. He nearly purred with approval as he swept an appraisingly glance around the new digs, pad...flop. He wanted to call it something smashing. What had been his library was now a sultan's paradise, the harem garden perhaps. His bookshelves remained, lining the two walls behind him. But they were, along with his desk and chair, the only trace of the room he’d fallen asleep in.
“Oh, this is nice,” he said, making the word ‘nice’ sound unbelievably sexy to Rose’s ears. He sucked on it like a toffee, turning it in his mouth. “This is very, very nice."
His desk looked much the same, still piled high with books and journals. But beyond it there was a neatly trimmed lawn and an incongruous bed. Everywhere there was soft golden light. Stars twinkled above. Fireflies danced through small trees. Lanterns lit stone pathways. The once cozy room now stretched on until detail disappeared in the distance. Flowers bobbed in a cool breeze. The musical splash of a fountain broke the almost perfect stillness and the scent of roses perfumed the air. He felt a surge of affection for the TARDIS. She could do the most amazing things.
"Rose, did you see what she’s done, our beautiful TARDIS?” Rose nodded, not really impressed. “I know what you're thinking, I’ve created some amazing things in my sleep before but this is…fantastic,” the Doctor breathed. “If I do say so myself.” He glanced at Rose. She was giving the room a cursory look. “You know, I don’t like to brag.” She cut her eyes back toward him, shaking her head and smiling. “Generally. As a rule,” he amended and the smile broadened into a grin.
Giving up on convincing her of his humility, he tossed his book onto the desk and arched back, stretching to his full length in his tipping chair. The cat-like behavior allowed him to skim against Rose. She stood straighter and sucked everything in, trying to minimize their contact. Ignoring her discomfort as any proper feline would, he reached his arms over his head. His shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of skin near his beltline. He saw her line of sight dip, skimming down his torso. She was definitely tempted. Sitting forward again, he pushed to his feet and moved the chair to one side, safely out of their way.
Inhaling deeply, he declared the night air, “Quite refreshing.”
Rose dismissed his creation with a careless shrug. “It’s beautiful, yeah. But you can’t start this again. I thought you were getting better.”
“Well, I was. I am...better. This is the first time since the regeneration. And just look at this place. I wasn’t having a nightmare at all. It’s nothing like before.”
“Maybe not but you can’t keep doing this.”
“I can’t help it if I have PTSD.”
“I looked that up,” she informed him. “It’s nothing like you said. You got the Post Traumatic part alright but the S.D. stands for Stress Disorder not Sleep Decorating.”
“It’s different for Time Lords.”
“Most everything is,” she said, with a touch of impatience. Was he boring her? he wondered as she went on, “Look, Mickey won’t understand about our sleeping together. That it’s just sleeping, I mean. He’ll make all kinds of assumptions.” She leveled a warning stare at him as she added, “And he’ll tell mum and she won’t understand either.”
'That,' the Doctor thought, 'would be the lot of us not understanding, then.'
Despite the easy explanation he’d given Rose about how and why this was happening, he was equally puzzled by it. He’d made up the sleep disorder. His was the only case in Time Lord History. It certainly wasn’t rational. For a Time Lord, what he was doing with Rose came perilously close to violating the Sixth Law of Intermingling. You never, ever, depended on a member of a lesser species. But he needed Rose beside him when he slept. And the TARDIS and his unconscious mind gave them no choice in the matter.
Prior to the regeneration, he’d slept in her room. If he fell asleep somewhere else the TARDIS brought her to him, herding her along ever-changing corridors and through amorphous rooms. But she was right. They couldn’t do that now. Not because of Mickey but because everything had changed with this last regeneration. Now, he had a secret he was working up the nerve to share, a secret that would break every single one of Rassilon’s Rules.
It occurred to him quite suddenly that maybe she’d been with Mickey just now in the bath or planning to go to him later. She’d been craving something. Something Mickey would be happy to give her. A bitter rush of jealousy hit, appalling him. He cast it out but frowned over the implications of the dangerous emotion. Why had he invited the boy onboard?
“Oh-ho, I see. Worried about Mickey, are you? Don’t want your boyfriend to know you visit me in the middle of the night?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. We broke up ages ago. He’s got a new girl, even. You’d know that if you bothered to listen. And I asked you not to bring him but you would. So don’t talk to me now you’re jealous.”
“Jealous? Me? No, no, no, no...” It occured to him he'd maybe said 'no' once too often. To compensate, he snorted lightly, puffing her insinuation away. “I’m not jealous. That’s...ridiculous. No, I’m just..." He hesitated. What was he feeling? Or thinking? "I thought maybe the two of you had made up, is all. Traveling through space and time together. Bonding.” He dipped his chin so he could peer at her with fluid brown eyes. He could only hope she was buying his denial. "You know about the bonding...? There's a bond...between travelers." She didn’t seem convinced. Looking away, he rubbed his neck as he added, “And I brought him along ‘cause I thought he could help me look after you. But he’s practically useless.”
“I don’t need looking after.”
That brought his head around in a flash. “Oh, don’t you just. Wandering off on that dead ship? Tangling with Mr. Thick-wit and his friends, ending up manacled to an operating table? Jeopardy friendly, tha’s you. Can’t leave you alone for five minutes.”
“You left me alone for five hours,” she reminded him. Under her breath, she added, “Rushing off to save her.”
“Now, who’s jealous?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He grinned. Then, leaning closer, he confided, “I don’t mind,” in a conspiratorial whisper before rocking back onto his heels and adding, “But you needn’t be.”
“I’m not.” Rose insisted, her brow furrowing, “I understand about her being the uncrowned Queen of France and all. I understand why you wanted to be with her. She’s like you, center of everything, beautiful and elegant and…”
“Accomplished,” the Doctor added, helpfully. “Astoundingly quick-witted, artistic, graceful, charming…”
“Yeah, alright,” Rose cut-in crossly, glaring him into silence.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “You were saying…not even a tiny bit jealous…”
“Okay, I admit I was jealous of Sarah Jane, at first. Because she’s like me and I didn’t fancy being part of your daisy chain of best friends. But…Madame de Pompadour, the one and only…she’s part of history. And what am I…? Just Rose Tyler from the Powell Estates. I know she’s better than me, grander. You can’t help falling in love with someone like her. It’s not like I expected to compete.”
“Compete?” the Doctor coughed, appalled by the word. “Compete?” He gestured wildly, waving his arm in a huge arc as he paced off a few feet of floor before whipping around to confront her. “Oh, sometimes you are so very, very...human.” Said like that it left no doubt; it was definitely an insult.
“Yeah, and you’re not. Stating the obvious are we?”
“There was never, has never been, any competition. It wasn’t here’s a winner.” He pantomimed handing out a trophy. Then spread his hands in a helplessly grasping gesture, frustrated by the limitations of her language. “Either/or. You can’t compare what I had with Reinette to what I have with you. That would be like comparing apples and...and what...? Not oranges. Because then there’s an essential fruitiness in common and you would see that as competition. Who’s the juiciest? Which do you like better, then? The truth is you have nothing in common with Reinette Poisson.”
“Oh, thank you very much. You’ll be calling me a stupid ape again in a minute. Maybe I’m not as smart…or…or accomplished…or beautiful but I’m a woman, at least, in case you haven’t noticed. Human…female…blonde…” His raised challenging brows at the last and she crossed her arms defiantly, declaring, “Blonde enough to be going on with. And I’ve got…”
“Motorbikes,” the Doctor interrupted. “It would be like comparing apples and motorbikes.”
Rose stared at him, open mouthed, breathing heavily. After a slight gathering of her anger, she snapped, “Which one is she then? The apple? Forbidden fruit…all sweet and tempting?”
“Exactly,” the Doctor said with a grin. Proud of her for understanding, he patted her shoulder affectionately. Then, he stilled in that predatory way he had, chin lowered and staring fixedly into her eyes. His hand moved on its own as if reaching for an apple on a branch. “She hangs there not quite out of reach," he said, biting through his words with an almost mad intensity, "Suspended in time, perfect and ripe, ready to be plucked and savored.”
Rose felt sick. He didn’t have to rub it in. She got the picture. Unshed tears made her nose sting. Angry and upset, she bowed her head, hugging herself against the chill of his words. He’d called her a motorbike. A motorbike! Could there be anything less romantic? She bit down hard, grinding her teeth together. She wasn’t going to cry. Not in front of him.
“And what do I do, then?” she ground out, scooting away from him. “Roar around belching black smoke? That’s me, common, obnoxious…loud.”
“What? No!” The Doctor gaped for a moment and then swiftly sidestepped in front of her, blocking her escape. “No…no, no, no, no! You still don’t get it.” He took her upper arms in his hands and shook her gently. “I thought you had it but you don’t. There’s no belching.” He let go of her and stepped back, tilting his head to consider her as he continued. “You’re finely tuned you are, all sparkling and bright. Motorbikes are fun, exhilarating...dangerous.” He spun away from her, pacing again. “Apples are safe. And…and…what’s the word? Transient! That's it. They're transient. And, of course, yes, I know...they are also nutritious. After a fashion. Lots of fiber. But they’re certainly no banana.”
“Apples aren’t good?”
“Oh, they are,” he corrected over his shoulder with a twinkle in his eye. “They’re very good…but they don’t last, do they? They’re better on the tree, in their proper place, or freshly picked. Some people pop them in cold storage but I think even that ruins the flavor. Tuck an apple away in your pocket for a few weeks and what happens? It goes all mushy. Never get that with motorbikes. They shine and they take you places. Places you’ve never gone before. So fast,” he purred, edging closer in two smooth steps, “so very fast, it takes your breath away.”
“Takes your breath away?” she whispered, almost hopefully.
“Time after time,” he said, right on top of her now. “And a motorbike can last a lifetime. If you care for it properly, change the oil…lubricate the gears…have it mechanically serviced.” He coaxed every ounce of innuendo from his innocent list. Rose looked like she might slap him. But her expression seemed brighter despite her sullen mouth. “They aren’t transient at all…except as they fly by on the motorway, of course.” He frowned over this flaw in his analogy but quickly moved on, “To put it another way,” he said, changing tacks. “An apple a day…”
She couldn’t help smiling, just a little, as she completed the quote, “…keeps the doctor away.”
“There,” he said softly, “You see? One every now and then is lovely. I enjoyed the crisp challenge, the bite. But I couldn’t stomach apples every day. You can have your fill of apples but you can’t have your fill of motorbikes. Go up to any bloke on the street and say, ‘Time to choose. Would you like to spend the next thirty years with this nice juicy apple or…this motorbike?’ Wha’s he gonna say?”
Rose’s smile finally reached her eyes and her posture relaxed. “That you can’t spend thirty years with an apple?”
“Right in one,” he said, brushing stray hair from her brow with his fingertips. “Matter of fact, if he’s already had lunch an apple probably won’t even tempt him. He’s going to say motorbike, every time. Even if he already had three at home he’d take another. Bet it makes his heart beat a little faster, too. Bet he sits around staring at her when he’s nothing else to do.”
Rose wanted to ask if he did that. If he sat around staring at her but she couldn’t get her suddenly dry throat to cooperate. Instead she teased him, wondering even as she spoke where she was getting the nerve. “So, is that why you invited Mickey along to…service me?”
“Thought he might do, yeah,” the Doctor mumbled. Rose couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed but at the very least he seemed uncomfortable. Loosening his tie with one hand, he slipped around her to lean against the desk. And then quite suddenly, he blurted, “Do you miss it?”
“What? Sleeping with you?”
His eyes became nearly perfectly round and his mouth open ever so slightly as if he’d been startled speechless. Lips moving soundlessly, he tilted his head back. It was almost a come hither since his gaze never left hers. His grin bloomed ever so slowly, dimpling his cheek. He seemed inordinately pleased by the direction of her thoughts. But after a moment of looking pole-axed, he gathered himself together and said, “Ah, yes. No, I was talking about sex. Physical intimacy. Hooking up. Getting off.” For some reason, known only to his subconscious, he pointed toward the door. She sighted along his arm, and then looked back at him, confusion stark on her face.
“’Scuse me?”
Before he could say more, she actually choked on a snigger. It was certainly not the reaction he’d hoped for but he wasn't about to be defeated by it. Heat and so many other deliciously sensual things radiated from her. She was enjoying this, enjoying him and the…the insinuation. The smile stayed on her face, played on her lips, never quite breaking through but never leaving, as her desire hit a crescendo. She shifted a little to study the books on his desk. He saw her taking in the titles, every one about human sexual practices.
She gave him a smoldering glance, sidelong and slightly veiled by her lashes. His courage faltered. What happened now? What happened next? He cleared his throat, marshalling his thoughts and arguments. She wanted him. He wanted her. Why not get on with it?
“People do…I understand. They...miss it. When they haven’t had it recently. Only natural, really...truly, completely natural. Though, not for Time Lords, of course, we don’t...have those feelings...” His train of thought derailed. During the extended pause, he gave his inanely pointing finger a glare and then swiftly drew the hand back. He raked it through his hair before allowing it to settle at the nape of his neck. “But humans have their...well...all of the biological drives." He let his arm fall to his side. "Survival instinct. Can’t put that sort of thing off. Especially when it’s been some little...time.” His voice lost strength and conviction, trailing away as he asked, “Has it been, then?...some little...time?”
“You want to talk about my sex life?” Rose asked, sounding cross. She gestured at his books. “What? You’ve been reading up and now you’ve got questions?”
He shot a quick look at the piles of tomes on his desk but shook his head. “Not as such. No. Not general questions.”
“’Cause I can see how The Lesbian Kama Sutra might have given you ideas.”
“I’ve just been getting an overview,” he huffed. “It all seems rather...” he struggled to find just the right word.
“Complicated?”
“No, not really. You’re a simple lot, humans. Interlocking parts, fairly straightforward in the execution but afterward...getting the job done as it were...it seems so...subjective. How does anyone know when they’ve got it right?”
“I guess they don’t. Not really. We do our best and hope. And there are some signs...I can’t believe we’re having this conversation," She groaned. "All you’ve seen. All you know about space and time and other worlds and you have to study up on sex. Never had it yourself?” Seeing him stiffen, she raked a knowing glance up and down him. “Oh, but you haven’t, have you?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course I’ve had sex. Time Lords don’t as a rule. But you can’t live 900 years, traveling through the cosmos, and never have intercourse. There are planets, cultures, where it’s as common as the cold. ‘Good morning’ they say, ‘Care for some bodily fluid exchange and a coffee?’”
Rose rolled her eyes at this and the Doctor relaxed, slipping easily into his default lecture mode.
“Remember what I told you about Captain Jack? Getting out there and dancing? Fifty-first century humans are particularly open to new experiences. And it's fairly easy to find a willing partner if the mood takes you. Every species is different, of course. Birds. Bees. Trees. Flowering nichtapods. On Azkaphoria Seven they breed by parthenogenesis. But you kick off the process shaking hands. I once impregnated a half-dozen Azkaphorians at a black-tie, Art in Industry reception before someone took me aside to explain.”
“Sounds awkward. All those Azkaphorians seeking child support,” Rose giggled, one hand going to her chest and the other cavorting through the air. “You blippin’ away through time the envy of dead-beat dads everywhere.”
“Historically, though, very Gallifreyan. We did tend to mingle before Rassilon put his xenophobic foot down and had us all…neutralized. Chap called Omega, in particular, had a fetish for Earth maidens. He was forever carting them off in his fiery chariot. Got to be quite a bother for your primitive ancestors. Back in the day, a pretty young girl couldn’t tend her flocks without an escort. Never knew when she’d be visited by bulls or swans or showers of golden rain. And what price the pomegranate? But Omega wasn’t the only one. They say there’s a touch of the Time Lord in every sentient species, somewhere deep in the genetic coding. So you see? It’s not so much I look like you, Rose, as you look like me.”
“Hang on a minute,” Rose said. “I get the part about Omega, I think. And intermingling Time Lords. You’re saying we’re related way back. It’s like the missing link everyone goes on about and that would explain a lot. But where do the animals come in? Bulls and swans and such?”
“Ah, thought you might wonder. The human term is oneirosperma…the dreaming seed,” he said. “Asclepius, one of your greatest physicians coined the word to explain what had happened to his mother. You know anything about Greek mythology? Oh, Omega was mad for the Greeks. Though, truthfully, oneirosperma is a misnomer because the effect Asclepius documented comes from a neurotoxin we inject during our arousal phase. It’s a sort of hallucinogenic aphrodisiac. Used to keep the female of the species from ripping out our throats while we get on with our procreating. Nothing extraordinary about our seed, other than its genetic adaptability.”
“Oh,” Rose said because she truly couldn’t think of anything else to say. There was only one word echoing in her brain, “Neurotoxin.”
“Anyway,” he sighed, stretching both syllables to their outer limits before quickly popping his 'p' as he rushed on, “Point is we could give it a try. Sex. Pretty sure I could do something for you. I have an approximation of the proper equipment. Close enough to fool the UNIT nurses. But not exactly the same, you understand? There’s a bit of vibration but no penetration involved…not the sort you’ll expect at any rate. Bound to be nothing like you’d expect. On the other hand, could be everything you imagine. All depends on what happens, doesn’t it? Either way…I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
She couldn’t help it. She glanced down at his trouser front as she nodded. Could he honestly not...penetrate?
“Of course, you know something about my body because you dressed me in those jim-jams. It was you, right? Not your mother or Mickey?” She nodded again. Her confirmation set his head bobbing knowingly. She could see his tongue through his open mouth, playing along his teeth. He seemed delighted to learn she’d seen this new body naked. Pressing his lips together, he crossed his arms and took in a long breath through his nose. Then, he thrust both hands into his pockets and settled his bum against the edge of the desk. His thigh brushed hers. He studied her profile via a sidelong stare for a silent moment and then said, “I’ve been meaning to ask about it…oh, for ages now. Why exactly did you take my clothes off?”
She turned to face him just as he looked around as well and he nearly lost his soul to the timeless depths of her eyes. Her pupils seemed infinite, though he knew they couldn't be. He was falling...falling...
“I was just…uhm…” She blinked, trying to recall her reasons, and broke the spell she'd cast on him.
His brows wiggled. “Curious?”
“You were hurt. I was trying to make you comfortable.”
“Except I was perfectly comfortable in my other clothes. More comfortable in a way. Ever try saving the world without any underwear? Not really recommended for the male of your species, let me tell you. Not at all. Hazardous even. I might have lost more than my hand.”
“I had to take your shoes off, at least, to put you in bed,” she said defensively. Her voice cracked a little as she thought back. Once she’d taken off his shoes, she saw the long length of his bare feet and touched her skin to his. Then, she’d had to see more of him. She’d worked quickly. Afraid he might wake to find her hovering again and be angry.
“I wouldn’t have been angry,” he said.
“Are you reading my mind?” she asked, more intrigued than alarmed.
He blushed and looked away. “Just a little. Can’t be helped, really. Not in these circumstances. All Time Lords are slightly psychic.”
“Like the paper.”
“Like the paper,” he confirmed softly. He pushed away from the desk, pivoting immediately to face her. “Do you mind?” he said, quite seriously as he searched her face. “If I learn things about you? Things you might want to keep private?”
“What sort of things?”
“Anything…everything…what you enjoy? What it feels like when you’re with me…what it felt like with other people or when you were by yourself. When you did things to yourself in private...”
“You mean…when we’re…if we…” She took control of herself and answered his question. “I don't think I mind. But I won't really know until it happens, will I? What if I don't like it...if you’re slightly psychic then you’ll know if you’re..." She stopped speaking, ashamed. She didn't need to ask about the one thing she feared. He wouldn't force her to do anything. He wouldn't hurt her. She approached the whole topic anew. "You'll know if you're doing things right, pleasing me. But you’ll also know if I think of another man or something, yeah?” Despite her ashen cheeks, she lifted her chin a little in defiance. “Course that could help out...help you hit the right spots so it’s not all bad. But people... humans if you like...we like our privacy. You want to know if I got anything to hide because if we...when we’re having sex...you’ll go rummaging around in my mind at the same time and we shouldn't pretend you won't. Is that right?”
“Not rummaging,” the Doctor assured her. “Sensing obliquely, getting a feel for you. Won’t come to rummaging unless…well…unless I lose control.” He rubbed her shoulder but she continued to look pale and chew her bottom lip. “And that probably won’t happen. According to old Rassilon it can't happen, simply, biochemically impossible. Even if we do move forward…to the next level, chances are I won’t become aroused by it…so there’s nothing to worry about…or…hardly anything.”
Not aroused. He wouldn’t be aroused by it. She digested this, thinking it was stupid to expect he would be. Reading her thoughts again he said, “I want to do this. I do. It’s just...different for Time Lords…most everything is, hey?” He grinned at her. “But look at it this way...if I don’t become aroused you won’t have to worry about the neurological link…or the oneirosperma.”
“Tha's good, ‘cause I don’t fancy swans,” she said, meeting his eye. He appeared to be holding in a laugh and that irked her. “No, seriously, I had a traumatic swan experience once. When I was seven, one of them came after me in a park. I ran as fast as I could but he was faster. I nearly got pecked to death.”
“Doesn’t have to be swans,” he murmured, easing a hand between them. "It can be anything...anyone you want."
The ties on her gown hung loose, hardly fastened. His fingers toyed with them a moment, twisting and tugging until the closure gave way. His dark eyes seemed unfathomable, drawing her in as he navigated the layers of fabric. A tremor ran through her when he reached her skin. The back of his hand pushed the gauzy material of her robe aside like a curtain. His fingers glided along her waist, skating around to settle at the small of her back. Only his fingertips touched her, forming the five points of a star over her spine.
A rush of cool air on her hip brought Rose’s attention straight down to her exposed nakedness. Startled by how swiftly things were moving, she opened her mouth to protest and he kissed her. His free hand drifted up to cup her cheek, tipping her chin so his lips could find the perfect angle. It was a textbook first kiss, slow and sweet and brimming over with tenderness. It turned her insides to hot maple syrup. Her knees started to buckle. She grabbed at his shoulders for stability. His lips held firm against hers, yet were impossibly soft as they gently shifted, teasing her mouth further open.
Rose heard a ringing in her ears. There was a burning white fire under her skin and someone somewhere was singing. She forgot about being half-naked from the waist down with her private parts tight against an alien. She could feel the crinkled fabric of his suit tickling her bare belly but there seemed to be no point in blushing. In the end this was still the Doctor. He’d be grinning like mad and splashing around with both feet in the new experience. Any show of embarrassment would earn her a disappointed look and a brief lecture on wasting half her life worrying about what people might think. ‘Might as well let go and enjoy it all,’ he’d say.
So she did, even though it quickly became obvious to her he wasn’t enjoying it as much. Nothing stirred below his waist. He wasn’t aroused. She took it personally despite what he’d said. She drew him in closer, lifting her arms until they could wrap around his neck. She thought about Cosmo quizzes she’d taken and decided to mimic his moves as they often suggested. Her hand caressed his face, slowly, sensually. Then she combed her fingers through his hair until she was gripping the nape of his neck exactly as he was gripping hers. He whimpered when she let her nails bite in and his palm flattened against her spine, yanking her hips into his.
‘Tha’s more like it,’ Rose thought, wrapping one leg around him as he ground her against the desk top.
But there was still no swell or vibration or anything in his trousers. She might as well be a lesbian at this rate. Was that why he was reading that book? Emboldened by frustration, she tugged his shirt free from the back of his pants and sent her hand up under it. As she molded her palm to the curve of his spine, she touched the tip of her tongue to his. He took her invitation, plunging into her mouth. His tongue moved sinuously, arcing under and around hers. She found by licking along the length of it she could make him shudder a bit and then, without any warning at all her mouth was full of Candy Shocks and Coca Cola.
Choking on the fizz, she shoved him off and broke away. Her eyes watered. Her nose tingled. She scrubbed at both with her fingertips. The room disappeared for a disorienting moment. She swallowed automatically before she thought not to and the strange sparking sensation slid down her throat. Reaching her stomach, it seemed to bounce and spread through her, touching off fireworks in every internal organ.
“Are you alright?” the Doctor said, sounding not at all himself and yet oddly familiar to her.
She managed to blink her vision clear. The blackness retreated and the room returned. Deep inside her, the stinging tingle slowly abated, leaving behind a delicious pulse between her legs. It seemed manageable. She turned back to reassure the Doctor only to find he’d been replaced by…well…by the other Doctor.
“It’s you,” she rasped, staring into his pale blue eyes.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said, cheekily.
Then, he hunched his shoulders and smiled madly, gleefully, like he was maybe nine instead of nine hundred and Rose thought her face might split in two from grinning back at him.
END THIS PART
PART TWO
By Rabid1st
Dr. Who...Ten/Rose
Word Count: 7500 - Part 1
Rating: Mature
Pairing: Rose/Ten, Rose/Nine
Warning: Adult situations, not work safe, fun and frolic-y at points and serious at others.
Spoilers: To S2 – Girl in the Fireplace
Summary: This is Ten/Rose smutfic...of a sort...things are done differently and with the tongue...it gets wild...and that's all I'm saying...
Disclaimer: Nope, don’t own a thing. But I’m a nice person and I’m hardly worth suing. All characters and situations belong to the BBC and Dr. Who and Russell Davies, etc. I'm just borrowing them for the moment.
PART ONE
While the Doctor dreamed of 18th Century France, ballroom dancing, stirring music and fantastic gardens full of fragrant blossoms and still reflecting pools, Rose Tyler dreamed of throttling him. She wouldn’t, of course, even if bathwater still beaded on her inner thighs. Even if she was wearing the most ridiculous dressing gown imaginable. Even if he’d gone out of his way lately to impress on her how little she really meant to him and now suddenly demanded her complete attention. He hurt. He mourned. He needed her.
Like Rose, the TARDIS understood what Mickey did not -- the Doctor wasn’t “always alright.” There were times when the world inside his head got very dark indeed and even in his sleep he was dangerous. The nightmares had no doubt returned, along with the burning pain. She’d thought the regeneration had repaired his mind, like it had renewed his body and altered his personality. It had rebooted him, in a way. He’d been better ever since. Better for so long she’d hoped he was cured. Or perhaps, if she was being completely honest, she hadn’t hoped for that at all.
Still, damn the French! Damn that woman for hurting him all over again. Rose checked her anger. Closing her eyes for a moment, she let her ire bleed away. She couldn’t blame Reinette for loving him, not really. It would be like blaming her for loving sunny days. If there was one thing Rose had learned from Sarah Jane it was that the Doctor wasn’t diminished by sharing. There was always enough of him to go around and nobody got cast in the shade. He swept into your life and took over. You went along with whatever happened, like Rose was going along now...to wherever he was leading her.
Experience had gotten her used to being jerked around like a Pekinese on a short leash by the Doctor’s subconscious. The first time it had happened, oh, so long ago, she’d actually screamed. She remembered fighting to keep her place and losing the fight. She’d been afraid of the moving walls, afraid they would crush her or crowd her out into space. She’d resisted their insistent press, pounding on them and shouting until he came to find her. Red-faced, she’d accused the TARDIS of malfunctioning and he’d taken quick offense. There was, he'd growled, nothing wrong with his ship and she was a silly girl besides, unworthy of traveling with him. Recrimination had flown from both sides.
By the second time, she’d learned more trust. Fairly sure of her safety, she’d gone along with the process. Curious about it and wanting to prove she was right and his ship was on the blink. She’d found him on the floor of the console room, slack-jawed and unresponsive. Panic had pulsed through her. Certain he was dead she’d pressed an ear to his chest, discovering his two heartbeats. The dual rhythm had fascinated her and she’d lingered to listen. He woke to find her draped across him. Emitting a strangled cry, he’d jerked upright, shoving her away with both hands and scrambling backward. He'd looked like a virgin desperately evading a masher and she'd simply had to laugh. Their strained silence on the subject lasted three days. On the fourth day, he'd grudgingly admitted there was a problem.
He came to her room, slumping into a chair as far away from her as he could manage. Arms crossed tightly over his chest, he gruffly explained about the war and his nightmares. He couldn’t sleep, hadn’t slept since destroying his world. How was that possible? she asked. Time Lord, he said, giving her his universal answer. It was a strain, though, on all his systems. Even he needed rest from time to time. And somehow she made rest possible. She could tell he didn’t like admitting it. He didn’t like depending on anyone for anything but they grew used to the odd situation.
It was only sleeping after all. He started to find her when he grew tired but he wasn’t always aware of his need. He nodded off unexpectedly from time to time. When that happened the TARDIS intervened and brought Rose to him. She didn't mind. Wandering the halls in her nightshirt was only a minor inconvenience. It didn’t become a problem until Jack came onboard. He reintroduced the sore subject over breakfast one morning.
“Rose tell you she came by my room last night?” He began before shoveling eggs into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed and then said, “Wearing…or I should say…not wearing this filmy little,” the Doctor looked up from his plate, blue eyes steely, and Jack smoothly switching gears, “that is…she had on a lovely sleep ensemble, very tasteful and becoming.”
“Shortest route,” Rose murmured. “Sorry.”
“And I gather she means shortest route to you?” Jack asked the impassively listening Doctor, who shrugged enigmatically. Jack sighed. “Well, you can imagine my disappointment as she twiddles her fingers at me and then rushes out through the magically appearing door.” He pointed his fork at the Doctor’s nose. “I call that inconsiderate of another man’s needs.”
“Far be it from me to be inconsiderate,” the Doctor said, smiling faintly as he buttered a slice of toast. Setting the knife down, he looked up and said, “Alright then, might as well stop fighting it. We’ll keep it simple.”
“Everyone sleeps together?” Jack suggested, hopefully.
“Not that simple,” the Doctor said. “Rose, move your things to the larger bedroom. We’ll share it from now on.”
Rose opened her mouth to protest but closed it again without commenting and just like that it was settled.
Until her Doctor sent her away and nearly died and then just like that it was over. It ended with his regeneration. He woke up a changed man, no longer troubled by bad dreams. As far as she could tell, he was no longer troubled by anything. She kept the larger bedroom. He stopped coming by. The TARDIS stopped moving her around like a chess piece. The Doctor didn’t appear to need her anymore.
Or so she thought. And then, only minutes ago, the familiar disorientation hit as she climbed out of her bath. She'd been running a towel over her skin, imagining his long fingered hands following its route when the walls inched forward as if in response. Hair tickled her cheek when she spun around. A few wet strands had escaped from the clips she used to keep it dry. After such a long hiatus, the morphing room caught her momentarily off guard. But it hadn’t taken her long to adjust. She’d been through this often enough. Dropping the towel, she raced to her closet, grabbing something before the closet disappeared. Clutching the filmy and completely unfamiliar robe to her chest, she moved with the floor and found herself in the corridor. Walls shifted. Staircases spiraled upward. She put on the dressing gown and walked and climbed, as directed.
Eventually, the scenery stopped changing. Holding onto an unwavering doorframe, Rose took a moment to free her mind of escalator equilibrium before focusing on her surroundings. She stood at the door of a vast and obviously multipurpose room. It was part library, part garden and part boudoir, definitely a work in progress. The ceiling rolled back as she watched, exposing stars. The Doctor was in. Sleeping, as she’d expected. Knowing he had levels of awareness and might sense her if she moved, Rose stood very still, mesmerized by the beauty around her and by him.
He’d fallen asleep reading. She could see the book, tottering on his knee but braced by one relaxed hand. He was reclined in a non-reclining chair. Feet propped up on his desk. Ankles crossed. He looked very young and charmingly disheveled. More so than usual because he always looked as if he’d slept in his clothes. He went about rumpled. Ties loosened. Their knots askew. Shirts insufficiently tucked. His suit jacket partially unbuttoned. These days, anyone who saw them step out of the police box would have no question about what they’d been doing in the very confined space.
The funny thing, for Rose, was the effect his disarray had on her. It pulled her in, closer and closer. She wanted to remedy it. Her fingers itched to tidy him, to button and tuck. Or alternatively, she longed to break through all pretenses and start undressing him. She had an abiding desire to comb through his hair with her fingers and tug off his tie. She wanted to get to his skin.
Seeing him sleeping, vulnerable and unguarded, sent a hot swirl of longing through her. She thought she must love him because nothing else could possibly feel like this. Ever since the regeneration, her body seemed primed to ignite whenever he got too close. She studied him. His suit was crumpled. His hair mussed. His lower lip pouted just a little. She wanted to straddle him in the chair. Wake him with kisses. Would he respond in kind or laugh and gently set her aside? She didn’t know. He kept confounding her. There was something about his new persona, something captivating yet remote. He flirted with everyone. It meant nothing. But a careless gesture, a sidelong look, could spike her temperature. Send her pulse into overdrive. She dreamed of him, dreamed of his touch, his voice. And now, he was dreaming of her again.
He shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. His chair creaked, rocking a little on its perilous fulcrum. And his book started its inevitable slide to the floor. Rose took a tentative step toward him and then another.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Doctor woke in stages. A score of senses reported in early to orient him to his exact position in time and space. They assessed his surroundings. A new room, he was in a new room. So different from the one he remembered reading in a few hours ago. He discovered a person in close proximity and named her Rose as she leaned across his knee.
He must have dropped his book. Rose was retrieving it. She’d braced her hand, ever so lightly, against the arm of his chair. He absently adjusted his tilt to accommodate her added pressure. Information poured into his brain. She needed a haircut. She’d eaten Chinese food recently. She wanted to straddle him and kiss him but for some reason he didn’t quite understand wouldn’t be doing that. She smelled like a day at the beach. He breathed in cocoa butter, aromatic oils, salt and wet heat. The clean, provocative scent combined with the input of his other senses and sated him. Everything said Rose. Everything comforted.
In the midst of all this cerebral activity, it took a disorienting moment for him to recall nodding off. He remembered choosing a book and tipping his chair back to read. He’d found a comfortable point between the inevitability of gravity and his own sense of defiance after he’d propped his feet up on the desk. Some time later he must have dozed. He’d dreamed of happy things: cotillions and bananas and Rose. They’d danced for hours. She’d taken him into a garden and left him reeling with hot sweet kisses.
His conscience prodded him. He’d dreamed of Rose and Rose was here. It had happened again. The TARDIS had fulfilled his unconscious wish and brought him a present. Rose was here against her will…and his. He wondered if Timmy ever had this sort of muddle with Lassie. Did she occasionally bring him beautiful women when all he wanted was a way out of the well? ‘Get me a rope, girl, R.O.P. (notice the difference) E.,’ he mentally yelled at the TARDIS. The ship gave no sign she'd heard, let alone understood him.
The Doctor sighed. He couldn’t believe he was still doing this. It was embarrassing to lose control of his own mind, his own ship. He’d hoped he was cured. Or perhaps, if he was being completely honest, he hadn’t hoped for that at all.
He opened his eyes. Above him, where his library’s ceiling had been, starry nebula swirled. He’d created an observatory in his sleep. It delighted him. He almost grinned at the night sky winking overhead. A window on a fixed point in time perhaps, or a hologram, he wasn’t sure. Part of him wanted to climb up a ladder and find out but he kept the urge in check. He didn’t want to get distracted just now by minutia.
He took a moment to admire the celestial beauty and then transferred the rest of his attention to his companion. Her diaphanous dressing gown seemed completely out of character and was ill fitting besides. ‘French,’ the Doctor thought. He chewed the inside of his lip in consternation. Not the right period but certainly not modern, and therefore, probably his fault. His unconscious mind had a mind of its own. And it had been very naughty, indeed.
Though he doubted he could be blamed for the state of her hair. She had it clipped on top of her head but strands of it spilled onto her neck, creating a halo around her face. Improperly restrained hair could not be laid at his doorstep. He would have it all down, free for his fingers to explore. He could get tangled up in her. Did she know? Did she have any idea the magnitude of it...what he felt for her? Her need multiplied ten-fold in him. But she didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem to notice the changes in him that were so apparent to French courtesans and cat-faced nurses and tea-shop girls with dimples.
She straightened with his book in her hands and as she came up her gown slipped down, exposing too much satin-smooth skin. The Doctor, who had in 900 years taken no interest at all in the human breast, found the vast room suddenly very close. He couldn’t breathe. The walls seemed to press him into Rose. He gave the architecture a quick reprimand just in case the effect wasn’t strictly hormonal. Gravity took advantage of his momentarily loss of concentration. The front legs of his chair hit the floor with a bang.
Rose flinched. Trying to step backward she bumped into the desk and then self-consciously adjusted her gown, yanking the sleeve up her shoulder with an impatient tug. He tried to blink her out of soft-focus but she stayed stubbornly fuzzy. It puzzled him for a moment before he remembered he was wearing his reading glasses. He fumbled a hand up and dragged the spectacles down his nose. Rose met his eye.
Peering over the tortoise-shell frames, he smiled ingenuously. “Hello,” he murmured, infusing the word with sunshine. “I was, quite coincidentally, just dreaming of roses.”
“I can tell,” she informed him in a tone as tenderly indulgent as his own. They stared at one another speechless and enrapt for a moment. The Doctor felt like he was floating up out of his body until Rose broke the connection. Drawing in a sharp breath, she turned her head away. “You’re doing it again,” she said, brusquely. “I thought since you’d changed…you didn’t need…I mean…you’ve been better ever since. You haven’t been to see me…”
“Miss me?” he asked, in such a wickedly suggestive way it brought her gaze back to his. He took his glasses completely off, folding them away into an inside coat pocket. “Because you just say the word and I'm there. I’ll snuggle up next to you every…”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to... Look, I’m…confused, is all. And a little put out, yeah? You can’t just bounce me around like this. It’s…it’s inconvenient.”
He nodded sympathetically but went on smiling until Rose lost most of her bristle. She couldn’t stay angry with him and he took merciless advantage of this weakness. He watched her gradually become aware of how close he was. He’d trapped her between his knee and the edge of the desk. She would have to slide around him to escape. To cover her embarrassment, she glanced at the book she was clutching to her chest, truly, seeing the title for the first time. The Doctor waited for her reaction. He saw her read the title to herself, “The Lesbian Kama Sutra.” Her eyes grew rounder, more luminescent. The concept took her to the right frame of mind. All sorts of sexual signals flared for his senses to catalog. Rose turned an even deeper shade of crimson.
He pretended not to notice as he gently tugged the book from her folded arms. She’d have to get over her uncharacteristic shyness if they were going to move forward but he didn’t want to introduce the central topic just yet. He didn’t really know where to begin. If only he could have spent a little more time with Reinette. She’d taught him so much, in such a short time. He settled the book in his lap and tipped his chair back again, staring at the ceiling as he answered Rose’s implied question.
“New neurons. All firing at once. Brain working on every cylinder post-regeneration. I’m bursting with energy. I’ll need less sleep for...oh,” He pursed his lips and his gaze flitted like a butterfly along the wall to the door as he calculated. “Let’s say...the next decade or so.” His wandering eye returned to settle on her again as he asked, “Did I wake you?”
She shook her head, her gaze on the floor. “But I was taking a bath.”
“Ah…that explains the…” He wafted a hand by her chest, catching a bit of her robe’s gauzy material between his fingers, “Damp,” he finished, in a very small voice.
“This,” she plucked at her attire, “this is you, right? First thing that came to hand but I don’t recognize it. Better than naked, ‘o course, but it’s not really me.” She almost asked if it reminded him of Reinette. But she really didn’t want to know.
“Mmhhhmmm…” he hummed, pleasant thoughts lifting the corners of his mouth. It could have been agreement but he wasn’t going to admit to the sin of dressing her in negligees.
He had other sins in mind. His chair rocked on its two legs as he considered where to begin with the sinning. Rose yearned for him. He continued to search her face for several long seconds until finally she lifted her chin to meet his eye. Her gaze caught in the web of his. Something sparked under his skin. They both swallowed convulsively.
It gave him a slight pang to tear his gaze from hers. His head turned but his eyes stayed fixed on her face for the longest time until finally he managed to break the hold she had on him. Tipping his head, he peered around her to admire the room. What he saw brought a huge grin to his face. He nearly purred with approval as he swept an appraisingly glance around the new digs, pad...flop. He wanted to call it something smashing. What had been his library was now a sultan's paradise, the harem garden perhaps. His bookshelves remained, lining the two walls behind him. But they were, along with his desk and chair, the only trace of the room he’d fallen asleep in.
“Oh, this is nice,” he said, making the word ‘nice’ sound unbelievably sexy to Rose’s ears. He sucked on it like a toffee, turning it in his mouth. “This is very, very nice."
His desk looked much the same, still piled high with books and journals. But beyond it there was a neatly trimmed lawn and an incongruous bed. Everywhere there was soft golden light. Stars twinkled above. Fireflies danced through small trees. Lanterns lit stone pathways. The once cozy room now stretched on until detail disappeared in the distance. Flowers bobbed in a cool breeze. The musical splash of a fountain broke the almost perfect stillness and the scent of roses perfumed the air. He felt a surge of affection for the TARDIS. She could do the most amazing things.
"Rose, did you see what she’s done, our beautiful TARDIS?” Rose nodded, not really impressed. “I know what you're thinking, I’ve created some amazing things in my sleep before but this is…fantastic,” the Doctor breathed. “If I do say so myself.” He glanced at Rose. She was giving the room a cursory look. “You know, I don’t like to brag.” She cut her eyes back toward him, shaking her head and smiling. “Generally. As a rule,” he amended and the smile broadened into a grin.
Giving up on convincing her of his humility, he tossed his book onto the desk and arched back, stretching to his full length in his tipping chair. The cat-like behavior allowed him to skim against Rose. She stood straighter and sucked everything in, trying to minimize their contact. Ignoring her discomfort as any proper feline would, he reached his arms over his head. His shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of skin near his beltline. He saw her line of sight dip, skimming down his torso. She was definitely tempted. Sitting forward again, he pushed to his feet and moved the chair to one side, safely out of their way.
Inhaling deeply, he declared the night air, “Quite refreshing.”
Rose dismissed his creation with a careless shrug. “It’s beautiful, yeah. But you can’t start this again. I thought you were getting better.”
“Well, I was. I am...better. This is the first time since the regeneration. And just look at this place. I wasn’t having a nightmare at all. It’s nothing like before.”
“Maybe not but you can’t keep doing this.”
“I can’t help it if I have PTSD.”
“I looked that up,” she informed him. “It’s nothing like you said. You got the Post Traumatic part alright but the S.D. stands for Stress Disorder not Sleep Decorating.”
“It’s different for Time Lords.”
“Most everything is,” she said, with a touch of impatience. Was he boring her? he wondered as she went on, “Look, Mickey won’t understand about our sleeping together. That it’s just sleeping, I mean. He’ll make all kinds of assumptions.” She leveled a warning stare at him as she added, “And he’ll tell mum and she won’t understand either.”
'That,' the Doctor thought, 'would be the lot of us not understanding, then.'
Despite the easy explanation he’d given Rose about how and why this was happening, he was equally puzzled by it. He’d made up the sleep disorder. His was the only case in Time Lord History. It certainly wasn’t rational. For a Time Lord, what he was doing with Rose came perilously close to violating the Sixth Law of Intermingling. You never, ever, depended on a member of a lesser species. But he needed Rose beside him when he slept. And the TARDIS and his unconscious mind gave them no choice in the matter.
Prior to the regeneration, he’d slept in her room. If he fell asleep somewhere else the TARDIS brought her to him, herding her along ever-changing corridors and through amorphous rooms. But she was right. They couldn’t do that now. Not because of Mickey but because everything had changed with this last regeneration. Now, he had a secret he was working up the nerve to share, a secret that would break every single one of Rassilon’s Rules.
It occurred to him quite suddenly that maybe she’d been with Mickey just now in the bath or planning to go to him later. She’d been craving something. Something Mickey would be happy to give her. A bitter rush of jealousy hit, appalling him. He cast it out but frowned over the implications of the dangerous emotion. Why had he invited the boy onboard?
“Oh-ho, I see. Worried about Mickey, are you? Don’t want your boyfriend to know you visit me in the middle of the night?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. We broke up ages ago. He’s got a new girl, even. You’d know that if you bothered to listen. And I asked you not to bring him but you would. So don’t talk to me now you’re jealous.”
“Jealous? Me? No, no, no, no...” It occured to him he'd maybe said 'no' once too often. To compensate, he snorted lightly, puffing her insinuation away. “I’m not jealous. That’s...ridiculous. No, I’m just..." He hesitated. What was he feeling? Or thinking? "I thought maybe the two of you had made up, is all. Traveling through space and time together. Bonding.” He dipped his chin so he could peer at her with fluid brown eyes. He could only hope she was buying his denial. "You know about the bonding...? There's a bond...between travelers." She didn’t seem convinced. Looking away, he rubbed his neck as he added, “And I brought him along ‘cause I thought he could help me look after you. But he’s practically useless.”
“I don’t need looking after.”
That brought his head around in a flash. “Oh, don’t you just. Wandering off on that dead ship? Tangling with Mr. Thick-wit and his friends, ending up manacled to an operating table? Jeopardy friendly, tha’s you. Can’t leave you alone for five minutes.”
“You left me alone for five hours,” she reminded him. Under her breath, she added, “Rushing off to save her.”
“Now, who’s jealous?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” He grinned. Then, leaning closer, he confided, “I don’t mind,” in a conspiratorial whisper before rocking back onto his heels and adding, “But you needn’t be.”
“I’m not.” Rose insisted, her brow furrowing, “I understand about her being the uncrowned Queen of France and all. I understand why you wanted to be with her. She’s like you, center of everything, beautiful and elegant and…”
“Accomplished,” the Doctor added, helpfully. “Astoundingly quick-witted, artistic, graceful, charming…”
“Yeah, alright,” Rose cut-in crossly, glaring him into silence.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “You were saying…not even a tiny bit jealous…”
“Okay, I admit I was jealous of Sarah Jane, at first. Because she’s like me and I didn’t fancy being part of your daisy chain of best friends. But…Madame de Pompadour, the one and only…she’s part of history. And what am I…? Just Rose Tyler from the Powell Estates. I know she’s better than me, grander. You can’t help falling in love with someone like her. It’s not like I expected to compete.”
“Compete?” the Doctor coughed, appalled by the word. “Compete?” He gestured wildly, waving his arm in a huge arc as he paced off a few feet of floor before whipping around to confront her. “Oh, sometimes you are so very, very...human.” Said like that it left no doubt; it was definitely an insult.
“Yeah, and you’re not. Stating the obvious are we?”
“There was never, has never been, any competition. It wasn’t here’s a winner.” He pantomimed handing out a trophy. Then spread his hands in a helplessly grasping gesture, frustrated by the limitations of her language. “Either/or. You can’t compare what I had with Reinette to what I have with you. That would be like comparing apples and...and what...? Not oranges. Because then there’s an essential fruitiness in common and you would see that as competition. Who’s the juiciest? Which do you like better, then? The truth is you have nothing in common with Reinette Poisson.”
“Oh, thank you very much. You’ll be calling me a stupid ape again in a minute. Maybe I’m not as smart…or…or accomplished…or beautiful but I’m a woman, at least, in case you haven’t noticed. Human…female…blonde…” His raised challenging brows at the last and she crossed her arms defiantly, declaring, “Blonde enough to be going on with. And I’ve got…”
“Motorbikes,” the Doctor interrupted. “It would be like comparing apples and motorbikes.”
Rose stared at him, open mouthed, breathing heavily. After a slight gathering of her anger, she snapped, “Which one is she then? The apple? Forbidden fruit…all sweet and tempting?”
“Exactly,” the Doctor said with a grin. Proud of her for understanding, he patted her shoulder affectionately. Then, he stilled in that predatory way he had, chin lowered and staring fixedly into her eyes. His hand moved on its own as if reaching for an apple on a branch. “She hangs there not quite out of reach," he said, biting through his words with an almost mad intensity, "Suspended in time, perfect and ripe, ready to be plucked and savored.”
Rose felt sick. He didn’t have to rub it in. She got the picture. Unshed tears made her nose sting. Angry and upset, she bowed her head, hugging herself against the chill of his words. He’d called her a motorbike. A motorbike! Could there be anything less romantic? She bit down hard, grinding her teeth together. She wasn’t going to cry. Not in front of him.
“And what do I do, then?” she ground out, scooting away from him. “Roar around belching black smoke? That’s me, common, obnoxious…loud.”
“What? No!” The Doctor gaped for a moment and then swiftly sidestepped in front of her, blocking her escape. “No…no, no, no, no! You still don’t get it.” He took her upper arms in his hands and shook her gently. “I thought you had it but you don’t. There’s no belching.” He let go of her and stepped back, tilting his head to consider her as he continued. “You’re finely tuned you are, all sparkling and bright. Motorbikes are fun, exhilarating...dangerous.” He spun away from her, pacing again. “Apples are safe. And…and…what’s the word? Transient! That's it. They're transient. And, of course, yes, I know...they are also nutritious. After a fashion. Lots of fiber. But they’re certainly no banana.”
“Apples aren’t good?”
“Oh, they are,” he corrected over his shoulder with a twinkle in his eye. “They’re very good…but they don’t last, do they? They’re better on the tree, in their proper place, or freshly picked. Some people pop them in cold storage but I think even that ruins the flavor. Tuck an apple away in your pocket for a few weeks and what happens? It goes all mushy. Never get that with motorbikes. They shine and they take you places. Places you’ve never gone before. So fast,” he purred, edging closer in two smooth steps, “so very fast, it takes your breath away.”
“Takes your breath away?” she whispered, almost hopefully.
“Time after time,” he said, right on top of her now. “And a motorbike can last a lifetime. If you care for it properly, change the oil…lubricate the gears…have it mechanically serviced.” He coaxed every ounce of innuendo from his innocent list. Rose looked like she might slap him. But her expression seemed brighter despite her sullen mouth. “They aren’t transient at all…except as they fly by on the motorway, of course.” He frowned over this flaw in his analogy but quickly moved on, “To put it another way,” he said, changing tacks. “An apple a day…”
She couldn’t help smiling, just a little, as she completed the quote, “…keeps the doctor away.”
“There,” he said softly, “You see? One every now and then is lovely. I enjoyed the crisp challenge, the bite. But I couldn’t stomach apples every day. You can have your fill of apples but you can’t have your fill of motorbikes. Go up to any bloke on the street and say, ‘Time to choose. Would you like to spend the next thirty years with this nice juicy apple or…this motorbike?’ Wha’s he gonna say?”
Rose’s smile finally reached her eyes and her posture relaxed. “That you can’t spend thirty years with an apple?”
“Right in one,” he said, brushing stray hair from her brow with his fingertips. “Matter of fact, if he’s already had lunch an apple probably won’t even tempt him. He’s going to say motorbike, every time. Even if he already had three at home he’d take another. Bet it makes his heart beat a little faster, too. Bet he sits around staring at her when he’s nothing else to do.”
Rose wanted to ask if he did that. If he sat around staring at her but she couldn’t get her suddenly dry throat to cooperate. Instead she teased him, wondering even as she spoke where she was getting the nerve. “So, is that why you invited Mickey along to…service me?”
“Thought he might do, yeah,” the Doctor mumbled. Rose couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed but at the very least he seemed uncomfortable. Loosening his tie with one hand, he slipped around her to lean against the desk. And then quite suddenly, he blurted, “Do you miss it?”
“What? Sleeping with you?”
His eyes became nearly perfectly round and his mouth open ever so slightly as if he’d been startled speechless. Lips moving soundlessly, he tilted his head back. It was almost a come hither since his gaze never left hers. His grin bloomed ever so slowly, dimpling his cheek. He seemed inordinately pleased by the direction of her thoughts. But after a moment of looking pole-axed, he gathered himself together and said, “Ah, yes. No, I was talking about sex. Physical intimacy. Hooking up. Getting off.” For some reason, known only to his subconscious, he pointed toward the door. She sighted along his arm, and then looked back at him, confusion stark on her face.
“’Scuse me?”
Before he could say more, she actually choked on a snigger. It was certainly not the reaction he’d hoped for but he wasn't about to be defeated by it. Heat and so many other deliciously sensual things radiated from her. She was enjoying this, enjoying him and the…the insinuation. The smile stayed on her face, played on her lips, never quite breaking through but never leaving, as her desire hit a crescendo. She shifted a little to study the books on his desk. He saw her taking in the titles, every one about human sexual practices.
She gave him a smoldering glance, sidelong and slightly veiled by her lashes. His courage faltered. What happened now? What happened next? He cleared his throat, marshalling his thoughts and arguments. She wanted him. He wanted her. Why not get on with it?
“People do…I understand. They...miss it. When they haven’t had it recently. Only natural, really...truly, completely natural. Though, not for Time Lords, of course, we don’t...have those feelings...” His train of thought derailed. During the extended pause, he gave his inanely pointing finger a glare and then swiftly drew the hand back. He raked it through his hair before allowing it to settle at the nape of his neck. “But humans have their...well...all of the biological drives." He let his arm fall to his side. "Survival instinct. Can’t put that sort of thing off. Especially when it’s been some little...time.” His voice lost strength and conviction, trailing away as he asked, “Has it been, then?...some little...time?”
“You want to talk about my sex life?” Rose asked, sounding cross. She gestured at his books. “What? You’ve been reading up and now you’ve got questions?”
He shot a quick look at the piles of tomes on his desk but shook his head. “Not as such. No. Not general questions.”
“’Cause I can see how The Lesbian Kama Sutra might have given you ideas.”
“I’ve just been getting an overview,” he huffed. “It all seems rather...” he struggled to find just the right word.
“Complicated?”
“No, not really. You’re a simple lot, humans. Interlocking parts, fairly straightforward in the execution but afterward...getting the job done as it were...it seems so...subjective. How does anyone know when they’ve got it right?”
“I guess they don’t. Not really. We do our best and hope. And there are some signs...I can’t believe we’re having this conversation," She groaned. "All you’ve seen. All you know about space and time and other worlds and you have to study up on sex. Never had it yourself?” Seeing him stiffen, she raked a knowing glance up and down him. “Oh, but you haven’t, have you?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course I’ve had sex. Time Lords don’t as a rule. But you can’t live 900 years, traveling through the cosmos, and never have intercourse. There are planets, cultures, where it’s as common as the cold. ‘Good morning’ they say, ‘Care for some bodily fluid exchange and a coffee?’”
Rose rolled her eyes at this and the Doctor relaxed, slipping easily into his default lecture mode.
“Remember what I told you about Captain Jack? Getting out there and dancing? Fifty-first century humans are particularly open to new experiences. And it's fairly easy to find a willing partner if the mood takes you. Every species is different, of course. Birds. Bees. Trees. Flowering nichtapods. On Azkaphoria Seven they breed by parthenogenesis. But you kick off the process shaking hands. I once impregnated a half-dozen Azkaphorians at a black-tie, Art in Industry reception before someone took me aside to explain.”
“Sounds awkward. All those Azkaphorians seeking child support,” Rose giggled, one hand going to her chest and the other cavorting through the air. “You blippin’ away through time the envy of dead-beat dads everywhere.”
“Historically, though, very Gallifreyan. We did tend to mingle before Rassilon put his xenophobic foot down and had us all…neutralized. Chap called Omega, in particular, had a fetish for Earth maidens. He was forever carting them off in his fiery chariot. Got to be quite a bother for your primitive ancestors. Back in the day, a pretty young girl couldn’t tend her flocks without an escort. Never knew when she’d be visited by bulls or swans or showers of golden rain. And what price the pomegranate? But Omega wasn’t the only one. They say there’s a touch of the Time Lord in every sentient species, somewhere deep in the genetic coding. So you see? It’s not so much I look like you, Rose, as you look like me.”
“Hang on a minute,” Rose said. “I get the part about Omega, I think. And intermingling Time Lords. You’re saying we’re related way back. It’s like the missing link everyone goes on about and that would explain a lot. But where do the animals come in? Bulls and swans and such?”
“Ah, thought you might wonder. The human term is oneirosperma…the dreaming seed,” he said. “Asclepius, one of your greatest physicians coined the word to explain what had happened to his mother. You know anything about Greek mythology? Oh, Omega was mad for the Greeks. Though, truthfully, oneirosperma is a misnomer because the effect Asclepius documented comes from a neurotoxin we inject during our arousal phase. It’s a sort of hallucinogenic aphrodisiac. Used to keep the female of the species from ripping out our throats while we get on with our procreating. Nothing extraordinary about our seed, other than its genetic adaptability.”
“Oh,” Rose said because she truly couldn’t think of anything else to say. There was only one word echoing in her brain, “Neurotoxin.”
“Anyway,” he sighed, stretching both syllables to their outer limits before quickly popping his 'p' as he rushed on, “Point is we could give it a try. Sex. Pretty sure I could do something for you. I have an approximation of the proper equipment. Close enough to fool the UNIT nurses. But not exactly the same, you understand? There’s a bit of vibration but no penetration involved…not the sort you’ll expect at any rate. Bound to be nothing like you’d expect. On the other hand, could be everything you imagine. All depends on what happens, doesn’t it? Either way…I don’t want you to be disappointed.”
She couldn’t help it. She glanced down at his trouser front as she nodded. Could he honestly not...penetrate?
“Of course, you know something about my body because you dressed me in those jim-jams. It was you, right? Not your mother or Mickey?” She nodded again. Her confirmation set his head bobbing knowingly. She could see his tongue through his open mouth, playing along his teeth. He seemed delighted to learn she’d seen this new body naked. Pressing his lips together, he crossed his arms and took in a long breath through his nose. Then, he thrust both hands into his pockets and settled his bum against the edge of the desk. His thigh brushed hers. He studied her profile via a sidelong stare for a silent moment and then said, “I’ve been meaning to ask about it…oh, for ages now. Why exactly did you take my clothes off?”
She turned to face him just as he looked around as well and he nearly lost his soul to the timeless depths of her eyes. Her pupils seemed infinite, though he knew they couldn't be. He was falling...falling...
“I was just…uhm…” She blinked, trying to recall her reasons, and broke the spell she'd cast on him.
His brows wiggled. “Curious?”
“You were hurt. I was trying to make you comfortable.”
“Except I was perfectly comfortable in my other clothes. More comfortable in a way. Ever try saving the world without any underwear? Not really recommended for the male of your species, let me tell you. Not at all. Hazardous even. I might have lost more than my hand.”
“I had to take your shoes off, at least, to put you in bed,” she said defensively. Her voice cracked a little as she thought back. Once she’d taken off his shoes, she saw the long length of his bare feet and touched her skin to his. Then, she’d had to see more of him. She’d worked quickly. Afraid he might wake to find her hovering again and be angry.
“I wouldn’t have been angry,” he said.
“Are you reading my mind?” she asked, more intrigued than alarmed.
He blushed and looked away. “Just a little. Can’t be helped, really. Not in these circumstances. All Time Lords are slightly psychic.”
“Like the paper.”
“Like the paper,” he confirmed softly. He pushed away from the desk, pivoting immediately to face her. “Do you mind?” he said, quite seriously as he searched her face. “If I learn things about you? Things you might want to keep private?”
“What sort of things?”
“Anything…everything…what you enjoy? What it feels like when you’re with me…what it felt like with other people or when you were by yourself. When you did things to yourself in private...”
“You mean…when we’re…if we…” She took control of herself and answered his question. “I don't think I mind. But I won't really know until it happens, will I? What if I don't like it...if you’re slightly psychic then you’ll know if you’re..." She stopped speaking, ashamed. She didn't need to ask about the one thing she feared. He wouldn't force her to do anything. He wouldn't hurt her. She approached the whole topic anew. "You'll know if you're doing things right, pleasing me. But you’ll also know if I think of another man or something, yeah?” Despite her ashen cheeks, she lifted her chin a little in defiance. “Course that could help out...help you hit the right spots so it’s not all bad. But people... humans if you like...we like our privacy. You want to know if I got anything to hide because if we...when we’re having sex...you’ll go rummaging around in my mind at the same time and we shouldn't pretend you won't. Is that right?”
“Not rummaging,” the Doctor assured her. “Sensing obliquely, getting a feel for you. Won’t come to rummaging unless…well…unless I lose control.” He rubbed her shoulder but she continued to look pale and chew her bottom lip. “And that probably won’t happen. According to old Rassilon it can't happen, simply, biochemically impossible. Even if we do move forward…to the next level, chances are I won’t become aroused by it…so there’s nothing to worry about…or…hardly anything.”
Not aroused. He wouldn’t be aroused by it. She digested this, thinking it was stupid to expect he would be. Reading her thoughts again he said, “I want to do this. I do. It’s just...different for Time Lords…most everything is, hey?” He grinned at her. “But look at it this way...if I don’t become aroused you won’t have to worry about the neurological link…or the oneirosperma.”
“Tha's good, ‘cause I don’t fancy swans,” she said, meeting his eye. He appeared to be holding in a laugh and that irked her. “No, seriously, I had a traumatic swan experience once. When I was seven, one of them came after me in a park. I ran as fast as I could but he was faster. I nearly got pecked to death.”
“Doesn’t have to be swans,” he murmured, easing a hand between them. "It can be anything...anyone you want."
The ties on her gown hung loose, hardly fastened. His fingers toyed with them a moment, twisting and tugging until the closure gave way. His dark eyes seemed unfathomable, drawing her in as he navigated the layers of fabric. A tremor ran through her when he reached her skin. The back of his hand pushed the gauzy material of her robe aside like a curtain. His fingers glided along her waist, skating around to settle at the small of her back. Only his fingertips touched her, forming the five points of a star over her spine.
A rush of cool air on her hip brought Rose’s attention straight down to her exposed nakedness. Startled by how swiftly things were moving, she opened her mouth to protest and he kissed her. His free hand drifted up to cup her cheek, tipping her chin so his lips could find the perfect angle. It was a textbook first kiss, slow and sweet and brimming over with tenderness. It turned her insides to hot maple syrup. Her knees started to buckle. She grabbed at his shoulders for stability. His lips held firm against hers, yet were impossibly soft as they gently shifted, teasing her mouth further open.
Rose heard a ringing in her ears. There was a burning white fire under her skin and someone somewhere was singing. She forgot about being half-naked from the waist down with her private parts tight against an alien. She could feel the crinkled fabric of his suit tickling her bare belly but there seemed to be no point in blushing. In the end this was still the Doctor. He’d be grinning like mad and splashing around with both feet in the new experience. Any show of embarrassment would earn her a disappointed look and a brief lecture on wasting half her life worrying about what people might think. ‘Might as well let go and enjoy it all,’ he’d say.
So she did, even though it quickly became obvious to her he wasn’t enjoying it as much. Nothing stirred below his waist. He wasn’t aroused. She took it personally despite what he’d said. She drew him in closer, lifting her arms until they could wrap around his neck. She thought about Cosmo quizzes she’d taken and decided to mimic his moves as they often suggested. Her hand caressed his face, slowly, sensually. Then she combed her fingers through his hair until she was gripping the nape of his neck exactly as he was gripping hers. He whimpered when she let her nails bite in and his palm flattened against her spine, yanking her hips into his.
‘Tha’s more like it,’ Rose thought, wrapping one leg around him as he ground her against the desk top.
But there was still no swell or vibration or anything in his trousers. She might as well be a lesbian at this rate. Was that why he was reading that book? Emboldened by frustration, she tugged his shirt free from the back of his pants and sent her hand up under it. As she molded her palm to the curve of his spine, she touched the tip of her tongue to his. He took her invitation, plunging into her mouth. His tongue moved sinuously, arcing under and around hers. She found by licking along the length of it she could make him shudder a bit and then, without any warning at all her mouth was full of Candy Shocks and Coca Cola.
Choking on the fizz, she shoved him off and broke away. Her eyes watered. Her nose tingled. She scrubbed at both with her fingertips. The room disappeared for a disorienting moment. She swallowed automatically before she thought not to and the strange sparking sensation slid down her throat. Reaching her stomach, it seemed to bounce and spread through her, touching off fireworks in every internal organ.
“Are you alright?” the Doctor said, sounding not at all himself and yet oddly familiar to her.
She managed to blink her vision clear. The blackness retreated and the room returned. Deep inside her, the stinging tingle slowly abated, leaving behind a delicious pulse between her legs. It seemed manageable. She turned back to reassure the Doctor only to find he’d been replaced by…well…by the other Doctor.
“It’s you,” she rasped, staring into his pale blue eyes.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said, cheekily.
Then, he hunched his shoulders and smiled madly, gleefully, like he was maybe nine instead of nine hundred and Rose thought her face might split in two from grinning back at him.
END THIS PART
PART TWO
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-29 03:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-29 04:22 pm (UTC)In my version, they simply don't have the hormones to make that connection from emotional interest to physical arousal...but Ten is making it all over creation "with French courtesans and cat-faced nurses and tea shop girls with dimples." Nine will explain this all better next chapter. At least, I'm hoping he will.
Thanks for reading so carefully though...I love that.
Rae
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-29 04:29 pm (UTC)Rae
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-29 07:48 pm (UTC)Hee...well..yeah, I'm not a big book canon person...
Date: 2006-05-30 06:56 pm (UTC)Generally, on the sterilized front it just seems to me that the real thing Time Lords weren't supposed to do was get involved with anyone or anything. They were supposed to remain detached from events and people...and the Doctor never has been able to do that. Not being able to procreate due to sterility...not a big problem if you have lots of technology and it won't stop you from being aroused.
Rae
Re: Hee...well..yeah, I'm not a big book canon person...
Date: 2006-05-30 08:24 pm (UTC)incredibly hot...I call this the Handwave of Rassilon.